was Renaissance, anyway-facing a narrow medieval street. It was huddled up beside the famous Ognissanti Church, its gray limestone facade streaked with dirt, every ledge and projection covered with needle-like spikes to ward off pigeons. Florence itself was nothing like what he'd imagined: even in the warm, mid-October light, the city seemed austere, its crooked streets always in shadow, the rough-cut stone facades of its buildings almost grim. The air smelled of diesel fumes, and the impossibly narrow sidewalks were clogged with slow-moving tourists dressed in floppy hats and khaki shorts, with packs on their backs and water bottles strapped to their waists, as if they were on an expedition into the Sahara rather than walking around perhaps the most civilized city in the world.
They had met the colonnello in the nearby cafe, as planned, and Pendergast had quickly brought him up to speed on their investigation-omitting, D'Agosta noticed, certain small but critical details. Now they were following him back to his office, single file, fighting a steady stream of Japanese tourists coming in the opposite direction.
The colonnello turned into the grand arched entryway of the barracks, over which hung a limp Italian flag-the first D'Agosta had seen since arriving in Italy. They passed through a colonnaded corridor and into a vast interior courtyard. Once elegant, the courtyard itself had been turned into a parking lot and was wall-to-wall with police vans and cars, packed together with such mathematical precision it seemed impossible to move one without moving them all. The windows looking down on the courtyard were all open, and from them issued a continuous clamor of ringing telephones, voices, and slamming doors, magnified and distorted by the confined space.
They turned into another vaulted corridor lined with stone pillars-the crumbling remains of religious frescoes still visible-past a battered statue of a saint; then up a massive flight of stone stairs and into a warren of modern cubicles constructed haphazardly out of what had once been a single pillared room.
'The caserma, ' said Esposito as they walked, 'was once the monastery connected to the Ognissanti Church. That large room is the secretarial pool, and beyond'-he waved his hand at a series of small but massive oaken doors giving onto tiny offices-'are the work spaces of the officers, built in the former cells of the monks.'
They turned a corner and proceeded down yet another vaulted corridor. 'The refectory, where the monks used to eat, has an important fresco by Ghirlandaio that nobody ever sees.'
'Indeed.'
'Here in Italy, we make do with what we have.'
Reaching the far end of the corridor, they went up another flight of stairs. From the landing, they passed through what D'Agosta realized must have once been a secret door in the wall; mounted a tiny circular staircase; passed through crowded rooms smelling of mold and overheated fax machines-and then suddenly arrived at a small, grimy door bearing nothing but a number. Here Esposito stopped with a smile. Then he pushed the door open and ushered them in.
D'Agosta stepped into a light-flooded room that ended in a wall of glassed-in columns and arches. Beyond lay a sweeping view southward, over the Arno River. Almost despite himself, he was drawn toward the view.
From above, finally, Florence looked like he had imagined it: a city of church domes and towers, red-tile roofs, gardens, and piazze, surrounded by steep green hills covered with fairy-tale castles. There was the Ponte Vecchio and the Pitti Palace; the Boboli Gardens; the dome of San Frediano in Cestello; and, beyond, the hill of Bellosguardo. It was a moment before he could shift his attention back to the room itself.
It was large and open, filled with rows of old mahogany desks. The floor, polished by five hundred years of feet, was inlaid in a striking array of colored marbles, and on the stuccoed walls hung giant paintings of old men in armor. There was a tense air in the room, and a number of men in suits at the desks were glancing nervously in their direction. The killing-and its bizarre particulars especially-were clearly on everyone's mind.
'Welcome to the Nucleo Investigativo, the elite unit of the carabinieri of which I am in charge. We investigate the major crimes.' Esposito looked at D'Agosta sideways. 'Is this your first visit to Italy, Sergeant D'Agosta?'
'It is.'
'And how do you find it?'
'It's . not quite what I expected.'
He could see a faint look of amusement in the man's eyes. Esposito's hand swept over the skyline. 'Beautiful, no?'
'From up here.'
'The Florentines . ' He rolled his eyes. 'They live in the past. They believe they created everything beautiful in the world-art, science, music, literature-and that is enough. Why do anything more? They've been resting on their laurels for four hundred years. Where I grew up we have a saying: Nun cagna 'a via vecchia p'a nova, ca saie chello che lasse, nun saie chello ca trouve. '
'Don't live in the past-you will know what you've lost but not what you've found?' D'Agosta asked.
Esposito went still. Then he smiled. 'Your family is originally from Naples?'
D'Agosta nodded.
'This is remarkable. And you actually speak Neapolitan?'
'I thought I grew up speaking Italian.'
Esposito laughed. 'This is not the first time I have heard of this happening. You are fortunate, Sergeant, to speak a beautiful and ancient language no longer taught in any school. Anyone can learn Italian, but only a real man can speak Napolitano. I myself am from Naples. Impossible to work there, of course, but a marvelous place to live.'
'Si suonne Napele viato a tte,'D'Agosta said.
Esposito looked even more astonished. ''Blessed be you if you dream of Naples.' What a lovely saying. I've never heard it before.'
'When I was a little boy, my grandmother used to whisper that in my ear every time she kissed me good night.'
'And did you ever dream of Naples?'
