would be ten minutes at least before he could mobilize and move in. Blood would be up, and he'd meet immediate resistance. By the time they reached her . God, she didn't have ten minutes, she didn't even have five.
The only one who could control this crowd was Buck, and he was in his tent.
She backed up, turning in a slow circle. The crowd was so thick she couldn't even see his tent anymore. And she was being pushed away from it, as if the crowd wanted to keep the unpleasantness of what was to come away from him. Taunts and chanting rose from all sides.
She searched her mind desperately for something useful from her training. Crowd psychology was something that interested her, especially after the Wisher Riots a few years back. Problem was, an angry crowd did not behave like a normal human being. A crowd did not respond to the cues of body language. A crowd did not listen to anything except itself. You could not reason with a crowd. A crowd would enthusiastically commit an act of violence no single member would normally condone.
'Centurion!' Todd had taken another step forward, emboldened, the crowd consolidating behind him. Hysterically angry. They weren't going to hurt her-they were going to kill her.
'Buck!' she shouted, turning, but it was hopeless, he couldn't hear over the taunts of the crowd.
She faced them again. 'You call yourselves Christians?' she screamed. 'Look at you!'
Wrong move. It just pushed their anger up a notch. But it was all she had left.
'Ever heard of turning the other cheek? Loving thy neighbor-'
'Blasphemer!' Todd shook his rock, the crowd flowing with him.
She was really frightened now. She took a step back, felt herself shoved from behind. Her voice cracked. 'In the Bible, it says-'
'She's blaspheming the Bible!'
'You hear her?'
'Shut her up!'
A dead end. Hayward knew she was out of time. She had to figure out something before the stones came raining down. Once the first was thrown, it wouldn't stop until it was over.
The problem was, she'd exhausted all her options. There was nothing left to do.
Nothing.
{ 77 }
At five minutes to nine, D'Agosta turned from the window to see Pendergast rising calmly from the sofa, where he had been lying motionless for the past half hour. Earlier, the agent had established he could open the door with his lock-picking tools, but he seemed uninterested in exploring, so he'd relocked it and they had waited.
'Good nap?' He wondered how Pendergast could sleep at a time like this. He felt so keyed up it seemed he'd never be able to sleep again.
'I wasn't napping, Vincent-I was thinking.'
'Yeah. So was I. Like how are we going to get out of this place?'
'Surely you don't think I have brought us in here without a well-conceived plan of departure? And if my plan does not work, I am a great believer in improvisation.'
'Improvisation? I don't like the sound of that.'
'These old castles are full of holes. One way or another we'll escape with the evidence we need and return with reinforcements. Reinforcements that will only be convinced by the evidence. Coming here, Vincent, was our only option-aside from giving up.'
'That's not an option in my book.'
'Nor in mine.'
There was a knock at the door. It opened and Pinketts stood there, in full livery. D'Agosta's hand drifted toward his service piece.
Pinketts gave a slight bow and said, in his plummy English, 'Dinner is served.'
They followed him back down the staircase and through a series of rooms and passageways to the dining salotto . It was a cheerful space, painted yellow, with a high vaulted ceiling. The table had been laid with silver and plate, an arrangement of fresh roses in the middle. There were three places set.
Fosco was standing at the far end of the room, where a small fire burned in the grate of an enormous stone fireplace, surmounted with a carved coat of arms. He turned quickly, a little white mouse scampering over his fat hand and running up his sleeve.
'Welcome.' He put the mouse away in a small wire pagoda. 'Mr. Pendergast, you will sit here, on my right; Mr. D'Agosta on my left, if you please.'
D'Agosta seated himself, edging his chair away from Fosco. The count had always given him the creeps; now he could hardly stand to be in the same room. The man was a fiend.
'A little prosecco ? It is my own.'
Both men shook their heads. Fosco shrugged. Pinketts filled his glass with the wine, and the count raised it.
