confession and escorted you to the carabinieri headquarters. The violin you may keep. It is yours, after all. A fair deal, when you consider it.'
Fosco tore open the letter with a fat hand and began to read. After a moment, he paused and looked up. 'This is infamy!'
Pendergast merely watched as Fosco returned his attention to the document, hands visibly shaking.
D'Agosta observed this interchange with growing comprehension. Now he understood the purpose of Pendergast's stop that morning, a stop he had referred to as 'insurance.' He had been depositing the copy of his letter with this Prince Maffei. How Pendergast had put all this together, and exactly what it meant, D'Agosta didn't know. No doubt he would learn in time. But his overwhelming feeling was one of relief. Once again, Pendergast had saved their asses.
The count lowered the document abruptly. His face had gone white.
'How did you know this? Someone must have already broken the seal of the Comitatus! Someone else must pay, not me!'
'I learned it from you, and nobody else. That is all you need to know.'
Fosco appeared to be struggling to master himself. He placed the letter on the table, faced Pendergast. 'Very well. I had expected a strong opening move, but this one does you credit. Twenty-four hours, you say? Pinketts will escort you back to your rooms while I consider my riposte.'
'No fucking way,' said D'Agosta. 'We're leaving. You can telephone our hotel when you're ready to hand over the confession.' He glanced at Pinketts, who had his gun trained on them, the muzzle moving back and forth. D'Agosta figured the chances were pretty good that-if he timed it right-he could put a bulletin Pinketts before the man could react.
'You will go to your quarters and await my answer,' the count said imperiously.
When nobody moved, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to Pinketts.
All it took was a faint movement in the man's hand, and D'Agosta had dropped, rolled, and fired in one smooth, endlessly practiced move. Without even a cry, Pinketts staggered back against the wall, Beretta still in hand, firing once above their heads. D'Agosta rose to his knee and fired two more shots. Pinketts jerked, the gun skidded across the floor, coming to rest in a corner. Pendergast had his own gun out and was now aiming at the count.
Slowly, Fosco raised his hands.
Suddenly, men appeared in the doorways leading out of the dining room: rough-looking men in peasant dress, guns in hand, faces set. They came in orderly, deliberately, without haste, sure of themselves. In a moment, more than half a dozen had entered, guns aimed at Pendergast and D'Agosta.
There was a long silence, interrupted only by a long, gargling rattle from Pinketts that wheezed off into silence.
Fosco's hands were still raised. 'We seem to be at a standoff,' he said. 'How very theatrical. You kill me, my men kill you.' Though the words sounded light, they held a harsh, chill undertone.
'Let us walk out of here,' said D'Agosta. 'And nobody'll get killed.'
'You've already killed Pinketts,' Fosco replied crisply. 'Here you are, the man who dared lecture me on the sanctity of human life. Pinketts, who was my best and most loyal servant.'
D'Agosta took a step toward the count.
'Agent Pendergast!' Fosco said, turning and raising his voice. 'A moment's reflection will show you this is a game you cannot win. At the count of three, I will order D'Agosta killed. I will die too, at your hand. You , on the other hand, will live to ponder how you brought death to your partner. You know me well enough to know it's not a bluff. You will lay down the gun-because you have the letter .'
He paused. 'One.'
'It's a bluff!' D'Agosta shouted. 'Don't fall for it!'
'Two.'
Pendergast laid down his weapon.
The count paused again, hands still in the air. 'Now, Mr. D'Agosta, you haven't put down your gun. Do I need to say that last number, or can you understand the situation has gone against you? Even with your remarkable marksmanship, you will not succeed in dropping more than one or two of my men before you are sent back to your Maker.'
D'Agosta slowly lowered his gun. He still had a second strapped to his leg, and he knew Pendergast had one, too. The game was not over by a long shot. And they still had the letter.
Fosco looked from one to the other, eyes glittering. 'Very well. My men will escort you to your rooms while I consider your offer.'
{ 80 }
Dawn was finally breaking through the tiny windows of the keep when Pendergast emerged from his room. D'Agosta, sitting by the fire, grunted an acknowledgment. He had spent the night tossing restlessly, unable to sleep, but Pendergast seemed to have had no difficulty.
'Excellent fire, Vincent,' he said, smoothing the front of his suit and taking a seat nearby. 'I find these fall mornings a bit chilly.'
D'Agosta gave the fire a savage poke. 'Nice sleep?'
