Pendergast held up the gun.
'With three shots? You'll never do it.'
'There's no other way.'
'But where will I meet up with you? The Greve road?'
Pendergast shook his head. 'Don't wait for me. Get the colonnello and return in full force as soon as possible. In full force. You understand? Take the machine-you'll need it to convince him.'
'But . ' D'Agosta stopped. And then-only then-did the full consequences of Pendergast's intentions reveal themselves to him.
'The hell with that,' he said. 'We go together.'
The baying grew closer.
'Only one of us can get through. There's no other way. Now, go! '
'I won't. No way . I’m not leaving you to the dogs . '
'Damn you, Vincent, you must! ' And without another word, Pendergast turned his back and took off downhill.
'No!' D'Agosta shouted. 'Noooo-!'
But it was too late.
He felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot in disbelief. Pendergast's thin black figure was leaping like a cat down the hill, gun upraised-and then it vanished into the trees.
There was nothing to do but follow the plan. Almost robotically, D'Agosta began scrambling along the hill, moving laterally, until he had gone about three hundred yards. He turned, prepared to descend.
Then he stopped. Ahead, in a thickly wooded copse beneath a spur of rock, stood a lone figure. From any other vantage point, he would have been invisible below the outcropping of rock. He stood very still, looking at D'Agosta.
Jesus, D'Agosta thought. This is it.
He reached for the microwave device, thought better of it. The man wasn't armed; or, if he was, his weapon was out of sight. This situation was better handled with bare hands. He gathered himself to leap forward.
But then he hesitated. Though the man was dressed in peasant garb, he seemed different from the rest of Fosco's men. He was very tall and slender, perhaps four inches taller than Pendergast, and he wore a closely trimmed beard. There was something strange about his eyes. They were different colors: the left was hazel, the right an intense blue.
Maybe he's a local, D'Agosta thought. Or a poacher, or something. Great fucking time to be out for a stroll.
Suddenly, he became aware of the dogs again. They were still baying: a regular, measured sound, as before.
No more time to waste. The man had turned calmly away from him, uninterested. D'Agosta began descending slowly, waiting for the change in the dogs' cry. He glanced back once and saw the stranger, still motionless, looking intently downslope.
D'Agosta turned back and continued slowly and carefully down through the forest. Forget him. The important thing now was Pendergast. He would escape. He had to, he had to .
And then, suddenly, off to his right and below, he heard a single dog barking hysterically, its voice sounding a much higher, more urgent note than before. He paused, listening. Another took up the cry, then a third. In a moment, the whole line had taken it up. D'Agosta could hear them converging on a single spot with a babel of high-pitched barking. Then came the report of a gun, the shriek of a dog. The frenzy increased in pitch. It was a terrifying sound, interrupted by a second shot, then a third. These were followed in turn by the lower boom-boom of an old, heavy-caliber carbine. D'Agosta could see nothing through the dense brush, but he could hear what was happening all too clearly.
This was his chance. Hugging the machine close to him, D'Agosta ran downhill as hard and fast as he could, leaping, ripping through brambles, stumbling, recovering, running on and on. He broke through a small clearing, and there-far off to his right now-he caught one last glimpse of Pendergast: a lone figure in black, surrounded by a boiling pack of dogs, a dozen or more men converging from two sides and below, each with heavy rifles trained on him. The din was incredible, the frenzied ring of dogs closing in, the bolder ones dashing forward, attempting to tear out chunks of flesh.
D'Agosta kept running, running-and then he was past the line, the dogs' terrible ravening cry now behind and above him. He kept on going, the nightmarish shrieking of the dogs, the cursing and shouting of the handlers, ringing ever more faintly in his ears. The hunt was over, the quarry cornered-only it wasn't a boar, it was a human being. Pendergast. And he wasn't going to escape: not this time, he wasn't.
{ 83 }
Buck sat on the cot in his cell at the Manhattan Detention Center, listening and waiting. It was a modern, sterile facility, all white walls and fluorescent lighting, the lights recessed behind caged glass. Despite the fact that it was past midnight, he could hear a lot of noise from the other prisoners, who were banging on the bars, yelling, arguing, demanding lawyers. Some were shouting in unintelligible languages that sounded harsh, almost barbarous.
He'd been processed, fingerprinted, photographed, showered, given a change of clothes. He'd been fed, given a copy of the Times , been offered a phone to call a lawyer-and told absolutely nothing. It seemed he'd been in the
