by Dan Brown
The lagoon that reflects no stars.
“What’s more,” Langdon continued, “in the finale of the Inferno, we find Dante listening to the sound of trickling water inside a chasm and following it through an opening … which leads him out of hell.”
Ferris blanched slightly. “Jesus.”
Just then, a deafening rush of air filled the cabin as the Frecciargento plunged into a mountain tunnel.
In the darkness, Langdon closed his eyes and tried to allow his mind to relax. Zobrist may have been a lunatic, he thought, but he certainly had a sophisticated grasp of Dante.
CHAPTER 64
Laurence Knowlton felt a wave of relief wash over him.
The provost changed his mind about watching Zobrist’s video.
Knowlton practically dove for the crimson memory stick and inserted it into his computer so he could share it with his boss. The weight of Zobrist’s bizarre nine-minute message had been haunting the facilitator, and he was eager to have another set of eyes watch it.
This will no longer be on me.
Knowlton held his breath as he began the playback.
The screen darkened, and the sounds of gently lapping water filled the cubicle. The camera moved through the reddish haze of the underground cavern, and although the provost showed no visible reaction, Knowlton sensed that the man was as alarmed as he was bewildered.
The camera paused its forward motion and tipped downward at the surface of the lagoon, where it plunged beneath the water, diving several feet to reveal the polished titanium plaque bolted to the floor.
IN THIS PLACE, ON THIS DATE, THE WORLD WAS CHANGED FOREVER.
The provost flinched ever so slightly. “Tomorrow,” he whispered, eyeing the date. “And do we know where ‘this place’ might be?”
Knowlton shook his head.
The camera panned left now, revealing the submerged plastic sack of gelatinous, yellow-brown fluid.
“What in God’s name?!” The provost pulled up a chair and settled in, staring at the undulating bubble, suspended like a tethered balloon beneath the water.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as the video progressed. Soon the screen went dark, and then a strange, beak-nosed shadow appeared on the cavern wall and began talking in its arcane language.
I am the Shade …
Driven underground, I must speak to the world from deep within the earth, exiled to this gloomy cavern where the bloodred waters collect in the lagoon that reflects no stars.
But this is my paradise … the perfect womb for my fragile child.
Inferno.
The provost glanced up. “Inferno?”
Knowlton shrugged. “As I said, it’s disturbing.”
The provost returned his eyes to the screen, watching intently.
The beak-nosed shadow continued speaking for several minutes, talking of plagues, of the population’s need for purging, of his own glorious role in the future, of his battle against the ignorant souls who had been trying to stop him, and of the faithful few who realized that drastic action was the only way to save the planet.
Whatever this war was about, Knowlton had been wondering all morning if the Consortium might be fighting on the wrong side.
The voice continued.
I have forged a masterpiece of salvation, and yet my efforts have been rewarded not with trumpets and laurels … but with threats of death.
I do not fear death … for death transforms visionaries into martyrs … converts noble ideas into powerful movements.
Jesus. Socrates. Martin Luther King.
One day soon I will join them.
The masterpiece I have created is the work of God Himself … a gift from the One who imbued me with the intellect, tools, and courage required to forge such a creation.
Now the day grows near.
Inferno sleeps beneath me, preparing to spring from its watery womb … under the watchful eye of the chthonic monster and all her Furies.
Despite the virtue of my deeds, like you, I am no stranger to Sin. Even I am guilty of the darkest of the seven—that lone temptation from which so few find sanctuary.
Pride.
By recording this very message I have succumbed to Pride’s goading pull … eager to ensure that the world would know my work.
And why not?
Mankind should know the source of his own salvation … the name of he who sealed the yawning gates of hell forever!
With each passing hour, the outcome grows more certain. Mathematics—as relentless as the law of gravity—is nonnegotiable. The same exponential blossoming of life that has nearly killed Mankind shall also be his deliverance. The beauty of a living organism—be it good or evil—is that it will follow the law of God with singular vision.
Be fruitful and multiply.
And so I fight fire … with fire.
“That’s enough,” the provost interrupted so quietly that Knowlton barely heard him.
“Sir?”
“Stop the video.”
Knowlton paused the playback. “Sir, the end is actually the most frightening part.”
“I’ve seen enough.” The provost looked ill. He paced the cubicle for several moments and then turned suddenly. “We need to make contact with FS-2080.”
Knowlton considered the move.
FS-2080 was the code name of one of the provost’s trusted contacts—the same contact who had referred Zobrist to the Consortium as a client. The provost was no doubt at this very moment chiding himself for trusting FS-2080’s judgment; the recommendation of Bertrand Zobrist as a client had brought chaos into the Consortium’s delicately structured world.
FS-2080 is the reason for this crisis.
The growing chain of calamities surrounding Zobrist only seemed to be getting worse, not merely for the Consortium, but quite possibly … for the world.
“We need to discover Zobrist’s true intentions,” the provost declared. “I want to know exactly what he created, and if this threat is real.”
Knowlton knew that if anyone had the answers to these questions, it would be FS-2080. Nobody knew Bertrand Zobrist better. It was time for the Consortium to break protocol and assess what kind of insanity the organization might have unwittingly supported over the past year.
Knowlton considered the possible ramifications of confronting FS-2080 directly. The mere act of initiating contact carried certain risks.
“Obviously, sir,” Knowlton said, “if you reach out to FS-2080, you’ll need to do so very delicately.”
The provost’s eyes flashed with anger as he pulled out his cell phone. “We’re well past delicate.”
Seated with his two traveling partners in the Frecciargento’s private cabin, the man with the paisley necktie and Plume Paris glasses did his best not to scratch at his still-worsening rash. The pain in his chest seemed to have increased as well.
As the train finally emerged from the tunnel, the man gazed over at Langdon, who opened his eyes slowly, apparently returning from far-off thoughts. Beside him, Sienna began eyeing the man’s cell phone, which she had set down as the train sped through the tunnel, while there was no signal.
Sienna appeared eager to continue her Internet search, but before she could reach for the phone, it suddenly began vibrating, emitting a series of staccato pings.
Knowing the ring well, the man with the rash immediately grabbed the phone and eyed the illuminated screen, doing his best to hide his surprise.
“Sorry,” he said, standing up. “Ailing mother. I’ve got to take this.”
Sienna and Langdon gave him understanding nods as the man excused himself and exited the cabin, moving quickly down the passageway into a nearby restroom.
The man with the rash locked the restroom door as he took the call. “Hello?”
The voice on the line was grave. “It’s the provost.”
CHAPTER 65
The Frecciargento’s restroom was no larger than the restroom on a commercial airliner, with barely enough ro
om to turn around. The man with the skin rash finished his phone call with the provost and pocketed his phone.
The ground has shifted, he realized. The entire landscape was suddenly upside down, and he needed a moment to get his bearings.
My friends are now my enemies.
The man loosened his paisley tie and stared at his pustuled face in the mirror. He looked worse than he thought. His face was of little concern, though, compared to the pain in his chest.
Hesitantly, he unfastened several buttons and pulled open his shirt.
He forced his eyes to the mirror … and studied his bare chest.
Jesus.
The black area was growing.
The skin on the center of his chest was a deep hue of bluish black. The area had begun last night as the size of a golf ball, but now it was the size of an orange. He gently touched the tender flesh and winced.
Hurriedly, he rebuttoned his shirt, hoping he would have the strength to carry out what he needed to do.
The next hour will be critical, he thought. A delicate series of maneuvers.
He closed his eyes and gathered himself, working through what needed to happen. My friends have become my enemies, he thought again.
He took several deep, painful breaths, hoping it might calm his nerves. He knew he needed to stay serene if he was going to keep his intentions hidden.
Inner calm is critical to persuasive acting.
The man was no stranger to deception, and yet his heart was pounding wildly now. He took another deep, throbbing breath. You’ve been deceiving people for years, he reminded himself. It’s what you do.
Steeling himself, he prepared to return to Langdon and Sienna.
My final performance, he thought.
As a final precaution before exiting the restroom, he removed the battery from his cell phone, making sure the device was now inoperative.
He looks pale, Sienna thought as the man with the rash reentered the cabin and settled into his seat with a pained sigh.
“Is everything okay?” Sienna asked, genuinely concerned.
He nodded. “Thanks, yes. Everything’s fine.”
Apparently having received all the information the man intended to share, Sienna changed tacks. “I need your phone again,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I want to keep searching for more on the doge. Maybe we can get some answers before we visit St. Mark’s.”
“No problem,” he said, taking his phone from his pocket and checking the display. “Oh, damn. My battery was dying during that call. Looks like it’s dead now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be in Venice soon. We’ll just have to wait.”
Five miles off the coast of Italy, aboard The Mendacium, facilitator Knowlton watched in silence as the provost stalked around the perimeter of the cubicle like a caged animal. Following the phone call, the provost’s wheels were clearly turning, and Knowlton knew better than to utter a sound while the provost was thinking.
Finally, the deeply tanned man spoke, his voice as tight as Knowlton could remember. “We have no choice. We need to share this video with Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey.”
Knowlton sat stock-still, not wanting to show his surprise. The silver-haired devil? The one we’ve helped Zobrist evade all year? “Okay, sir. Should I find a way to e-mail the video to her?”
“God, no! And risk leaking the video to the public? It would be mass hysteria. I want Dr. Sinskey aboard this ship as soon as you can get her here.”
Knowlton stared in disbelief. He wants to bring the director of the WHO on board The Mendacium? “Sir, this breach of our secrecy protocol obviously risks—”
“Just do it, Knowlton! NOW!”
CHAPTER 66
FS-2080 gazed out the window of the speeding Frecciargento, watching Robert Langdon’s reflection in the glass. The professor was still brainstorming possible solutions to the death-mask riddle that Bertrand Zobrist had composed.
Bertrand, thought FS-2080. God, I miss him.
The pangs of loss felt fresh. The night the two had met still felt like a magical dream.
Chicago. The blizzard.
January, six years ago … but it still feels like yesterday. I am trudging through snowbanks along the windswept Magnificent Mile, collar upturned against the blinding whiteout. Despite the cold, I tell myself that nothing will keep me from my destination. Tonight is my chance to hear the great Bertrand Zobrist speak … in person.
I have read everything the man has ever written, and I know I am lucky to have one of the five hundred tickets that were printed for the event.
When I arrive at the hall, half numb from the wind, I feel a surge of panic to discover the room nearly empty. Has the speech been canceled?! The city is in near shutdown due to the weather … has it kept Zobrist from coming tonight?!
Then he is there.
A towering, elegant form takes the stage.
He is tall … so very tall … with vibrant green eyes that seem to hold all the mysteries of the world in their depths. He looks out over the empty hall—only a dozen or so stalwart fans—and I feel ashamed that the hall is nearly empty.
This is Bertrand Zobrist!
There is a terrible moment of silence as he stares at us, his face stern.
Then, without warning, he bursts out laughing, his green eyes glimmering. “To hell with this empty auditorium,” he declares. “My hotel is next door. Let’s go to the bar!”
A cheer goes up, and a small group migrates next door to a hotel bar, where we crowd into a big booth and order drinks. Zobrist regales us with tales of his research, his rise to celebrity, and his thoughts about the future of genetic engineering. As the drinks flow, the topic turns to Zobrist’s newfound passion for Transhumanist philosophy.
“I believe Transhumanism is mankind’s only hope for long-term survival,” Zobrist preaches, pulling aside his shirt and showing them all the “H+” tattoo inscribed on his shoulder. “As you can see, I’m fully committed.”
I feel as if I’m having a private audience with a rock star. I never imagined the lauded “genius of genetics” would be so charismatic or beguiling in person. Every time Zobrist glances over at me, his green eyes ignite a wholly unexpected feeling inside me … the deep pull of sexual attraction.
As the night wears on, the group slowly thins as the guests excuse themselves to get back to reality. By midnight, I am seated all alone with Bertrand Zobrist.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say to him, a little tipsy from one drink too many. “You’re an amazing teacher.”
“Flattery?” Zobrist smiles and leans closer, our legs touching now. “It will get you everywhere.”
The flirtation is clearly inappropriate, but it is a snowy night in a deserted Chicago hotel, and it feels as if the entire world has stopped.
“So what do you think?” Zobrist says. “Nightcap in my room?”
I freeze, knowing I must look like a deer in the headlights.
Zobrist’s eyes twinkle warmly. “Let me guess,” he whispers. “You’ve never been with a famous man.”
I feel myself flush, fighting to hide a surge of emotions—embarrassment, excitement, fear. “Actually, to be honest,” I say to him, “I’ve never been with any man.”
Zobrist smiles and inches closer. “I’m not sure what you’ve been waiting for, but please let me be your first.”
In that moment all the awkward sexual fears and frustrations of my childhood disappear … evaporating into the snowy night.
For the first time ever, I feel a yearning unfettered by shame.
I want him.
Ten minutes later, we are in Zobrist’s hotel room, naked in each other’s arms. Zobrist takes his time, his patient hands coaxing sensations I’ve never felt before out of my inexperienced body.
This is my choice. He didn’t force me.
In the cocoon of Zobrist’s embrace, I feel as if everything is right in the world. Lying there, staring out the window at the snowy night, I know I will follow this man anywhere.
The Frecciargento train slowed suddenly, and FS-2080 emerged from the blissful memory and back into the depressing present.
Bertrand … you’re gone.
Their first night together had been the first step of an incredible journey.
I became more than his lover. I became his disciple.
“Libertà Bridge,” Langdon said. “We’re almost there.”
FS-2080 nodded mournfully, staring out at the waters of the Laguna Veneta, remembering sailing here once with Bertrand … a peaceful image that dissolved now into a horrific memory from a week before.
I was there when he jumped off the Badia tower.
Mine were the last eyes he ever saw.
CHAPTER 67
The NetJets Citation Excel bounced through heavy turbulence as it rocketed skyward out of Tassignano Airport and banked toward Venice. On board, Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey barely noticed the bumpy departure as she absently stroked her amulet and gazed out the window into empty space.
They had finally stopped giving her the injections, and Sinskey’s mind was already feeling clearer. In the seat beside her, Agent Brüder remained silent, probably pondering the bizarre turn of events that had just transpired.
Everything is upside down, Sinskey thought, still struggling to believe what she had just witnessed.
Thirty minutes ago, they had stormed the tiny airfield to intercept Langdon as he boarded the private jet he had summoned. Instead of finding the professor, however, they discovered an idling Citation Excel and two NetJets pilots pacing the tarmac and checking their watches.
Robert Langdon was a no-show.
Then came the phone call.
When the cell phone rang, Sinskey was where she had been all day—in the backseat of the black van. Agent Brüder entered the vehicle with a stupefied look on his face as he handed her his phone.
“Urgent call for you, ma’am.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“He asked me to tell you only that he has pressing information to give you about Bertrand Zobrist.”