by Dan Brown
The hall is nearly deserted when Bertrand takes the stage, and he is tall … so very tall … with vibrant green eyes that seem to hold all the mysteries of the world.
“To hell with this empty auditorium,” he declares. “Let’s go to the bar!”
And then we are there, a handful of us, in a quiet booth, as he speaks of genetics, of population, and of his newest passion … Transhumanism.
As the drinks flow, I feel as if I’m having a private audience with a rock star. Every time Zobrist glances over at me, his green eyes ignite a wholly unexpected feeling inside me … the deep pull of sexual attraction.
It is a wholly new sensation for me.
And then we are alone.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say to him, feeling a little tipsy. “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. I don’t know how to do this!
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.
Then, I am naked in his arms.
“Relax, Sienna,” he whispers, and then, with patient hands, he coaxes from my inexperienced body a torrent of sensations that I have never imagined existed.
Basking in the cocoon of Zobrist’s embrace, I feel as if everything is finally right in the world, and I know my life has purpose.
I have found Love.
And I will follow it anywhere.
A bovedecks on The Mendacium, Langdon gripped the polished teak railing, steadied his wavering legs, and tried to catch his breath. The sea air had grown colder, and the roar of low-flying commercial jets told him they were nearing the Venice airport.
There are some things I have to tell you about Ms. Brooks.
Beside him at the railing, the provost and Dr. Sinskey remained silent but attentive, giving him a moment to get his bearings. What they had told Langdon downstairs had left him so disoriented and upset that Sinskey had brought him outside for some air.
The sea air was bracing, and yet Langdon felt no clearer in his head. All he could do was stare vacantly down at the churning wake of the ship, trying to find a shred of logic to what he had just heard.
According to the provost, Sienna Brooks and Bertrand Zobrist had been longtime lovers. They were active together in some kind of underground Transhumanist movement. Her full name was Felicity Sienna Brooks, but she also went by the code name FS-2080 … which had something to do with her initials, and the year of her one-hundredth birthday.
None of it makes any sense!
“I knew Sienna Brooks through a different source,” the provost had told Langdon, “and I trusted her. So, when she came to me last year and asked me to meet a wealthy potential client, I agreed. That prospect turned out to be Bertrand Zobrist. He hired me to provide him a safe haven where he could work undetected on his ‘masterpiece.’ I assumed he was developing a new technology that he didn’t want pirated … or maybe he was performing some cutting-edge genetic research that was in conflict with the WHO’s ethics regulations … I didn’t ask questions, but believe me, I never imagined he was creating … a plague.”
Langdon had only been able to nod vacantly … bewildered.
“Zobrist was a Dante fanatic,” the provost continued, “and he therefore chose Florence as the city in which he wanted to hide. So my organization set him up with everything he needed—a discreet lab facility with living quarters, various aliases and secure communication avenues, and a personal attaché who oversaw everything from his security to buying food and supplies. Zobrist never used his own credit cards or appeared in public, so he was impossible to track. We even provided him disguises, aliases, and alternate documentation for traveling unnoticed.” He paused. “Which he apparently did when he placed the Solublon bag.”
Sinskey exhaled, making little effort to hide her frustration. “The WHO has been trying to keep tabs on him since last year, but he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.”
“Even hiding from Sienna,” the provost said.
“I’m sorry?” Langdon glanced up, clearing the knot in his throat. “I thought you said they were lovers?”
“They were, but he cut her off suddenly when he went into hiding. Even though Sienna was the one who sent him to us, my agreement was with Zobrist himself, and part of our deal was that when he disappeared, he would disappear from the whole world, including Sienna. Apparently after he went into hiding, he sent her a farewell letter revealing that he was very ill, would be dead in a year or so, and didn’t want her to see him deteriorate.”
Zobrist abandoned Sienna?
“Sienna tried to contact me for information,” the provost said, “but I refused to take her calls. I had to respect my client’s wishes.”
“Two weeks ago,” Sinskey continued, “Zobrist walked into a bank in Florence and anonymously rented a safe-deposit box. After he left, our watch list got word that the bank’s new facial-recognition software had identified the disguised man as Bertrand Zobrist. My team flew to Florence and it took a week to locate his safe house, which was empty, but inside we found evidence that he had created some kind of highly contagious pathogen and hidden it somewhere else.”
Sinskey paused. “We were desperate to find him. The following morning, before sunrise, we spotted him walking along the Arno, and we immediately gave chase. That’s when he fled up the Badia tower and jumped to his death.”
“He may have been planning to do that anyway,” the provost added. “He was convinced he did not have long to live.”
“As it turned out,” Sinskey said, “Sienna had been searching for him as well. Somehow, she found out that we had mobilized to Florence, and she tailed our movements, thinking we might have located him. Unfortunately, she was there in time to see Zobrist jump.” Sinskey sighed. “I suspect it was very traumatic for her to watch her lover and mentor fall to his death.”
Langdon felt ill, barely able to comprehend what they were telling him. The only person in this entire scenario whom he trusted was Sienna, and these people were telling him that she was not who she claimed to be? No matter what they said, he could not believe Sienna would condone Zobrist’s desire to create a plague.
Or would she?
Would you kill half the population today, Sienna had asked him, in order to save our species from extinction?
Langdon felt a chill.
“Once Zobrist was dead,” Sinskey explained, “I used my influence to force the bank to open Zobrist’s safe-deposit box, which ironically turned out to contain a letter to me … along with a strange little device.”
“The projector,” Langdon ventured.
“Exactly. His letter said he wanted me to be the first to visit ground zero, which nobody would ever find without following his Map of Hell.”
Langdon pictured the modified Botticelli painting that shone out of the tiny projector.
The provost added, “Zobrist had contracted me to deliver to Dr. Sinskey the contents of the safe-deposit box, but not until after tomorrow morning. When Dr. Sinskey came into possession of it early, we panicked and took action, trying to recover it in accordance with our client’s wishes.”
Sinskey looked at Langdon. “I didn’t have mu
ch hope of understanding the map in time, so I recruited you to help me. Are you remembering any of this, now?”
Langdon shook his head.
“We flew you quietly to Florence, where you had made an appointment with someone you thought could help.”
Ignazio Busoni.
“You met with him last night,” Sinskey said, “and then you disappeared. We thought something had happened to you.”
“And in fact,” the provost said, “something did happen to you. In an effort to recover the projector, we had an agent of mine named Vayentha tail you from the airport. She lost you somewhere around the Piazza della Signoria.” He scowled. “Losing you was a critical error. And Vayentha had the nerve to blame it on a bird.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A cooing dove. By Vayentha’s account, she was in perfect position, watching you from a darkened alcove, when a group of tourists passed. She said a dove suddenly cooed loudly from a window box over her head, causing the tourists to stop and block Vayentha in. By the time she could slip back into the alley, you were gone.” He shook his head in disgust. “Anyway, she lost you for several hours. Finally, she picked up your trail again—and by this time you had been joined by another man.”
Ignazio, Langdon thought. He and I must have been exiting the Palazzo Vecchio with the mask.
“She successfully tailed you both in the direction of the Piazza della Signoria, but the two of you apparently saw her and decided to flee, going in separate directions.”
That makes sense, Langdon thought. Ignazio fled with the mask and hid it in the baptistry before he had a heart attack.
“Then Vayentha made a terrible mistake,” the provost said.
“She shot me in the head?”
“No, she revealed herself too early. She pulled you in for interrogation before you actually knew anything. We needed to know if you had deciphered the map or told Dr. Sinskey what she needed to know. You refused to say a word. You said you would die first.”
I was looking for a deadly plague! I probably thought you were mercenaries looking to obtain a biological weapon!
The ship’s massive engines suddenly shifted into reverse, slowing the vessel as it neared the loading dock for the airport. In the distance, Langdon could see the nondescript hull of a C-130 transport plane fueling. The fuselage bore the inscription WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION.
At that moment Brüder arrived, his expression grim. “I’ve just learned that the only qualified response team within five hours of the site is us, which means we’re on our own.”
Sinskey slumped. “Coordination with local authorities?”
Brüder looked wary. “Not yet. That’s my recommendation. We don’t have an exact location at the moment, so there’s nothing they could do. Moreover, a containment operation is well beyond the scope of their expertise, and we run the real risk of their doing more damage than good.”
“Primum non nocere,” Sinskey whispered with a nod, repeating the fundamental precept of medical ethics: First, do no harm.
“Lastly,” Brüder said, “we still have no word on Sienna Brooks.” He eyed the provost. “Do you know if Sienna has contacts in Venice who might assist her?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he replied. “Zobrist had disciples everywhere, and if I know Sienna, she’ll be using all available resources to carry out her directive.”
“You can’t let her get out of Venice,” Sinskey said. “We have no idea what condition that Solublon bag is currently in. If anyone discovers it, all that would be needed at this point is a slight touch to burst the plastic and release the contagion into the water.”
There was a moment of silence as the gravity of the situation settled in.
“I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news,” Langdon said. “The gilded mouseion of holy wisdom.” He paused. “Sienna knows where it is. She knows where we’re going.”
“What?!” Sinskey’s voice rose in alarm. “I thought you said you didn’t have a chance to tell Sienna what you’d figured out! You said all you told her is that you were in the wrong country!”
“That’s true,” Langdon said, “but she knew we were looking for the tomb of Enrico Dandolo. A quick Web search can tell her where that is. And once she finds Dandolo’s tomb … the dissolving canister can’t be far away. The poem said to follow the sounds of trickling water to the sunken palace.”
“Damn it!” Brüder erupted, and stormed off.
“She’ll never beat us there,” the provost said. “We have a head start.”
Sinskey sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Our transport is slow, and it appears Sienna Brooks is extremely resourceful.”
As The Mendacium docked, Langdon found himself staring uneasily at the cumbersome C-130 on the runway. It barely looked airworthy and had no windows. I’ve been on this thing already? Langdon didn’t remember a thing.
Whether it was because of the movement of the docking boat, or growing reservations about the claustrophobic aircraft, Langdon didn’t know, but he was suddenly hit by an upsurge of nausea.
He turned to Sinskey. “I’m not sure I feel well enough to fly.”
“You’re fine,” she said. “You’ve been through the wringer today, and of course, you’ve got the toxins in your body.”
“Toxins?” Langdon took a wavering step backward. “What are you talking about?”
Sinskey glanced away, clearly having said more than she intended.
“Professor, I’m sorry. Unfortunately, I’ve just learned that your medical condition is a bit more complicated than a simple head wound.”
Langdon felt a spike of fear as he pictured the black flesh on Ferris’s chest when the man collapsed in the basilica.
“What’s wrong with me?” Langdon demanded.
Sinskey hesitated, as if uncertain how to proceed. “Let’s get you onto the plane first.”
Located just east of the spectacular Frari church, the Atelier Pietro Longhi has always been one of Venice’s premier providers of historical costumes, wigs, and accessories. Its client list includes film companies and theatrical troupes, as well as influential members of the public who rely on the staff’s expertise to dress them for Carnevale’s most extravagant balls.
The clerk was just about to lock up for the evening when the door jingled loudly. He glanced up to see an attractive woman with a blond ponytail come bursting in. She was breathless, as if she’d been running for miles. She hurried to the counter, her brown eyes wild and desperate.
“I want to speak to Giorgio Venci,” she had said, panting.
Don’t we all, the clerk thought. But nobody gets to see the wizard.
Giorgio Venci—the atelier’s chief designer—worked his magic from behind the curtain, speaking to clients very rarely and never without an appointment. As a man of great wealth and influence, Giorgio was allowed certain eccentricities, including his passion for solitude. He dined privately, flew privately, and constantly complained about the rising number of tourists in Venice. He was not one who liked company.
“I’m sorry,” the clerk said with a practiced smile. “I’m afraid Signor Venci is not here. Perhaps I can help you?”
SANTA MARIA GLORIOSA DEI FRARI, VENICE
“Giorgio’s here,” she declared. “His flat is upstairs. I saw his light on. I’m a friend. It’s an emergency.”
There was a burning intensity about the woman. A friend? she claims. “Might I tell Giorgio your name?”
The woman took a scrap of paper off the counter and jotted down a series of letters and numbers.
“Just give him this,” she said, handing the clerk the paper. “And please hurry. I don’t have much time.”
The clerk hesitantly carried the paper upstairs and laid it on the long altering table, where Giorgio was hunched intently at his sewing machine.
“Signore,” he whispered. “Someone is here to see you. She says it’s an emergency.”
Without breaking off from his work or looking up, the man reached o
ut with one hand and took the paper, reading the text.
His sewing machine rattled to a stop.
“Send her up immediately,” Giorgio commanded as he tore the paper into tiny shreds.
The massive C-130 transport plane was still ascending as it banked southeast, thundering out across the Adriatic. On board, Robert Langdon was feeling simultaneously cramped and adrift—oppressed by the absence of windows in the aircraft and bewildered by all of the unanswered questions swirling around in his brain.
Your medical condition, Sinskey had told him, is a bit more complicated than a simple head wound.
Langdon’s pulse quickened at the thought of what she might tell him, and yet at the moment she was busy discussing containment strategies with the SRS team. Brüder was on the phone nearby, speaking with government agencies about Sienna Brooks, following up on everyone’s attempts to locate her.
Sienna …
Langdon was still trying to make sense of the claim that she was intricately involved in all of this. As the plane leveled out from its ascent, the small man who called himself the provost walked across the cabin and sat down opposite Langdon. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and pursed his lips. “Dr. Sinskey asked me to fill you in … make an attempt to bring clarity to your situation.”
Langdon wondered what this man could possibly say to make any of this confusion even remotely clear.
“As I began to say earlier,” the provost said, “much of this started after my agent Vayentha pulled you in prematurely. We had no idea how much progress you had made on Dr. Sinskey’s behalf, or how much you had shared with her. But we were afraid if she learned the location of the project our client had hired us to protect, she was going to confiscate or destroy it. We had to find it before she did, and so we needed you to work on our behalf … rather than on Sinskey’s.” The provost paused, tapping his fingertips together. “Unfortunately, we had already shown our cards … and you most certainly did not trust us.”