It had been protocol that required Vayentha’s disavowal, and the provost had carried out the deed with no hesitation. I will deal with her once this current crisis has passed.
It had been protocol that required the provost to know as little as possible about all of his clients. He had decided long ago that the Consortium had no ethical responsibility to judge them.
Provide the service.
Trust the client.
Ask no questions.
Like the directors of most companies, the provost simply offered services with the assumption that those services would be implemented within the framework of the law. After all, Volvo had no responsibility to ensure that soccer moms didn’t speed through school zones, any more than Dell would be held responsible if someone used one of their computers to hack into a bank account.
Now, with everything unraveling, the provost quietly cursed the trusted contact who had suggested this client to the Consortium.
“He will be low maintenance and easy money,” the contact had assured him. “The man is brilliant, a star in his field, and absurdly wealthy. He simply needs to disappear for a year or two. He wants to buy some time off the grid to work on an important project.”
The provost had agreed without much thought. Long-term relocations were always easy money, and the provost trusted his contact’s instincts.
As expected, the job had been very easy money.
That is, until last week.
Now, in the wake of the chaos created by this man, the provost found himself pacing in circles around a bottle of Scotch and counting the days until his responsibilities to this client were over.
The phone on his desk rang, and the provost saw it was Knowlton, one of his top facilitators, calling from downstairs.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Sir,” Knowlton began, an uneasy edge in his voice. “I hate to bother you with this, but as you may know, we’re tasked with uploading a video to the media tomorrow.”
“Yes,” the provost replied. “Is it prepped?”
“It is, but I thought you might want to preview it before upload.”
The provost paused, puzzled by the comment. “Does the video mention us by name or compromise us in some way?”
“No, sir, but the content is quite disturbing. The client appears on-screen and says—”
“Stop right there,” the provost ordered, stunned that a senior facilitator would dare suggest such a blatant breach of protocol. “The content is immaterial. Whatever it says, his video would have been released with or without us. The client could just as easily have released this video electronically, but he hired us. He paid us. He trusted us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were not hired to be a film critic,” the provost admonished. “You were hired to keep promises. Do your job.”
On the Ponte Vecchio, Vayentha waited, her sharp eyes scanning the hundreds of faces on the bridge. She had been vigilant and felt certain that Langdon had not yet passed her, but the drone had fallen silent, its tracking apparently no longer required.
Brüder must have caught him.
Reluctantly, she began to ponder the grim prospect of a Consortium inquiry. Or worse.
Vayentha again pictured the two agents who had been disavowed … never heard from again. They simply moved to different work, she assured herself. Nonetheless, she now found herself wondering if she should just drive into the hills of Tuscany, disappear, and use her skills to find a new life.
But how long could I hide from them?
Countless targets had learned firsthand that when the Consortium set you in its sights, privacy became an illusion. It was only a matter of time.
Is my career really ending like this? she wondered, still unable to accept that her twelve-year tenure at the Consortium would be terminated over a series of unlucky breaks. For a year she had vigilantly overseen the needs of the Consortium’s green-eyed client. It was not my fault he jumped to his death … and yet I seem to be falling along with him.
Her only chance at redemption had been to outfox Brüder … but she’d known from the start that this was a long shot.
I had my chance last night, and I failed.
As Vayentha reluctantly turned back toward her motorcycle, she became suddenly aware of a distant sound … a familiar high-pitched whine.
Puzzled, she glanced up. To her surprise, the surveillance drone had just lifted off again, this time near the farthest end of the Pitti Palace. Vayentha watched as the tiny craft began flying desperate circles over the palace.
The drone’s deployment could mean only one thing.
They still don’t have Langdon!
Where the hell is he?
The piercing whine overhead again pulled Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey from her delirium. The drone is up again? But I thought …
She shifted in the backseat of the van, where the same young agent was still seated beside her. She closed her eyes again, fighting the pain and nausea. Mostly, though, she fought the fear.
Time is running out.
Even though her enemy had jumped to his death, she still saw his silhouette in her dreams, lecturing her in the darkness of the Council on Foreign Relations.
It is imperative that someone take bold action, he had declared, his green eyes flashing. If not us, who? If not now, when?
Elizabeth knew she should have stopped him right then when she had the chance. She would never forget storming out of that meeting and fuming in the back of the limo as she headed across Manhattan toward JFK International Airport. Eager to know who the hell this maniac could be, she pulled out her cell phone to look at the surprise snapshot she had taken of him.
When she saw the photo, she gasped aloud. Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey knew exactly who this man was. The good news was that he would be very easy to track. The bad news was that he was a genius in his field—a very dangerous person should he choose to be.
Nothing is more creative … nor destructive … than a brilliant mind with a purpose.
By the time she arrived at the airport thirty minutes later, she had called her team and placed this man on the bioterrorism watch lists of every relevant agency on earth—the CIA, the CDC, the ECDC, and all of their sister organizations around the world.
That’s all I can do until I get back to Geneva, she thought.
Exhausted, she carried her overnight bag to check-in and handed the attendant her passport and ticket.
“Oh, Dr. Sinskey,” the attendant said with a smile. “A very nice gentleman just left a message for you.”
“I’m sorry?” Elizabeth knew of nobody who had access to her flight information.
“He was very tall?” the attendant said. “With green eyes?”
Elizabeth literally dropped her bag. He’s here? How?! She spun around, looking at the faces behind her.
“He left already,” the attendant said, “but he wanted us to give you this.” She handed Elizabeth a folded piece of stationery.
Shaking, Elizabeth unfolded the paper and read the handwritten note.
It was a famous quote derived from the work of Dante Alighieri.
The darkest places in hell
are reserved for those
who maintain their neutrality
in times of moral crisis.
CHAPTER 39
Marta Alvarez gazed tiredly up the steep staircase that ascended from the Hall of the Five Hundred to the second-floor museum.
Posso farcela, she told herself. I can do it.
As an arts and culture administrator at the Palazzo Vecchio, Marta had climbed these stairs countless times, but recently, being more than eight months pregnant, she found the ascent significantly more taxing.
“Marta, are you sure we don’t want to take the elevator?” Robert Langdon looked concerned and motioned to the small service elevator nearby, which the palazzo had installed for handicapped visitors.
Marta smiled appreciatively but shook her head. “As I told you last night, my doctor says the exercise is good for the baby. Besides, Professor, I know you’re claustrophobic.”
Langdon seemed strangely startled by her comment. “Oh, right. I forgot I mentioned that.”
Forgot he mentioned it? Marta puzzled. It was less than twelve hours ago, and we discussed at length the childhood incident that led to the fear.
Last night, while Langdon’s morbidly obese companion, il Duomino, ascended in the elevator, Langdon had accompanied Marta on foot. En route Langdon had shared with her a vivid description of a boyhood fall into an abandoned well that had left him with a nearly debilitating fear of cramped spaces.
Now, while Langdon’s younger sister bounded ahead, her blond ponytail swinging behind her, Langdon and Marta ascended methodically, pausing several times so she could catch her breath. “I’m surprised you want to see the mask again,” she said. “Considering all the pieces in Florence, this one seems among the least interesting.”
Langdon gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve returned mainly so Sienna can see it. Thank you, by the way, for letting us in again.”
“Of course.”
Langdon’s reputation would have sufficed last night to persuade Marta to open the gallery for him, but the fact that he had been accompanied by il Duomino meant that she really had no choice.
Ignazio Busoni—the man known as il Duomino—was something of a celebrity in the Florence cultural world. The longtime director of the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, Ignazio oversaw all aspects of Florence’s most prominent historical site—Il Duomo—the massive, red-domed cathedral that dominated both the history and the skyline of Florence. His passion for the landmark, combined with his body weight of nearly four hundred pounds and his perpetually red face, resulted in his good-natured nickname of il Duomino—“the little dome.”
Marta had no idea how Langdon had become acquainted with il Duomino, but the latter had called her last evening and said he wanted to bring a guest for a private viewing of the Dante death mask. When the mystery guest turned out to be the famous American symbologist and art historian Robert Langdon, Marta had felt a bit of a thrill at having the opportunity to usher these two famous men into the palazzo’s gallery.
Now, as they reached the top of the stairs, Marta placed her hands on her hips, breathing deeply. Sienna was already at the balcony railing, peering back down into the Hall of the Five Hundred.
“My favorite view of the room,” Marta panted. “You get an entirely different perspective on the murals. I imagine your brother told you about the mysterious message hidden in that one there?” She pointed.
Sienna nodded enthusiastically. “Cerca trova.”
As Langdon gazed toward the room, Marta watched him. In the light of the mezzanine windows, she couldn’t help but notice that Langdon did not look as striking as he had last night. She liked his new suit, but he needed a shave, and his face seemed pale and weary. Also, his hair, which was thick and full last night, looked matted this morning, as if he had yet to take a shower.
Marta turned back to the mural before he caught her staring. “We’re standing at nearly the exact height as cerca trova,” Marta said. “You can almost see the words with the naked eye.”
Langdon’s sister seemed indifferent to the mural. “Tell me about Dante’s death mask. Why is it here at the Palazzo Vecchio?”
Like brother, like sister, Marta thought with an inward groan, still perplexed that the mask held such fascination for them. Then again, the Dante death mask had a very strange history, especially recently, and Langdon was not the first to show a nearly maniacal fascination with it. “Well, tell me, what do you know about Dante?”
The pretty, young blonde shrugged. “Just what everyone learns in school. Dante was an Italian poet most famous for writing The Divine Comedy, which describes his imagined journey through hell.”
“Partially correct,” Marta replied. “In his poem, Dante eventually escapes hell, continues through purgatory, and finally arrives in paradise. If you ever read The Divine Comedy, you’ll see his journey is divided into three parts—Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso.” Marta motioned for them to follow her along the balcony toward the museum entrance. “The reason the mask resides here in the Palazzo Vecchio has nothing to do with The Divine Comedy, though. It has to do with real history. Dante lived in Florence, and he loved this city as much as anyone could ever love a city. He was a very prominent and powerful Florentine, but there was a shift in political power, and Dante supported the wrong side, so he was exiled—thrown outside the city walls and told he could never come back.”
Marta paused to catch her breath as they approached the museum entrance. Hands again on her hips, she leaned back and continued talking. “Some people claim that Dante’s exile is the reason why his death mask looks so sad, but I have another theory. I’m a bit of a romantic, and I think the sad face has more to do with a woman named Beatrice. You see, Dante spent his entire life desperately in love with a young woman named Beatrice Portinari. But sadly, Beatrice married another man, which meant Dante had to live not only without his beloved Florence, but also without the woman he so deeply loved. His love for Beatrice became a central theme in The Divine Comedy.”
“Interesting,” Sienna said in a tone that suggested she had not heard a word. “And yet I’m still not clear on why the death mask is kept here inside the palazzo?”
Marta found the young woman’s insistence both unusual and bordering on impolite. “Well,” she continued, walking again, “when Dante died, he was still forbidden to enter Florence, and his body was buried in Ravenna. But because his true love, Beatrice, was buried in Florence, and because Dante so loved Florence, bringing his death mask here seemed like a kindhearted tribute to the man.”
“I see,” Sienna said. “And the choice of this building in particular?”
“The Palazzo Vecchio is the oldest symbol of Florence and, in Dante’s time, was the heart of the city. In fact, there is a famous painting in the cathedral that shows Dante standing outside the walled city, banished, while visible in the background is his cherished palazzo tower. In many ways, by keeping his death mask here, we feel like Dante has finally been allowed to come home.”