Dan Brown - Inferno

He, too, looked up, making eye contact with the Gypsy through the iron grate. Then, in an awkward twist of limbs, he exchanged positions with the blond woman and climbed up on top of the rickety chair. He was taller, and when he reached up, he was able to unlatch the security bar beneath the grate. Standing on tiptoe, he placed his hands on the grate and heaved upward. The grate rose an inch or so before he had to set it down.

“Può darci una mano?” the blond woman called up to the Gypsy.

Give you a hand? the Gypsy wondered, having no intention of getting involved. What are you doing?

The blond woman pulled out a man’s wallet and extracted a hundred-euro bill, waving it as an offering. It was more money than the vendor made with her masks in three days. No stranger to negotiation, she shook her head and held up two fingers. The blond woman produced a second bill.

Disbelieving of her good fortune, the Gypsy shrugged a reluctant yes, trying to look indifferent as she crouched down and grabbed the bars, looking into the man’s eyes so they could synchronize their efforts.

As the man heaved again, the Gypsy pulled upward with arms made strong from years of carrying her wares, and the grate swung upward … halfway. Just as she thought they had it, there was a loud crash beneath her, and the man disappeared, plummeting back down into the well as the folding chair collapsed beneath him.

The iron grate grew instantly heavier in her hands, and she thought she would have to drop it, but the promise of two hundred euros gave her strength, and she managed to heave the grate up against the side of the basilica, where it came to rest with a loud clang.

Breathless, the Gypsy peered down into the well at the twist of bodies and broken furniture. As the man got back up and brushed himself off, she reached down into the well, holding out her hand for her money.

The ponytailed woman nodded appreciatively and raised the two bills over her head. The Gypsy reached down, but it was too far.

Give the money to the man.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the shaft — angry voices shouting from inside the basilica. The man and woman both spun in fear, recoiling from the window.

Then everything turned to chaos.

The dark-haired man took charge, crouching down and firmly ordering the woman to place her foot into a cradle formed by his fingers. She stepped in, and he heaved upward. She skimmed up the side of the shaft, stuffing the bills in her teeth to free her hands as she strained to reach the lip. The man heaved, higher … higher … lifting her until her hands curled over the edge.

With enormous effort, she heaved herself up into the square like a woman climbing out of a swimming pool. She shoved the money into the Gypsy’s hands and immediately spun around and knelt at the edge of the well, reaching back down for the man.

It was too late.

Powerful arms in long black sleeves were reaching into the well like the thrashing tentacles of some hungry monster, grasping at the man’s legs, pulling him back toward the window.

“Run, Sienna!” shouted the struggling man. “Now!”

The Gypsy saw their eyes lock in an exchange of pained regret … and then it was over.

The man was dragged roughly down through the window and back into the basilica.

The blond woman stared down in shock, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m so sorry, Robert,” she whispered. Then, after a pause, she added, “For everything.”

A moment later, the woman sprinted off into the crowd, her ponytail swinging as she raced down the narrow alleyway of the Merceria dell’Orologio … disappearing into the heart of Venice.

The soft sounds of lapping water eased Robert Langdon gently back to consciousness. He smelled the sterile tang of antiseptics mixed with salty sea air and felt the world swaying beneath him.

Where am I?

Only moments before, it seemed, he had been locked in a death struggle against powerful hands that were dragging him out of the light well and back into the crypt. Now, strangely, he no longer felt the cold stone floor of St. Mark’s beneath him … instead he felt a soft mattress.

Langdon opened his eyes and took in his surroundings — a small, hygienic-looking room with a single portal window. The rocking motion continued.

I’m on a boat?

Langdon’s last recollection was of being pinned to the crypt floor by one of the black-clad soldiers, who hissed angrily at him, “Stop trying to escape!”

Langdon had shouted wildly, calling for help as the soldiers tried to muffle his voice.

“We need to get him out of here,” one soldier had said to another.

His partner gave a reluctant nod. “Do it.”

Langdon felt powerful fingertips expertly probing the arteries and veins on his neck. Then, having located a precise spot on the carotid, the fingers began applying a firm, focused pressure. Within seconds, Langdon’s vision began to blur, and he felt himself slipping away, his brain being starved of oxygen.

They’re killing me , Langdon thought. Right here beside the tomb of St. Mark.

The blackness came, but it seemed incomplete … more of a wash of grays punctuated by muted shapes and sounds.

Langdon had little sense of how much time had passed, but the world was now starting to come back into focus for him. From all he could tell, he was in an onboard infirmary of some sort. His sterile surroundings and the scent of isopropyl alcohol created a strange sense of déjà vu — as if Langdon had come full circle, awakening as he had the previous night, in a strange hospital bed with only muted memories.

His thoughts turned instantly to Sienna and her safety. He could still see her soft brown eyes gazing down at him, filled with remorse and fear. Langdon prayed that she had escaped and would find her way safely out of Venice.

We’re in the wrong country , Langdon had told her, having realized to his shock the actual location of Enrico Dandolo’s tomb. The poem’s mysterious mouseion of holy wisdom was not in Venice after all … but a world away. Precisely as Dante’s text had warned, the cryptic poem’s meaning had been hidden “beneath the veil of verses so obscure.”

Langdon had intended to explain everything to Sienna as soon as they’d escaped the crypt, but he’d never had the chance.

She ran off knowing only that I failed.

Langdon felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

The plague is still out there … a world away.

From outside the infirmary, he heard loud boot steps in the hall, and Langdon turned to see a man in black entering his berth. It was the same muscular soldier who had pinned him to the crypt floor. His eyes were ice cold. Langdon’s instinct was to recoil as the man approached, but there was nowhere to run. Whatever these people want to do to me, they can do.

“Where am I?” Langdon demanded, putting as much defiance into his voice as he could muster.

“On a yacht anchored off Venice.”

Langdon eyed the green medallion on the man’s uniform — a globe of the world, encircled by the letters ECDC . Langdon had never seen the symbol or the acronym.

“We need information from you,” the soldier said, “and we don’t have much time.”

“Why would I tell you anything?” Langdon asked. “You almost killed me.”

“Not even close. We used a judo demobilization technique called shime waza . We had no intention of harming you.”

“You shot at me this morning!” Langdon declared, clearly recalling the clang of the bullet on the fender of Sienna’s speeding Trike. “Your bullet barely missed the base of my spine!”