Dan Brown - Inferno - A Novel

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.”

CHAPTER 81

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?”

“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.