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Inferno

intertwining overhead and providing an awning of foliage. The pathway’s name, La

Cerchiata—literally “circular” or “hooped”—derived from its canopy of curved trees

resembling barrel stays or cerchi.

Sienna hurried over to the opening and peered into the shaded channel. Immediately

she turned back to him with a smile. “Better.”

Wasting no time, she slipped through the opening and hurried off among the trees.

Langdon had always considered La Cerchiata one of Florence’s most peaceful spots.

Today, however, as he watched Sienna disappear down the darkened allée, he thought

again of the Grecian free divers swimming into corral tunnels and praying they’d reach an

exit.

Langdon quickly said his own little prayer and hurried after her.

A half mile behind them, outside the Art Institute, Agent Brüder strode through a bustle

of police and students, his icy gaze parting the crowds before him. He made his way to

the makeshift command post that his surveillance specialist had set up on the hood of his

black van.

“From the aerial drone,” the specialist said, handing Brüder a tablet screen. “Taken a

few minutes ago.”

Brüder examined the video stills, pausing on a blurry enlargement of two faces—a

dark-haired man and a blond ponytailed woman—both huddled in the shadows and

peering skyward through a canopy of trees.

Robert Langdon.

Sienna Brooks.

Zero doubt.

Brüder turned his attention to the map of the Boboli Gardens, which was spread out on

the hood. They made a poor choice, he thought, eyeing the garden layout. While it was

sprawling and intricate, with plenty of hiding places, the gardens also appeared to be

surrounded on all sides by high walls. The Boboli Gardens were the closest thing to a

natural killbox that Brüder had ever seen in the field.

They’ll never get out.

“Local authorities are sealing all exits,” the agent said. “And commencing a sweep.”

“Keep me informed,” Brüder said.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to the van’s thick polycarbonate window, beyond which he

could see the silver-haired woman seated in the back of the vehicle.

The drugs they had given her had definitely dulled her senses—more than Brüder had

imagined. Nonetheless, he could tell by the fearful look in her eyes that she still had a

firm grasp on precisely what was going on.

She does not look happy, Brüder thought. Then again, why would she?

CHAPTER 26

A SPIRE OF water shot twenty feet in the air.

Langdon watched it fall gently back to earth and knew they were getting close. They

had reached the end of La Cerchiata’s leafy tunnel and dashed across an open lawn into a

grove of cork trees. Now they were looking out at the Boboli’s most famous spouting

fountain—Stoldo Lorenzi’s bronze of Neptune clutching his three-pronged trident.

Irreverently known by locals as “The Fountain of the Fork,” this water feature was

considered the central point of the gardens.

Sienna stopped at the edge of the grove and peered upward through the trees. “I don’t

see the drone.”

Langdon no longer heard it either, and yet the fountain was quite loud.

“Must have needed to refuel,” Sienna said. “This is our chance. Which way?”

Langdon led her to the left, and they began descending a steep incline. As they

emerged from the trees, the Pitti Palace came into view.

“Nice little house,” Sienna whispered.

“Typical Medici understatement,” he replied wryly.

Still almost a quarter mile away, the Pitti Palace’s stone facade dominated the

landscape, stretching out to their left and right. Its exterior of bulging, rusticated

stonework lent the building an air of unyielding authority that was further accentuated by

a powerful repetition of shuttered windows and arch-topped apertures. Traditionally,

formal palaces were situated on high ground so that anyone in the gardens had to look

uphill at the building. The Pitti Palace, however, was situated in a low valley near the

Arno River, meaning that people in the Boboli Gardens looked downhill at the palace.

This effect was only more dramatic. One architect had described the palace as

appearing to have been built by nature herself … as if the massive stones in a landslide

had tumbled down the long escarpment and landed in an elegant, barricade-like pile at

the bottom. Despite its less defensible position in the low ground, the solid stone

structure of the Pitti Palace was so imposing that Napoleon had once used it as a power

base while in Florence.

“Look,” Sienna said, pointing to the nearest doors of the palace. “Good news.”

Langdon had seen it, too. On this strange morning, the most welcome sight was not

the palace itself, but the tourists streaming out of the building into the lower gardens.

The palace was open, which meant that Langdon and Sienna would have no trouble

slipping inside and passing through the building to escape the gardens. Once outside the

palace, Langdon knew they would see the Arno River to their right, and beyond that, the

spires of the old city.

He and Sienna kept moving, half jogging now down the steep embankment. As they

descended, they traversed the Boboli Amphitheater—the site of the very first opera

performance in history—which lay nestled like a horseshoe on the side of a hill. Beyond

that, they passed the obelisk of Ramses II and the unfortunate piece of “art” that was

positioned at its base. The guidebooks referred to the piece as “a colossal stone basin

from Rome’s Baths of Caracalla,” but Langdon always saw it for what it truly was—the

world’s largest bathtub. They really need to put that thing somewhere else.

They finally reached the rear of the palace and slowed to a calm walk, mixing

inconspicuously with the first tourists of the day. Moving against the tide, they descended

a narrow tunnel into the cortile, an inner courtyard where visitors were seated enjoying a

morning espresso in the palace’s makeshift café. The smell of fresh-ground coffee filled

the air, and Langdon felt a sudden longing to sit down and enjoy a civilized breakfast.

Today’s not the day , he thought as they pressed on, entering the wide stone passageway

that led toward the palace’s main doors.

As they neared the doorway, Langdon and Sienna collided with a growing bottleneck of

stalled tourists who seemed to be assembling in the portico to observe something

outside. Langdon peered through the crowd to the area in front of the palace.

The Pitti’s grand entrance was as blunt and unwelcoming as he recalled it. Rather than

a manicured lawn and landscaping, the front yard was a vast expanse of pavement that

stretched across an entire hillside, flowing down to the Via dei Guicciardini like a massive

paved ski slope.

At the bottom of the hill, Langdon now saw the reason for the crowd of onlookers.

Down in Piazza dei Pitti, a half-dozen police cars had streamed in from all directions. A

small army of officers were advancing up the hill, unholstering their weapons and fanning

out to secure the front of the palace.

CHAPTER 27

AS THE POLICE entered the Pitti Palace, Sienna and Langdon were already on the move,

retracing their steps through the interior of the palace and away from the arriving police.

They hurried through the cortile and past the café, where a buzz was spreading, tourists

rubbernecking in an attempt to locate the source of the commotion.

Sienna was amazed the authorities had found them so quickly. The drone must have

disappeared because it had already spotted us.

She and Langdon found the same narrow tunnel through which they had descended

from the gardens and without hesitation plunged back into the passageway and bounded

up the stairs. The end of the staircase banked left along a high retaining wall. As they

dashed along the wall, it grew shorter beside them, until finally they could see over it into

the vast expanse of the Boboli Gardens.

Langdon instantly grabbed Sienna’s arm and yanked her backward, ducking out of sight

behind the retaining wall. Sienna had seen it, too.

Three hundred yards away, on the slope above the amphitheater, a phalanx of police

descended, searching groves, interviewing tourists, coordinating with one another on

handheld radios.

We’re trapped!

Sienna had never imagined, when she and Robert Langdon first met, that it would lead

to this. This is more than I bargained for. When Sienna had left the hospital with

Langdon, she thought they were fleeing a woman with spiked hair and a gun. Now they

were running from an entire military team and the Italian authorities. Their chances of

escape, she was now realizing, were almost zero.

“Is there any other way out?” Sienna demanded, short of breath.

“I don’t think so,” Langdon said. “This garden is a walled city, just like …” He paused

suddenly, turning and looking east. “Just like … the Vatican.” A strange glint of hope

flickered across his face.

Sienna had no idea what the Vatican had to do with their current predicament, but

Langdon suddenly began nodding, gazing east along the back of the palace.

“It’s a long shot,” he said, hustling her along with him now. “But there might be a

different way to get out of here.”

Two figures materialized suddenly before them, having rounded the corner of the

retaining wall, nearly bumping into Sienna and Langdon. Both figures were wearing black,

and for one frightening instant, Sienna thought they were the soldiers she had

encountered at the apartment building. As they passed, though, she saw they were only

tourists—Italian, she guessed, from all the stylish black leather.

Having an idea, Sienna caught one of the tourists’ arms and smiled up at him as

warmly as possible. “Può dirci dov’è la Galleria del costume?” she asked in rapid Italian,

requesting directions to the palace’s famed costume gallery. “Io e mio fratello siamo in

ritardo per una visita privata.” My brother and I are late for a private tour.

“Certo!” The man grinned at them both, looking eager to help. “Proseguite dritto per il

sentiero!” He turned and pointed west, along the retaining wall, directly away from

whatever Langdon had been looking at.

“Molte grazie!” Sienna chirped with another smile as the two men headed off.

Langdon gave Sienna an impressed nod, apparently understanding her motives. If the

police began questioning tourists, they might hear that Langdon and Sienna were headed

for the costume gallery, which, according to the map on the wall before them, was at the

far western end of the palace … as far as possible from the direction in which they were

now headed.

“We need to get to that path over there,” Langdon said, motioning across an open

plaza toward a walkway that ran down another hill, away from the palace. The peastone

walkway was sheltered on the uphill side by massive hedges, providing plenty of cover

from the authorities now descending the hill, only a hundred yards away.

Sienna calculated that their chances of getting across the open area to the sheltered

path were very slim. Tourists were gathering there, watching the police with curiosity.

The faint thrum of the drone became audible again, approaching in the distance.

“Now or never,” Langdon said, grabbing her hand and pulling her with him out into the

open plaza, where they began winding through the crowd of gathering tourists. Sienna

fought the urge to break into a run, but Langdon held firmly on to her, walking briskly but

calmly through the throng.

When they finally reached the opening to the pathway, Sienna glanced back over her

shoulder to see if they had been detected. The only police officers in sight were all facing

the other way, their eyes turned skyward toward the sound of the incoming drone.

She faced front and hurried with Langdon down the path.

Before them now, the skyline of old Florence poked above the trees, visible directly

ahead in the distance. She saw the red-tiled cupola of the Duomo and the green, red, and

white spire of Giotto’s bell tower. For an instant, she could also make out the crenellated

spire of the Palazzo Vecchio—their seemingly impossible destination—but as they

descended the pathway, the high perimeter walls blotted out the view, engulfing them

again.

By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, Sienna was out of breath and

wondering if Langdon had any idea where they were going. The path led directly into a

maze garden, but Langdon confidently turned left into a wide gravel patio, which he

skirted, staying behind a hedge in the shadows of the overhanging trees. The patio was

deserted, more of an employee parking lot than a tourist area.

“Where are we going?!” Sienna finally asked, breathless.

“Almost there.”

Almost where? The entire patio was enclosed by walls that were at least three stories

tall. The only exit Sienna saw was a vehicle gateway on the left, which was sealed by a

massive wrought-iron grate that looked like it dated back to the original palace in the

days of marauding armies. Beyond the barricade, she could see police gathered in the

Piazza dei Pitti.

Staying along the perimeter vegetation, Langdon pushed onward, heading directly for

the wall in front of them. Sienna scanned the sheer face for any open doorway, but all

she saw was a niche containing what had to be the most hideous statue she had ever

seen.

Good God, the Medici could afford any artwork on earth, and they chose this?

The statue before them depicted an obese, naked dwarf straddling a giant turtle. The

dwarf’s testicles were squashed against the turtle’s shell, and the turtle’s mouth was

dribbling water, as if he were ill.

“I know,” Langdon said, without breaking stride. “That’s Braccio di Bartolo—a famous

court dwarf. If you ask me, they should put him out back in the giant bathtub.”

Langdon turned sharply to his right, heading down a set of stairs that Sienna had been

unable to see until now.

A way out?!

The flash of hope was short-lived.

As she turned the corner and headed down the stairs behind Langdon, she realized

they were dashing into a dead end—a cul-de-sac whose walls were twice as high as the

others.

Furthermore, Sienna now sensed that their long journey was about to terminate at the

mouth of a gaping cavern … a deep grotto carved out of the rear wall. This can’t be

where he’s taking us!

Over the cave’s yawning entrance, daggerlike stalactites loomed portentously. In the

cavity beyond, oozing geological features twisted and dripped down the walls as if the

stone were melting … morphing into shapes that included, to Sienna’s alarm, half-buried

humanoids extruding from the walls as if being consumed by the stone. The entire vision

reminded Sienna of something out of Botticelli’s Mappa dell’Inferno.

Langdon, for some reason, seemed unfazed, and continued running directly toward the

cave’s entrance. He’d made a comment earlier about Vatican City, but Sienna was fairly

certain there were no freakish caverns inside the walls of the Holy See.

As they drew nearer, Sienna’s eyes moved to the sprawling entablature above the

entrance—a ghostly compilation of stalactites and nebulous stone extrusions that seemed

to be engulfing two reclining women, who were flanked by a shield embedded with six

balls, or palle, the famed crest of the Medici.

Langdon suddenly cut to his left, away from the entrance and toward a feature Sienna

had previously missed—a small gray door to the left of the cavern. Weathered and

wooden, it appeared of little significance, like a storage closet or room for landscaping

supplies.

Langdon rushed to the door, clearly hoping he could open it, but the door had no

handle—only a brass keyhole—and, apparently, could be opened only from within.

“Damn it!” Langdon’s eyes now shone with concern, his earlier hopefulness all but

erased. “I had hoped—”

Without warning, the piercing whine of the drone echoed loudly off the high walls

around them. Sienna turned to see the drone rising up over the palace and clawing its

way in their direction.

Langdon clearly saw it, too, because he grabbed Sienna’s hand and dashed toward the

cavern. They ducked out of sight in the nick of time beneath the grotto’s stalactite

overhang.

A fitting end, she thought. Dashing through the gates of hell.

CHAPTER 28

A QUARTER MILE to the east, Vayentha parked her motorcycle. She had crossed into the old

city via the Ponte alle Grazie and then circled around to the Ponte Vecchio—the famed

pedestrian bridge connecting the Pitti Palace to the old city. After locking her helmet to

the bike, she strode out onto the bridge and mixed with the early-morning tourists.

A cool March breeze blew steadily up the river, ruffling Vayentha’s short spiked hair,

reminding her that Langdon knew what she looked like. She paused at the stall of one of

the bridge’s many vendors and bought an AMO FIRENZE baseball cap, pulling it low over her

face.

She smoothed her leather suit over the bulge of her handgun and took up a position

near the center of the bridge, casually leaning against a pillar and facing the Pitti Palace.

From here she was able to survey all the pedestrians crossing the Arno into the heart of

Florence.

Langdon is on foot, she told herself. If he finds a way around the Porta Romana, this

bridge is his most logical route into the old city.

To the west, in the direction of the Pitti Palace, she could hear sirens and wondered if

this was good or bad news. Are they still looking for him? Or have they caught him? As

Vayentha strained her ears for some indication as to what was going on, a new sound

suddenly became audible—a high-pitched whine somewhere overhead. Her eyes turned

instinctively skyward, and she spotted it at once—a small remote-controlled helicopter

rising fast over the palace and swooping down over the treetops in the direction of the

northeast corner of the Boboli Gardens.

A surveillance drone, Vayentha thought with a surge of hope. If it’s in the air, Brüder

has yet to find Langdon.

The drone was approaching fast. Apparently it was surveying the northeast corner of

the gardens, the area closest to Ponte Vecchio and Vayentha’s position, which gave her

additional encouragement.

If Langdon eluded Brüder, he would definitely be moving in this direction.

As Vayentha watched, however, the drone suddenly dive-bombed out of sight behind

the high stone wall. She could hear it hovering in place somewhere below the tree line …

apparently having located something of interest.

CHAPTER 29

SEEK AND YE shall find, Langdon thought, huddled in the dim grotto with Sienna. We sought

an exit … and found a dead end.

The amorphous fountain in the center of the cave offered good cover, and yet as

Langdon peered out from behind it, he sensed it was too late.

The drone had just swooped down into the walled cul-de-sac, stopping abruptly outside

the cavern, where it now hovered at a standstill, only ten feet off the ground, facing the

grotto, buzzing intensely like some kind of infuriated insect … awaiting its prey.

Langdon pulled back and whispered the grim news to Sienna. “I think it knows we’re

here.”

The drone’s high-pitched whine was nearly deafening inside the cavern, the noise

reflecting sharply off the stone walls. Langdon found it hard to believe they were being

held hostage by a miniature mechanical helicopter, and yet he knew that trying to run

from it was fruitless. So what do we do now? Just wait? His original plan to access what

lay behind the little gray door had been a reasonable one, except he hadn’t realized the

door was openable only from within.

As Langdon’s eyes adjusted to the grotto’s dark interior, he surveyed their unusual

surroundings, wondering if there was any other exit. He saw nothing promising. The

interior of the cavern was adorned with sculpted animals and humans, all in various

stages of consumption by the strange oozing walls. Dejected, Langdon raised his eyes to

the ceiling of stalactites hanging ominously overhead.

A good place to die.

The Buontalenti Grotto—so named for its architect, Bernardo Buontalenti—was

arguably the most curious-looking space in all of Florence. Intended as a kind of fun

house for young guests at the Pitti Palace, the three-chambered suite of caverns was

decorated in a blend of naturalistic fantasy and Gothic excess, composed of what

appeared to be dripping concretions and flowing pumice that seemed either to be

consuming or exuding the multitude of carved figures. In the days of the Medici, the

grotto was accented by having water flow down the interior walls, which served both to

cool the space during the hot Tuscan summers and to create the effect of an actual

cavern.

Langdon and Sienna were hidden in the first and largest chamber behind an indistinct

central fountain. They were surrounded by colorful figures of shepherds, peasants,

musicians, animals, and even copies of Michelangelo’s four prisoners, all of which seemed

to be struggling to break free of the fluid-looking rock that engulfed them. High above,

the morning light filtered down through an oculus in the ceiling, which had once held a

giant glass ball filled with water in which bright red carp swam in the sunlight.

Langdon wondered how the original Renaissance visitors here would have reacted at

the sight of a real-life helicopter—a fantastical dream of Italy’s own Leonardo da Vinci—

hovering outside the grotto.

It was at that moment that the drone’s shrill whine stopped. It hadn’t faded away;

rather, it had just … abruptly stopped.

Puzzled, Langdon peered out from behind the fountain and saw that the drone had

landed. It was now sitting idle on the gravel plaza, looking much less ominous, especially

because the stingerlike video lens on the front was facing away from them, off to one

side, in the direction of the little gray door.

Langdon’s sense of relief was fleeting. A hundred yards behind the drone, near the

statue of the dwarf and turtle, three heavily armed soldiers were now striding

purposefully down the stairs, heading directly toward the grotto.

The soldiers were dressed in familiar black uniforms with green medallions on their

shoulders. Their muscular lead man had vacant eyes that reminded Langdon of the

plague mask in his visions.

I am death.

Langdon did not see their van or the mysterious silver-haired woman anywhere.

I am life.

As the soldiers approached, one of them stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned

around, facing backward, apparently to prevent anyone else from descending into this

area. The other two kept coming toward the grotto.

Langdon and Sienna sprang into motion again—although probably only delaying the

inevitable—shuffling backward on all fours into the second cavern, which was smaller,

deeper, and darker. It, too, was dominated by a central piece of art—in this case, a

statue of two intertwined lovers—behind which Langdon and Sienna now hid anew.

Veiled in shadow, Langdon carefully peered out around the base of the statue and

watched their approaching assailants. As the two soldiers reached the drone, one stopped

and crouched down to tend to it, picking it up and examining the camera.

Did the device spot us? Langdon wondered, fearing he knew the answer.

The third and last soldier, the muscular one with the cold eyes, was still moving with

icy focus in Langdon’s direction. The man approached until he was nearly at the mouth of

the cave. He’s coming in. Langdon prepared to pull back behind the statue and tell Sienna

it was over, but in that instant, he witnessed something unexpected.

The soldier, rather than entering the grotto, suddenly peeled off to the left and

disappeared.

Where is he going?! He doesn’t know we’re here?

A few moments later, Langdon heard pounding—a fist knocking on wood.

The little gray door, Langdon thought. He must know where it leads.

Pitti Palace security guard Ernesto Russo had always wanted to play European football,

but at twenty-nine years old and overweight, he had finally begun to accept that his

childhood dream would never come true. For the past three years, Ernesto had worked as

a guard here at the Pitti Palace, always in the same closet-size office, always with the

same dull job.

Ernesto was no stranger to curious tourists knocking on the little gray door outside the

office in which he was stationed, and he usually just ignored them until they stopped.

Today, however, the banging was intense and continuous.

Annoyed, he refocused on his television set, which was loudly playing a football rerun—

Fiorentina versus Juventus. The knocking only grew louder. Finally, cursing the tourists,

he marched out of his office down the narrow corridor toward the sound. Halfway there,

he stopped at the massive steel grate that remained sealed across this hallway except at

a few specific hours.

He entered the combination on the padlock and unlocked the grate, pulling it to one

side. After stepping through, he followed protocol and relocked the grate behind him.

Then he walked to the gray wooden door.

“È chiuso!” he yelled through the door, hoping the person outside would hear. “Non si

può entrare!”

The banging continued.

Ernesto gritted his teeth. New Yorkers, he wagered. They want what they want. The

only reason their Red Bulls soccer team was having any success on the world stage was

that they’d pilfered one of Europe’s best coaches.

The banging continued, and Ernesto reluctantly unlocked the door and pushed it open a

few inches. “È chiuso!”

The banging finally stopped, and Ernesto found himself face-to-face with a soldier

whose eyes were so cold they literally made Ernesto step back. The man held up an

official carnet bearing an acronym Ernesto did not recognize.

“Cosa succede?!” Ernesto demanded, alarmed. What’s going on?!

Behind the soldier, a second was crouched down, tinkering with what appeared to be a

toy helicopter. Still farther away, another soldier stood guard on the staircase. Ernesto

heard police sirens nearby.

“Do you speak English?” The soldier’s accent was definitely not New York. Europe

somewhere?

Ernesto nodded. “A bit, yes.”

“Has anyone come through this door this morning?”

“No, signore. Nessuno.”

“Excellent. Keep it locked. Nobody in or out. Is that clear?”

Ernesto shrugged. That was his job anyway. “ Sì, I understand. Non deve entrare, né

uscire nessuno.”

“Tell me, please, is this door the sole entrance?”

Ernesto considered the question. Technically, nowadays this door was considered an

exit, which was why it had no handle on the outside, but he understood what the man

was asking. “Yes, l’accesso is this door only. No other way.” The original entrance inside

the palace had been sealed for many years.

“And are there any other hidden exits from the Boboli Gardens? Other than the

traditional gates?”

“No, signore. Big walls everywhere. This only secret exit.”

The soldier nodded. “Thank you for your help.” He motioned for Ernesto to close and

lock the door.

Puzzled, Ernesto obeyed. Then he headed back up the corridor, unlocked the steel

grate, moved through it, relocked it behind him, and returned to his football match.

CHAPTER 30

LANGDON AND SIENNA had seized an opportunity.

While the muscular soldier was pounding on the door, they had crawled deeper into the

grotto and were now huddled in the final chamber. The tiny space was adorned with

rough-hewn mosaics and satyrs. At its center stood a life-size sculpture of a Bathing

Venus, who, fittingly, seemed to be glancing nervously over her shoulder.

Langdon and Sienna had ensconced themselves on the far side of the statue’s narrow

plinth, where they now waited, staring back at the single globular stalagmite that climbed

the deepest wall of the grotto.

“All exits confirmed secure!” shouted a soldier somewhere outside. He was speaking

English with a faint accent that Langdon couldn’t place. “Send the drone back up. I’ll

check this cave here.”

Langdon could feel Sienna’s body tighten beside him.

Seconds later, heavy boots were padding into the grotto. The footsteps advanced

quickly through the first chamber, growing louder still as they entered the second

chamber, coming directly toward them.

Langdon and Sienna huddled closer.

“Hey!” a different voice shouted in the distance. “We’ve got them!”

The footsteps stopped short.

Langdon could now hear someone running loudly down the gravel walkway toward the

grotto. “Positive ID!” the breathless voice declared. “We just spoke to a couple of

tourists. A few minutes ago, the man and the woman asked them directions to the

palace’s costume gallery … which is over at the west end of the palazzo.”

Langdon glanced at Sienna, who seemed to be smiling ever so faintly.

The soldier regained his breath, continuing. “The western exits were the first to be

sealed … and confidence is high that we’ve got them trapped inside the gardens.”

“Execute your mission,” the nearer soldier replied. “And call me the instant you’ve

succeeded.”

There was a flurry of departing footsteps on gravel, the sound of the drone lifting off

again, and then, thankfully … total silence.

Langdon was about to twist sideways in order to peer around the plinth, when Sienna

grabbed his arm, stopping him. She held a finger to her lips and nodded at a faint

humanoid shadow on the rear wall. The lead soldier was still standing silently in the

mouth of the grotto.

What is he waiting for?!

“It’s Brüder,” he said suddenly. “We’ve got them cornered. I should have confirmation

for you shortly.”

The man had placed a phone call, and his voice sounded unnervingly close, as if he

were standing right beside them. The cavern was acting like a parabolic microphone,

collecting all the sound and focusing it at the rear.

“There’s more,” Brüder said. “I just received an update from forensics. The woman’s

apartment appears to be a sublet. Underfurnished. Clearly short term. We located the

biotube, but the projector was not present. I repeat, the projector was not present. We

assume it’s still in Langdon’s possession.”

Langdon felt a chill to hear the soldier speak his own name.

The footsteps grew louder, and Langdon realized that the man was moving into the

grotto. His gait lacked the intensity of a few moments before and sounded now as if he

were simply wandering, exploring the grotto as he talked on the phone.

“Correct,” the man said. “Forensics also confirmed a single outbound call shortly before

we stormed the apartment.”

The U.S. Consulate, Langdon thought, remembering his phone conversation and the

quick arrival of the spike-haired assassin. The woman seemed to have disappeared,

replaced by an entire team of trained soldiers.

We can’t outrun them forever.

The sound of the soldier’s boots on the stone floor was now only about twenty feet

away and closing. The man had entered the second chamber, and if he continued to the

end, he would certainly spot the two of them crouched behind Venus’s narrow base.

“Sienna Brooks,” the man declared suddenly, the words crystal clear.

Sienna startled beside Langdon, her eyes reeling upward, clearly expecting to see the

soldier staring down at her. But nobody was there.

“They’re going through her laptop now,” the voice continued, about ten feet away. “I

don’t have a report yet, but it is definitely the same machine we traced when Langdon

accessed his Harvard e-mail account.”

On hearing this news, Sienna turned to Langdon in disbelief, gaping at him with an

expression of shock … and then betrayal.

Langdon was equally stunned. That’s how they tracked us?! It hadn’t even occurred to

him at the time. I just needed information! Before Langdon could convey an apology,

Sienna had turned away, her expression going blank.

“That’s correct,” the soldier said, arriving at the entrance to the third chamber, a mere

six feet from Langdon and Sienna. Two more steps and he would see them for certain.

“Exactly,” he declared, taking one step closer. Suddenly the soldier paused. “Hold on a

second.”

Langdon froze, bracing to be discovered.

“Hold on, I’m losing you,” the soldier said, and then retreated a few steps into the

second chamber. “Bad connection. Go ahead …” He listened for a moment, then replied.

“Yes, I agree, but at least we know who we’re dealing with.”

With that, his footsteps faded out of the grotto, moved across a gravel surface, and

then disappeared completely.

Langdon’s shoulders softened, and he turned to Sienna, whose eyes burned with a

mixture of fear and anger.

“You used my laptop?!” she demanded. “To check your e-mail?”

“I’m sorry … I thought you’d understand. I needed to find out—”

“That’s how they found us! And now they know my name!”

“I apologize, Sienna. I didn’t realize …” Langdon was racked by guilt.

Sienna turned away, staring blankly at the bulbous stalagmite on the rear wall. Neither

one of them said anything for nearly a minute. Langdon wondered if Sienna remembered

the personal items that had been stacked on her desk—the playbill from A Midsummer

Night’s Dream and press clippings about her life as a young prodigy. Does she suspect I

saw them? If so, she wasn’t asking, and Langdon was in enough trouble with her already

that he was not about to mention it.

“They know who I am,” Sienna repeated, her voice so faint that Langdon could barely

hear her. Over the next ten seconds, Sienna took several slow breaths, as if trying to

absorb this new reality. As she did so, Langdon sensed that her resolve was slowly

hardening.

Without warning, Sienna scrambled to her feet. “We should go,” she said. “It won’t take

long for them to figure out we’re not in the costume gallery.”

Langdon stood up with her. “Yes, but go … where?”

“Vatican City?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I finally figured out what you meant before … what Vatican City has in common with

the Boboli Gardens.” She motioned in the direction of the little gray door. “That’s the

entrance, right?”

Langdon managed a nod. “Actually, that’s the exit, but I figured it was worth a shot.

Unfortunately, we can’t get through.” Langdon had heard enough of the guard’s exchange

with the soldier to know this doorway was not an option.

“But if we could get through,” Sienna said, a hint of mischief returning to her voice, “do

you know what that would mean?” A faint smile now crossed her lips. “It would mean

that twice today you and I have been helped by the same Renaissance artist.”

Langdon had to chuckle, having had the same thought a few minutes ago. “Vasari.

Vasari.”

Sienna grinned more broadly now, and Langdon sensed she had forgiven him, at least

for the moment. “I think it’s a sign from above,” she declared, sounding half serious. “We

should go through that door.”

“Okay … and we’ll just march right past the guard?”

Sienna cracked her knuckles and headed out of the grotto. “No, I’ll have a word with

him.” She glanced back at Langdon, the fire returning to her eyes. “Trust me, Professor, I

can be quite persuasive when I have to be.”

The pounding on the little gray door had returned.

Firm and relentless.

Security guard Ernesto Russo grumbled in frustration. The strange, cold-eyed soldier

was apparently back, but his timing could not have been worse. The televised football

match was in overtime with Fiorentina a man short and hanging by a thread.

The pounding continued.

Ernesto was no fool. He knew there was some kind of trouble out there this morning—

all the sirens and soldiers—but he had never been one to involve himself in matters that

didn’t affect him directly.

Pazzo è colui che bada ai fatti altrui.

Then again, the soldier was clearly someone of importance, and ignoring him was

probably unwise. Jobs in Italy were hard to find these days, even boring ones. Stealing a

last glance at the game, Ernesto headed off toward the pounding on the door.

He still couldn’t believe he was paid to sit in his tiny office all day and watch television.

Perhaps twice a day, a VIP tour would arrive outside the space, having walked all the way

from the Uffizi Gallery. Ernesto would greet them, unlock the metal grate, and permit the

group to pass through to the little gray door, where their tour would end in the Boboli

Gardens.

Now, as the pounding grew more intense, Ernesto opened the steel grate, moved

through it, and then closed and locked it behind him.

“Sì?” he shouted above the sounds of pounding as he hurried to the gray door.

No reply. The pounding continued.

Insomma! He finally unlocked the door and pulled it open, expecting to see the same

lifeless gaze from a moment ago.

But the face at the door was far more attractive.

“Ciao,” a pretty blond woman said, smiling sweetly at him. She held out a folded piece

of paper, which he instinctively reached out to accept. In the instant he grasped the

paper and realized it was nothing but a piece of trash off the ground, the woman seized

his wrist with her slender hands and plunged a thumb into the bony carpal area just

beneath the palm of his hand.

Ernesto felt as if a knife had just severed his wrist. The slicing stab was followed by an

electric numbness. The woman stepped toward him, and the pressure increased

exponentially, starting the pain cycle all over again. He staggered backward, trying to pull

his arm free, but his legs went numb and buckled beneath him, and he slumped to his

knees.

The rest happened in an instant.

A tall man in a dark suit appeared in the open doorway, slipped inside, and quickly

closed the gray door behind him. Ernesto reached for his radio, but a soft hand behind his

neck squeezed once, and his muscles seized up, leaving him gasping for breath. The

woman took the radio as the tall man approached, looking as alarmed by her actions as

Ernesto was.

“Dim mak,” the blond said casually to the tall man. “Chinese pressure points. There’s a

reason they’ve been around for three millennia.”

The man watched in wonder.

“Non vogliamo farti del male,” the woman whispered to Ernesto, easing the pressure

on his neck. We don’t want to hurt you.

The instant the pressure decreased, Ernesto tried to twist free, but the pressure

promptly returned, and his muscles seized again. He gasped in pain, barely able to

breathe.

“Dobbiamo passare,” she said. We need to get through. She motioned to the steel

grate, which Ernesto had thankfully locked behind him. “Dov’è la chiave?”

“Non ce l’ho,” he managed. I don’t have the key.

The tall man advanced past them to the grating and examined the mechanism. “It’s a

combination lock,” he called back to the woman, his accent American.

The woman knelt down next to Ernesto, her brown eyes like ice. “Qual è la

combinazione?” she demanded.

“Non posso!” he replied. “I’m not permitted—”

Something happened at the top of his spine, and Ernesto felt his entire body go limp.

An instant later, he blacked out.

When he came to, Ernesto sensed he had been drifting in and out of consciousness for

several minutes. He recalled some discussion … more stabs of pain … being dragged,

perhaps? It was all a blur.

As the cobwebs cleared, he saw a strange sight—his shoes lying on the floor nearby

with their laces removed. It was then that he realized he could barely move. He was lying

on his side with his hands and feet bound behind him, apparently with his shoelaces. He

tried to yell, but no sound came. One of his own socks was stuffed in his mouth. The true

moment of fear, however, came an instant later, when he looked up and saw his

television set playing the football match. I’m in my office … INSIDE the grate?!

In the distance, Ernesto could hear the sound of running footsteps departing along the

corridor … and then, slowly, they faded to silence. Non è possibile! Somehow, the blond

woman had persuaded Ernesto to do the one thing he was hired never to do—reveal the

combination for the lock on the entrance to the famed Vasari Corridor.

CHAPTER 31

DR. ELIZABETH SINSKEY FELT the waves of nausea and dizziness coming faster now. She was

slumped in the backseat of the van parked in front of the Pitti Palace. The soldier seated

beside her was watching her with growing concern.

Moments earlier, the soldier’s radio had blared—something about a costume gallery—

awakening Elizabeth from the darkness of her mind, where she had been dreaming of the

green-eyed monster.

She had been back in the darkened room at the Council on Foreign Relations in New

York, listening to the maniacal ravings of the mysterious stranger who had summoned

her there. The shadowy man paced at the front of the room—a lanky silhouette against

the grisly projected image of the naked and dying throngs inspired by Dante’s Inferno.

“Someone needs to fight this war,” the figure concluded, “or this is our future.

Mathematics guarantees it. Mankind is hovering now in a purgatory of procrastination and

indecision and personal greed … but the rings of hell await, just beneath our feet, waiting

to consume us all.”

Elizabeth was still reeling from the monstrous ideas this man had just laid out before

her. She could stand it no longer and jumped to her feet. “What you’re suggesting is—”

“Our only remaining option,” the man interjected.

“Actually,” she replied, “I was going to say ‘criminal’!”

The man shrugged. “The path to paradise passes directly through hell. Dante taught us

that.”

“You’re mad!”

“Mad?” the man repeated, sounding hurt. “Me? I think not. Madness is the WHO staring

into the abyss and denying it is there. Madness is an ostrich who sticks her head in the

sand while a pack of hyenas closes in around her.”

Before Elizabeth could defend her organization, the man had changed the image on the

screen.

“And speaking of hyenas,” he said, pointing to the new image. “Here is the pack of

hyenas currently circling humankind … and they are closing in fast.”

Elizabeth was surprised to see the familiar image before her. It was a graph published

by the WHO the previous year delineating key environmental issues deemed by the WHO

to have the greatest impact on global health.

The list included, among others:

Demand for clean water, global surface temperatures, ozone depletion, consumption of

ocean resources, species extinction, CO2 concentration, deforestation, and global sea

levels.

All of these negative indicators had been on the rise over the last century. Now,

however, they were all accelerating at terrifying rates.

Elizabeth had the same reaction that she always had when she saw this graph—a

sense of helplessness. She was a scientist and believed in the usefulness of statistics, and

this graph painted a chilling picture not of the distant future … but of the very near future.

At many times in her life, Elizabeth Sinskey had been haunted by her inability to

conceive a child. Yet, when she saw this graph, she almost felt relieved she had not

brought a child into the world.

This is the future I would be giving my child?

“Over the last fifty years,” the tall man declared, “our sins against Mother Nature have

grown exponentially.” He paused. “I fear for the soul of humankind. When the WHO

published this graph, the world’s politicians, power brokers, and environmentalists held

emergency summits, all trying to assess which of these problems were most severe and

which we could actually hope to solve. The outcome? Privately, they put their heads in

their hands and wept. Publicly, they assured us all that they were working on solutions

but that these are complex issues.”

“These issues are complex!”

“Bullshit!” the man erupted. “You know damned well this graph depicts the simplest of

relationships—a function based on a single variable! Every single line on this graph climbs

in direct proportion to one value—the value that everyone is afraid to discuss. Global

population!”

“Actually, I think it’s a bit more—”

“A bit more complicated? Actually, it’s not! There is nothing simpler. If you want more

available clean water per capita, you need fewer people on earth. If you want to

decrease vehicle emissions, you need fewer drivers. If you want the oceans to replenish

their fish, you need fewer people eating fish!”

He glared down at her, his tone becoming even more forceful. “Open your eyes! We

are on the brink of the end of humanity, and our world leaders are sitting in boardrooms

commissioning studies on solar power, recycling, and hybrid automobiles? How is it that

you—a highly educated woman of science—don’t see? Ozone depletion, lack of water,

and pollution are not the disease—they are the symptoms. The disease is overpopulation.

And unless we face world population head-on, we are doing nothing more than sticking a

Band-Aid on a fast-growing cancerous tumor.”

“You perceive the human race as a cancer?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Cancer is nothing more than a healthy cell that starts replicating out of control. I

realize you find my ideas distasteful, but I can assure you that you will find the

alternative far less tasteful when it arrives. If we do not take bold action, then—”

“Bold?!” she sputtered. “Bold is not the word you’re looking for. Try insane!”

“Dr. Sinskey,” the man said, his voice now eerily calm. “I called you here specifically

because I was hoping that you—a sage voice at the World Health Organization—might be

willing to work with me and explore a possible solution.”

Elizabeth stared in disbelief. “You think the World Health Organization is going to

partner with you … exploring an idea like this?”

“Actually, yes,” he said. “Your organization is made up of doctors, and when doctors

have a patient with gangrene, they do not hesitate to cut off his leg to save his life.

Sometimes the only course of action is the lesser of two evils.”

“This is quite different.”

“No. This is identical. The only difference is scale.”

Elizabeth had heard enough. She stood abruptly. “I have a plane to catch.”

The tall man took a threatening step in her direction, blocking her exit. “Fair warning.

With or without your cooperation, I can very easily explore this idea on my own.”

“Fair warning,” she fired back. “I consider this a terrorist threat and will treat it as

such.” She took out her phone.

The man laughed. “You’re going to report me for talking in hypotheticals?

Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait to make your call. This room is electronically shielded.

Your phone won’t have a signal.”

I don’t need a signal, you lunatic. Elizabeth raised her phone, and before the man

realized what was happening, she clicked a snapshot of his face. The flash reflected in his

green eyes, and for a moment she thought he looked familiar.

“Whoever you are,” she said, “you did the wrong thing by calling me here. By the time I

reach the airport, I will know who you are, and you will be on the watch lists at the WHO,

the CDC, and the ECDC as a potential bioterrorist. We will have people on you day and

night. If you try to purchase materials, we will know about it. If you build a lab, we will

know about it. There is nowhere you can hide.”

The man stood in tense silence for a long moment, as if he were going to lunge at her

phone. Finally, he relaxed and stepped aside with an eerie grin. “Then it appears our

dance has begun.”

CHAPTER 32

IL CORRIDOIO VASARIANO—the Vasari Corridor—was designed by Giorgio Vasari in 1564 under

orders of the Medici ruler, Grand Duke Cosimo I, to provide safe passage from his

residence at the Pitti Palace to his administrative offices, across the Arno River in the

Palazzo Vecchio.

Similar to Vatican City’s famed Passetto, the Vasari Corridor was the quintessential

secret passageway. It stretched nearly a full kilometer from the eastern corner of the

Boboli Gardens to the heart of the old palace itself, crossing the Ponte Vecchio and

snaking through the Uffizi Gallery in between.

Nowadays, the Vasari Corridor still served as a safe haven, although not for Medici

aristocrats but for artwork; with its seemingly endless expanse of secure wall space, the

corridor was home to countless rare paintings—overflow from the world-famous Uffizi

Gallery, through which the corridor passed.

Langdon had traveled the passageway a few years before as part of a leisurely private

tour. On that afternoon, he had paused to admire the corridor’s mind-boggling array of

paintings—including the most extensive collection of self-portraits in the world. He had

also stopped several times to peer out of the corridor’s occasional viewing portals, which

permitted travelers to gauge their progress along the elevated walkway.

This morning, however, Langdon and Sienna were moving through the corridor at a

run, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers at

the other end. Langdon wondered how long it would take for the bound guard to be

discovered. As the tunnel stretched out before them, Langdon sensed it leading them

closer with every step to what they were searching for.

Cerca trova … the eyes of death … and an answer as to who is chasing me.

The distant whine of the surveillance drone was far behind them now. The farther they

progressed into the tunnel, the more Langdon was reminded of just how ambitious an

architectural feat this passageway had been. Elevated above the city for nearly its entire

length, the Vasari Corridor was like a broad serpent, snaking through the buildings, all the

way from the Pitti Palace, across the Arno, into the heart of old Florence. The narrow,

whitewashed passageway seemed to stretch for eternity, occasionally turning briefly left

or right to avoid an obstacle, but always moving east … across the Arno.

The sudden sound of voices echoed ahead of them in the corridor, and Sienna skidded

to a stop. Langdon halted, too, and immediately placed a calm hand on her shoulder,

motioning to a nearby viewing portal.

Tourists down below.

Langdon and Sienna moved to the portal and peered out, seeing that they were

currently perched above the Ponte Vecchio—the medieval stone bridge that serves as a

pedestrian walkway into the old city. Below them, the day’s first tourists were enjoying

the market that has been held on the bridge since the 1400s. Today the vendors are

mostly goldsmiths and jewelers, but that has not always been the case. Originally, the

bridge had been home to Florence’s vast, open-air meat market, but the butchers were

banished in 1593 after the rancid odor of spoiled meat had wafted up into the Vasari

Corridor and assaulted the delicate nostrils of the grand duke.

Down there on the bridge somewhere, Langdon recalled, was the precise spot where

one of Florence’s most infamous crimes had been committed. In 1216, a young nobleman

named Buondelmonte had rejected his family’s arranged marriage for the sake of his true

love, and for that decision he was brutally killed on this very bridge.

His death, long considered “Florence’s bloodiest murder,” was so named because it had

triggered a rift between two powerful political factions—the Guelphs and Ghibellines—

who had then waged war ruthlessly for centuries against each other. Because the ensuing

political feud had brought about Dante’s exile from Florence, the poet had bitterly

immortalized the event in his Divine Comedy: O Buondelmonte, through another’s

counsel, you fled your wedding pledge, and brought such evil!

To this day, three separate plaques—each quoting a different line from Canto 16 of

Dante’s Paradiso—could be found near the murder site. One of them was situated at the

mouth of the Ponte Vecchio and ominously declared:

BUT FLORENCE, IN HER FINAL PEACE, WAS FATED TO OFFER UP UNTO THAT MUTILATED STONE GUARDIAN UPON

HER BRIDGE … A VICTIM.

Langdon raised his eyes now from the bridge to the murky waters it spanned. Off to the

east, the lone spire of the Palazzo Vecchio beckoned.

Even though Langdon and Sienna were only halfway across the Arno River, he had no

doubt they had long since passed the point of no return.

Thirty feet below, on the cobblestones of the Ponte Vecchio, Vayentha anxiously scanned

the oncoming crowd, never imagining that her only redemption had, just moments

before, passed directly overhead.

CHAPTER 33

DEEP IN THE bowels of the anchored vessel The Mendacium, facilitator Knowlton sat alone

in his cubicle and tried in vain to focus on his work. Filled with trepidation, he had gone

back to viewing the video and, for the past hour, had been analyzing the nine-minute

soliloquy that hovered somewhere between genius and madness.

Knowlton fast-forwarded from the beginning, looking for any clue he might have

missed. He skipped past the submerged plaque … past the suspended bag of murky

yellow-brown liquid … and found the moment that the beak-nosed shadow appeared—a

deformed silhouette cast upon a dripping cavern wall … illuminated by a soft red glow.

Knowlton listened to the muffled voice, attempting to decipher the elaborate language.

About halfway through the speech, the shadow on the wall suddenly loomed larger and

the sound of the voice intensified.

Dante’s hel is not fiction … it is prophecy!

Wretched misery. Torturous woe. This is the landscape of tomorrow.

Mankind, if unchecked, functions like a plague, a cancer … our numbers intensifying with each successive

generation until the earthly comforts that once nourished our virtue and brotherhood have dwindled to nothing …

unveiling the monsters within us … fighting to the death to feed our young.

This is Dante’s nine-ringed hel.

This is what awaits.

As the future hurls herself toward us, fueled by the unyielding mathematics of Malthus, we teeter above the first

ring of hel … preparing to plummet faster than we ever fathomed.

Knowlton paused the video. The mathematics of Malthus? A quick Internet search led

him to information about a prominent nineteenth-century English mathematician and

demographist named Thomas Robert Malthus, who had famously predicted an eventual

global collapse due to overpopulation.

Malthus’s biography, much to Knowlton’s alarm, included a harrowing excerpt from his

book An Essay on the Principle of Population:

The power of population is so superior to the power in the earth to produce subsistence for man, that premature

death must in some shape or other visit the human race. The vices of mankind are active and able ministers of

depopulation. They are the precursors in the great army of destruction; and often finish the dreadful work

themselves. But should they fail in this war of extermination, sickly seasons, epidemics, pestilence, and plague,

advance in terrific array, and sweep off their thousands and ten thousands. Should success be stil incomplete,

gigantic inevitable famine stalks in the rear, and with one mighty blow levels the population with the food of the world.

With his heart pounding, Knowlton glanced back at the paused image of the beak-

nosed shadow.

Mankind, if unchecked, functions like a cancer.

Unchecked. Knowlton did not like the sound of that.

With a hesitant finger, he started the video again.

The muffled voice continued.

To do nothing is to welcome Dante’s hel … cramped and starving, weltering in Sin.

And so boldly I have taken action.

Some wil recoil in horror, but al salvation comes at a price.

One day the world wil grasp the beauty of my sacrifice.

For I am your Salvation.

I am the Shade.

I am the gateway to the Posthuman age.

CHAPTER 34

THE PALAZZO VECCHIO resembles a giant chess piece. With its robust quadrangular facade and

rusticated square-cut battlements, the massive rooklike building is aptly situated,

guarding the southeast corner of the Piazza della Signoria.

The building’s unusual single spire, rising off center from within the square fortress,

cuts a distinctive profile against the skyline and has become an inimitable symbol of

Florence.

Built as a potent seat of Italian government, the building imposes on its arriving visitors

an intimidating array of masculine statuary. Ammannati’s muscular Neptune stands naked

atop four sea horses, a symbol of Florence’s dominance in the sea. A replica of

Michelangelo’s David—arguably the world’s most admired male nude—stands in all his

glory at the palazzo entrance. David is joined by Hercules and Cacus—two more colossal

naked men—who, in concert with a host of Neptune’s satyrs, bring to more than a dozen

the total number of exposed penises that greet visitors to the palazzo.

Normally, Langdon’s visits to the Palazzo Vecchio had begun here on the Piazza della

Signoria, which, despite its overabundance of phalluses, had always been one of his

favorite plazas in all of Europe. No trip to the piazza was complete without sipping an

espresso at Caffè Rivoire, followed by a visit to the Medici lions in the Loggia dei Lanzi—

the piazza’s open-air sculpture gallery.

Today, however, Langdon and his companion planned to enter the Palazzo Vecchio via

the Vasari Corridor, much as Medici dukes might have done in their day—bypassing the

famous Uffizi Gallery and following the corridor as it snaked above bridges, over roads,

and through buildings, leading directly into the heart of the old palace. Thus far, they had

heard no trace of footsteps behind them, but Langdon was still anxious to exit the

corridor.

And now we’ve arrived, Langdon realized, eyeing the heavy wooden door before them.

The entrance to the old palace.

The door, despite its substantial locking mechanism, was equipped with a horizontal

push bar, which provided emergency-exit capability while preventing anyone on the other

side from entering the Vasari Corridor without a key card.

Langdon placed his ear to the door and listened. Hearing nothing on the other side, he

put his hands against the bar and pushed gently.

The lock clicked.

As the wooden portal creaked open a few inches, Langdon peered into the world

beyond. A small alcove. Empty. Silent.

With a small sigh of relief, Langdon stepped through and motioned for Sienna to follow.

We’re in.

Standing in a quiet alcove somewhere inside the Palazzo Vecchio, Langdon waited a

moment and tried to get his bearings. In front of them, a long hallway ran perpendicular

to the alcove. To their left, in the distance, voices echoed up the corridor, calm and jovial.

The Palazzo Vecchio, much like the United States Capitol Building, was both a tourist

attraction and a governmental office. At this hour, the voices they heard were most likely

those of civic employees bustling in and out of offices, getting ready for the day.

Langdon and Sienna inched toward the hallway and peered around the corner. Sure

enough, at the end of the hallway was an atrium in which a dozen or so government

employees stood around sipping morning espressi and chatting with colleagues before

work.

“The Vasari mural,” Sienna whispered, “you said it’s in the Hall of the Five Hundred?”

Langdon nodded and pointed across the crowded atrium toward a portico that opened

into a stone hallway. “Unfortunately, it’s through that atrium.”

“You’re sure?”

Langdon nodded. “We’ll never make it through without being seen.”

“They’re government workers. They’ll have no interest in us. Just walk like you belong

here.”

Sienna reached up and gently smoothed out Langdon’s Brioni suit jacket and adjusted

his collar. “You look very presentable, Robert.” She gave him a demure smile, adjusted

her own sweater, and set out.

Langdon hurried after her, both of them striding purposefully toward the atrium. As

they entered, Sienna began talking to him in rapid Italian—something about farm

subsidies—gesticulating passionately as she spoke. They kept to the outer wall,

maintaining their distance from the others. To Langdon’s amazement, not one single

employee gave them a second glance.

When they were beyond the atrium, they quickly pressed onward toward the hallway.

Langdon recalled the Shakespeare playbill. Mischievous Puck. “You’re quite an actress,”

he whispered.

“I’ve had to be,” she said reflexively, her voice strangely distant.

Once again, Langdon sensed there was more heartache in this young woman’s past

than he knew, and he felt a deepening sense of remorse for having entangled her in his

dangerous predicament. He reminded himself that there was nothing to be done now,

except to see it through.

Keep swimming through the tunnel … and pray for light.

As they neared their portico, Langdon was relieved to see that his memory had served

him well. A small plaque with an arrow pointed around the corner into the hallway and

announced: IL SALONE DEI CINQUECENTO. The Hall of the Five Hundred, Langdon thought,

wondering what answers awaited within. The truth can be glimpsed only through the

eyes of death. What could this mean?

“The room may still be locked,” Langdon warned as they neared the corner. Although

the Hall of the Five Hundred was a popular tourist destination, the palazzo did not appear

to be open yet to tourists this morning.

“Do you hear that?” Sienna asked, stopping short.

Langdon heard it. A loud humming noise was coming from just around the corner.

Please tell me it’s not an indoor drone. Cautiously, Langdon peered around the corner of

the portico. Thirty yards away stood the surprisingly simple wooden door that opened

into the Hall of the Five Hundred. Regrettably, directly between them stood a portly

custodian pushing an electric floor-buffing machine in weary circles.

Guardian of the gate.

Langdon’s attention shifted to three symbols on a plastic sign outside the door.

Decipherable to even the least experienced of symbologists, these universal icons were:

a video camera with an X through it; a drinking cup with an X through it; and a pair of

boxy stick figures, one female, one male.

Langdon took charge, striding swiftly toward the custodian, breaking into a jog as he

drew nearer. Sienna rushed behind him to keep up.

The custodian glanced up, looking startled. “Signori?!” He held out his arms for

Langdon and Sienna to stop.

Langdon gave the man a pained smile—more of a wince—and motioned apologetically

toward the symbols near the door. “Toilette,” he declared, his voice pinched. It was not a

question.

The custodian hesitated a moment, looking ready to deny their request, and then

finally, watching Langdon shift uncomfortably before him, he gave a sympathetic nod and

waved them through.

When they reached the door, Langdon gave Sienna a quick wink. “Compassion is a

universal language.”

CHAPTER 35

AT ONE TIME, the Hall of the Five Hundred was the largest room in the world. It had been

built in 1494 to provide a meeting hall for the entire Consiglio Maggiore—the republic’s

Grand Council of precisely five hundred members—from which the hall drew its name.

Some years later, at the behest of Cosimo I, the room was renovated and enlarged

substantially. Cosimo I, the most powerful man in Italy, chose as the project’s overseer

and architect the great Giorgio Vasari.

In an exceptional feat of engineering, Vasari had raised the original roof substantially

and permitted natural light to flow in through high transoms on all four sides of the room,

resulting in an elegant showroom for some of Florence’s finest architecture, sculpture,

and painting.

For Langdon, it was always the floor of this room that first drew his eye, immediately

announcing that this was no ordinary space. The crimson stone parquet was overlaid with

a black grid, giving the twelve-thousand-square-foot expanse an air of solidity, depth, and

balance.

Langdon raised his eyes slowly to the far side of the room, where six dynamic

sculptures—The Labors of Hercules—lined the wall like a phalanx of soldiers. Langdon

intentionally ignored the oft-maligned Hercules and Diomedes, whose naked bodies were

locked in an awkward-looking wrestling match, which included a creative “penile grip”

that always made Langdon cringe.

Far easier on the eyes was Michelangelo’s breathtaking Genius of Victory, which stood

to the right, dominating the central niche in the south wall. At nearly nine feet tall, this

sculpture had been intended for the tomb of the ultraconservative pope Julius II—Il Papa

Terribile—a commission Langdon had always found ironic, considering the Vatican’s

stance on homosexuality. The statue depicted Tommaso dei Cavalieri, the young man

with whom Michelangelo had been in love for much of his life and to whom he composed

over three hundred sonnets.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” Sienna whispered beside him, her voice suddenly

quiet and reverent. “This is … beautiful.”

Langdon nodded, recalling his first visit to this space—on the occasion of a spectacular

concert of classical music featuring the world-renowned pianist Mariele Keymel. Although

this grand hall was originally intended for private political meetings and audiences with

the grand duke, nowadays it more commonly featured popular musicians, lecturers, and

gala dinners—from art historian Maurizio Seracini to the Gucci Museum’s star-studded,

black-and-white gala opening. Langdon sometimes wondered how Cosimo I would feel

about sharing his austere private hall with CEOs and fashion models.

Langdon lifted his gaze now to the enormous murals adorning the walls. Their bizarre

history included a failed experimental painting technique by Leonardo da Vinci, which

resulted in a “melting masterpiece.” There had also been an artistic “showdown”

spearheaded by Piero Soderini and Machiavelli, which pitted against each other two titans

of the Renaissance—Michelangelo and Leonardo—commanding them to create murals on

opposite walls of the same room.

Today, however, Langdon was more interested in one of the room’s other historical

oddities.

Cerca trova.

“Which one is the Vasari?” Sienna asked, scanning the murals.

“Nearly all of them,” Langdon replied, knowing that as part of the room’s renovation,

Vasari and his assistants had repainted almost everything in it, from the original wall

murals to the thirty-nine coffered panels adorning its famed “hanging” ceiling.

“But that mural there,” Langdon said, pointing to the mural on their far right, “is the

one we came to see—Vasari’s Battle of Marciano.”

The military confrontation was absolutely massive—fifty-five feet long and more than

three stories tall. It was rendered in ruddy shades of brown and green—a violent

panorama of soldiers, horses, spears, and banners all colliding on a pastoral hillside.

“Vasari, Vasari,” Sienna whispered. “And hidden in there somewhere is his secret

message?”

Langdon nodded as he squinted toward the top of the huge mural, trying to locate the

particular green battle flag on which Vasari had painted his mysterious message—CERCA

TROVA. “It’s almost impossible to see from down here without binoculars,” Langdon said,

pointing, “but in the top middle section, if you look just below the two farmhouses on the

hillside, there’s a tiny, tilted green flag and—”

“I see it!” Sienna said, pointing to the upper-right quadrant, precisely in the right spot.

Langdon wished he had younger eyes.

The two walked closer to the towering mural, and Langdon gazed up at its splendor.

Finally, they were here. The only problem now was that Langdon was not sure why they

were here. He stood in silence for several long moments, staring up at the details of

Vasari’s masterpiece.

If I fail … then all is death.

A door creaked open behind them, and the custodian with the floor buffer peered in,

looking uncertain. Sienna gave a friendly wave. The custodian eyed them a moment and

then closed the door.

“We don’t have much time, Robert,” Sienna urged. “You need to think. Does the

painting ring any bells for you? Any memories at all?”

Langdon scrutinized the chaotic battle scene above them.

The truth can be glimpsed only through the eyes of death.

Langdon had thought perhaps the mural included a corpse whose dead eyes were

gazing blankly off toward some other clue in the painting … or perhaps even elsewhere in

the room. Unfortunately, Langdon now saw that there were dozens of dead bodies in the

mural, none of them particularly noteworthy and none with dead eyes directed anywhere

in particular.

The truth can be glimpsed only through the eyes of death?

He tried to envision connecting lines from one corpse to another, wondering if a shape

might emerge, but he saw nothing.

Langdon’s head was throbbing again as he frantically plumbed the depths of his

memory. Somewhere down there, the voice of the silver-haired woman kept whispering:

Seek and ye shall find.

“Find what?!” Langdon wanted to shout.

He forced himself to close his eyes and exhale slowly. He rolled his shoulders a few

times and tried to free himself from all conscious thought, hoping to tap into his gut

instinct.

Very sorry.

Vasari.

Cerca trova.

The truth can be glimpsed only through the eyes of death.

His gut told him, without a doubt, that he was standing in the right location. And while

he was not yet sure why, he had the distinct sense that he was moments away from

finding what he had come here seeking.

Agent Brüder stared blankly at the red velvet pantaloons and tunic in the display case

before him and cursed under his breath. His SRS team had searched the entire costume

gallery, and Langdon and Sienna Brooks were nowhere to be found.

Surveillance and Response Support, he thought angrily. Since when does a college

professor elude SRS? Where the hell did they go!

“Every exit was sealed,” one of his men insisted. “The only possibility is that they are

still in the gardens.”

While this seemed logical, Brüder had the sinking sensation that Langdon and Sienna

Brooks had found some other way out.

“Get the drone back in the air,” Brüder snapped. “And tell the local authorities to widen

the search area outside the walls.” Goddamn it!

As his men dashed off, Brüder grabbed his phone and called the person in charge. “It’s

Brüder,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ve got a serious problem. A number of them actually.”

CHAPTER 36

THE TRUTH CAN be glimpsed only through the eyes of death.

Sienna repeated the words to herself as she continued to search every inch of Vasari’s

brutal battle scene, hoping something might stand out.

She saw eyes of death everywhere.

Which ones are we looking for?!

She wondered if maybe the eyes of death were a reference to all the rotting corpses

strewn across Europe by the Black Death.

At least that would explain the plague mask …

Out of the blue, a childhood nursery rhyme jumped into Sienna’s mind: Ring around the

rosie. A pocketful of posies. Ashes, ashes. We all fall down.

She used to recite the poem as a schoolgirl in England until she heard that it derived

from the Great Plague of London in 1665. Allegedly, a ring around the rosie was a

reference to a rose-colored pustule on the skin that developed a ring around it and

indicated that one was infected. Sufferers would carry a pocketful of posies in an effort to

mask the smell of their own decaying bodies as well as the stench of the city itself, where

hundreds of plague victims dropped dead daily, their bodies then cremated. Ashes, ashes.

We all fall down.

“For the love of God,” Langdon blurted suddenly, wheeling around toward the opposite

wall.

Sienna looked over. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s the name of a piece of art that was once on display here. For the Love of God.”

Bewildered, Sienna watched Langdon hurry across the room to a small glass door,

which he tried to open. It was locked. He put his face to the glass, cupping his hands

around his eyes and peering inside.

Whatever Langdon was looking for, Sienna hoped he spotted it in a hurry; the

custodian had just reappeared, now with a look of deepening suspicion at the sight of

Langdon sauntering off to snoop at a locked door.

Sienna waved cheerfully to the custodian, but the man glared at her for a long cold

beat and then disappeared.

Lo Studiolo.

Positioned behind a glass door, directly opposite the hidden words cerca trova in the

Hall of the Five Hundred, was nestled a tiny windowless chamber. Designed by Vasari as

a secret study for Francesco I, the rectangular Studiolo rose to a rounded, barrel-vaulted

ceiling, which gave those inside the feeling of being inside a giant treasure chest.

Fittingly, the interior glistened with objects of beauty. More than thirty rare paintings

adorned the walls and ceiling, mounted so close to one another that they left virtually no

empty wall space. The Fall of Icarus … An Allegory of Human Life … Nature Presenting

Prometheus with Spectacular Gems …

As Langdon peered through the glass into the dazzling space beyond, he whispered to

himself, “The eyes of death.”

Langdon had first been inside Lo Studiolo during a private secret passages tour of the

palazzo a few years back and had been stunned to learn about the plethora of hidden

doors, stairs, and passageways that honeycombed the palazzo, including several hidden

behind paintings inside Lo Studiolo.

The secret passages, however, were not what had just sparked Langdon’s interest.

Instead he had flashed on a bold piece of modern art that he had once seen on display

here—For the Love of God—a controversial piece by Damien Hirst, which had caused an

uproar when it was shown inside Vasari’s famed Studiolo.

A life-size cast of a human skull in solid platinum, its surface had been entirely covered

with more than eight thousand glittering, pavé-set diamonds. The effect was striking. The

skull’s empty eye sockets glistened with light and life, creating a troubling juxtaposition of

opposing symbols—life and death … beauty and horror. Although Hirst’s diamond skull

had long since been removed from Lo Studiolo, Langdon’s recollection of it had sparked

an idea.

The eyes of death, he thought. A skull certainly qualifies, doesn’t it?

Skulls were a recurring theme in Dante’s Inferno, most famously Count Ugolino’s brutal

punishment in the lowest circle of hell—that of being sentenced to gnaw eternally on the

skull of a wicked archbishop.

Are we looking for a skull?

The enigmatic Studiolo, Langdon knew, had been built in the tradition of a “cabinet of

curiosities.” Nearly all of its paintings were secretly hinged, swinging open to reveal

hidden cupboards in which the duke had kept strange possessions of interest to him—rare

mineral samples, beautiful feathers, a perfect fossil of a nautilus shell, and even,

allegedly, a monk’s tibia decorated with hand-pounded silver.

Unfortunately, Langdon suspected all the cupboard items had been removed long ago,

and he had never heard of any skull on display here other than Hirst’s piece.

His thoughts were cut short by the loud slam of a door on the far side of the hall. The

brisk click of footsteps approached quickly across the salon.

“Signore!” an angry voice shouted. “Il salone non è aperto!”

Langdon turned to see a female employee marching toward him. She was petite, with

short brown hair. She was also extremely pregnant. The woman moved snappily toward

them, tapping her watch and shouting something about the hall not yet being open. As

she drew near, she made eye contact with Langdon, and immediately stopped short,

covering her mouth in shock.

“Professor Langdon!” she exclaimed, looking embarrassed. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know

you were here. Welcome back!”

Langdon froze.

He was quite certain he had never seen this woman before in his life.

CHAPTER 37

“I ALMOST DIDN’T recognize you, Professor!” the woman gushed in accented English as she

approached Langdon. “It’s your clothing.” She smiled warmly and gave Langdon’s Brioni

suit an appreciative nod. “Very fashionable. You look almost Italian.”

Langdon’s mouth went bone dry, but he managed a polite smile as the woman joined

him. “Good … morning,” he stumbled. “How are you?”

She laughed, holding her belly. “Exhausted. Little Catalina kicked all night.” The woman

glanced around the room, looking puzzled. “Il Duomino didn’t mention you were coming

back today. I assume he’s with you?”

Il Duomino? Langdon had no idea who she was talking about.

The woman apparently saw his confusion and gave a reassuring chuckle. “It’s okay,

everybody in Florence calls him by that nickname. He doesn’t mind.” She glanced around.

“Did he let you in?”

“He did,” Sienna said, arriving from across the hall, “but he had a breakfast meeting.

He said you wouldn’t mind if we stayed to look around.” Sienna enthusiastically extended

her hand. “I’m Sienna. Robert’s sister.”

The woman gave Sienna’s hand an overly official handshake. “I’m Marta Alvarez. Aren’t

you the lucky one—having Professor Langdon as a private guide.”

“Yes,” Sienna enthused, barely hiding the roll of her eyes. “He’s so smart!”

There was an awkward pause as the woman studied Sienna. “Funny,” she said, “I don’t

see any family resemblance at all. Except perhaps your height.”

Langdon sensed an impending train wreck. Now or never.

“Marta,” Langdon interrupted, hoping he had heard her name correctly, “I’m sorry to

trouble you, but, well … I guess you can probably imagine why I’m here.”

“Actually, no,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “I can’t for the life of me imagine what

you would be doing here.”

Langdon’s pulse quickened, and in the awkward silence that followed, he realized his

gamble was about to crash and burn. Suddenly Marta broke into a broad smile and

laughed out loud.

“Professor, I’m joking! Of course, I can guess why you returned. Frankly, I don’t know

why you find it so fascinating, but since you and il Duomino spent almost an hour up

there last night, I’m guessing you’ve come back to show your sister?”

“Right …” he managed. “Exactly. I’d love to show Sienna, if that’s not … an

inconvenience?”

Marta glanced up to the second-floor balcony and shrugged. “No problem. I’m headed

up there now.”

Langdon’s heart pounded as he looked up to the second-story balcony at the rear of the

hall. I was up there last night? He remembered nothing. The balcony, he knew, in

addition to being at the exact same height as the words cerca trova, also served as the

entrance to the palazzo’s museum, which Langdon visited whenever he was here.

Marta was about to lead them across the hall, when she paused, as if having second

thoughts. “Actually, Professor, are you sure we can’t find something a bit less grim to

show your lovely sister?”

Langdon had no idea how to respond.

“We’re seeing something grim?” Sienna asked. “What is it? He hasn’t told me.”

Marta gave a coy smile and glanced at Langdon. “Professor, would you like me to tell

your sister about it, or would you prefer to do so yourself?”

Langdon nearly jumped at the opportunity. “By all means, Marta, why don’t you tell her

all about it.”

Marta turned back to Sienna, speaking very slowly now. “I don’t know what your

brother has told you, but we’re going up to the museum to see a very unusual mask.”

Sienna’s eyes widened a bit. “What kind of mask? One of those ugly plague masks they

wear at Carnevale?”

“Good guess,” Marta said, “but no, it’s not a plague mask. It’s a much different kind of

mask. It’s called a death mask.”

Langdon’s gasp of revelation was audible, and Marta scowled at him, apparently

thinking he was being overly dramatic in an attempt to frighten his sister.

“Don’t listen to your brother,” she said. “Death masks were a very common practice in

the 1500s. It’s essentially just a plaster cast of someone’s face, taken a few moments

after that person dies.”

The death mask. Langdon felt the first moment of clarity he’d felt since waking up in

Florence. Dante’s Inferno … cerca trova … Looking through the eyes of death. The mask!

Sienna asked, “Whose face was used to cast the mask?”

Langdon put his hand on Sienna’s shoulder and answered as calmly as possible. “A

famous Italian poet. His name was Dante Alighieri.”

CHAPTER 38

THE MEDITERRANEAN SUN shone brightly on the decks of The Mendacium as it rocked over the

Adriatic swells. Feeling weary, the provost drained his second Scotch and gazed blankly

out his office window.

The news from Florence was not good.

Perhaps it was on account of his first taste of alcohol in a very long time, but he was

feeling strangely disoriented and powerless … as if his ship had lost its engines and were

drifting aimlessly on the tide.

The sensation was a foreign one to the provost. In his world, there always existed a

dependable compass—protocol—and it had never failed to show the way. Protocol was

what enabled him to make difficult decisions without ever looking back.

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 onscreen 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 hel

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.”

“That’s nice,” Sienna said, finally seeming satisfied. “Thank you.”

Marta arrived at the door of the museum and rapped three times. “Sono io, Marta!

Buongiorno!”

Some keys rattled inside and the door opened. An elderly guard smiled tiredly at her

and checked his watch. “È un po’ presto,” he said with a smile. A little early.

By way of explanation, Marta motioned to Langdon, and the guard immediately

brightened. “Signore! Bentornato!” Welcome back!

“Grazie,” Langdon replied amiably as the guard motioned them all inside.

They moved through a small foyer, where the guard disarmed a security system and

then unlocked a second, heavier door. As the door swung open, he stepped aside,

sweeping his arm out with a flourish. “Ecco il museo!”

Marta smiled her thanks and led her guests inside.

The space that made up this museum had originally been designed as government

offices, which meant that rather than a sprawling, wide-open gallery space, it was a

labyrinth of moderate-size rooms and hallways, which encircled half of the building.

“The Dante death mask is around the corner,” Marta told Sienna. “It’s displayed in a

narrow space called l’andito, which is essentially just a walkway between two larger

rooms. An antique cabinet against the sidewall holds the mask, which keeps it invisible

until you draw even with it. For this reason, many visitors walk right past the mask

without even noticing it!”

Langdon was striding faster now, eyes straight ahead, as if the mask held some kind of

strange power over him. Marta nudged Sienna and whispered, “Obviously, your brother is

not interested in any of our other pieces, but as long as you’re here, you shouldn’t miss

our bust of Machiavelli or the Mappa Mundi globe in the Hall of Maps.”

Sienna nodded politely and kept moving, her eyes also straight ahead. Marta was

barely able to keep pace. As they reached the third room, she had fallen behind a bit and

finally stopped short.

“Professor?” she called out, panting. “Perhaps you … want to show your sister … some

of the gallery … before we see his mask?”

Langdon turned, seeming distracted, as if returning to the present from some far-off

thought. “Excuse me?”

Marta breathlessly pointed to a nearby display case. “One of the earliest … printed

copies of The Divine Comedy?”

When Langdon finally saw Marta dabbing her forehead and trying to catch her breath,

he looked mortified. “Marta, forgive me! Of course, yes, a quick glance at the text would

be wonderful.”

Langdon hurried back, permitting Marta to guide them over to the antique case. Inside

was a well-worn, leather-bound book, propped open to an ornate title page: La Divina

Commedia: Dante Alighieri.

“Incredible,” Langdon said, sounding surprised. “I recognize the frontispiece. I didn’t

know you had one of the original Numeister editions.”

Of course you knew, Marta thought, puzzled. I showed this to you last night!

“In the mid–fourteen hundreds,” Langdon said hurriedly to Sienna, “Johann Numeister

created the first printed edition of this work. Several hundred copies were printed, but

only about a dozen survived. They’re very rare.”

It now seemed to Marta that Langdon had been playing dumb so he could show off for

his younger sibling. It seemed a rather unbecoming immodesty for a professor whose

reputation was one of academic humility.

“This copy is on loan from the Laurentian Library,” Marta offered. “If you and Robert

have not visited there, you should. They have a spectacular staircase designed by

Michelangelo, which leads up to the world’s first public reading room. The books there

were actually chained to the seats so nobody could take them out. Of course, many of the

books were the only copies in the world.”

“Amazing,” Sienna said, glancing deeper into the museum. “And the mask is this way?”

What’s the hurry? Marta needed another minute to regain her breath. “Yes, but you

might be interested to hear about this.” She pointed across an alcove toward a small

staircase that disappeared into the ceiling. “That goes up to a viewing platform in the

rafters where you can actually look down on Vasari’s famous hanging ceiling. I’d be happy

to wait here if you’d like to—”

“Please, Marta,” Sienna interjected. “I’d love to see the mask. We’re a little short on

time.”

Marta stared at the pretty, young woman, perplexed. She very much disliked the new

fashion of strangers calling each other by their first names. I’m Signora Alvarez, she

silently chided. And I’m doing you a favor.

“Okay, Sienna,” Marta said curtly. “The mask is right this way.”

Marta wasted no more time offering Langdon and his sister informed commentary as

they made their way through the winding suite of gallery rooms toward the mask. Last

night, Langdon and il Duomino had spent nearly a half hour in the narrow andito, viewing

the mask. Marta, intrigued by the men’s curiosity for the piece, had asked if their

fascination was related somehow to the unusual series of events surrounding the mask

over this past year. Langdon and il Duomino had been coy, offering no real answer.

Now, as they approached the andito, Langdon began explaining to his sister the simple

process used to create a death mask. His description, Marta was pleased to hear, was

perfectly accurate, unlike his bogus claim that he had not previously seen the museum’s

rare copy of The Divine Comedy.

“Shortly after death,” Langdon described, “the deceased is laid out, and his face is

coated with olive oil. Then a layer of wet plaster is caked onto the skin, covering

everything—mouth, nose, eyelids—from the hairline down to the neck. Once hardened,

the plaster is easily lifted off and used as a mold into which fresh plaster is poured. This

plaster hardens into a perfectly detailed replica of the deceased’s face. The practice was

particularly widespread in commemorating eminent persons and men of genius—Dante,

Shakespeare, Voltaire, Tasso, Keats—they all had death masks made.”

“And here we are at last,” Marta announced as the trio arrived outside the andito. She

stepped aside and motioned for Langdon’s sister to enter first. “The mask is in the display

case against the wall on your left. We ask that you please stay outside the stanchions.”

“Thank you.” Sienna entered the narrow corridor, walked toward the display case, and

peered inside. Her eyes instantly went wide, and she glanced back at her brother with an

expression of dread.

Marta had seen the reaction a thousand times; visitors were often jolted and repulsed

by their first glimpse of the mask—Dante’s eerily crinkled visage, hooked nose, and

closed eyes.

Langdon strode in right behind Sienna, arriving beside her and looking into the display

case. He immediately stepped back, his face also registering surprise.

Marta groaned. Che esagerato. She followed them in. But when she gazed into the

cabinet, she, too, gasped out loud. Oh mio Dio!

Marta Alvarez had expected to see Dante’s familiar dead face staring back at her, but

instead, all she saw was the red satin interior of the cabinet and the peg on which the

mask normally hung.

Marta covered her mouth and stared in horror at the empty display case. Her breathing

accelerated and she grabbed one of the stanchions for support. Finally, she tore her eyes

from the bare cabinet and wheeled in the direction of the night guards at the main

entrance.

“La maschera di Dante!” she shouted like a madwoman. “La maschera di Dante è

sparita!”

CHAPTER 40

MARTA ALVAREZ TREMBLED before the empty display cabinet. She hoped the tightness

spreading through her abdomen was panic and not labor pains.

The Dante death mask is gone!

The two security guards were now on full alert, having arrived in the andito, seen the

empty case, and sprung into action. One had rushed to the nearby video control room to

access security-camera footage from last night, while the other had just finished phoning

in the robbery to the police.

“La polizia arriverà tra venti minuti!” the guard told Marta as he hung up with the

police.

“Venti minuti?!” she demanded. Twenty minutes?! “We’ve had a major art theft!”

The guard explained that he had been told most of the city police were currently

handling a far more serious crisis and they were trying to find an available agent to come

and take a statement.

“Che cosa potrebbe esserci di più grave?!” she ranted. What can be more serious?!

Langdon and Sienna shared an anxious glance, and Marta sensed that her two guests

were suffering from sensory overload. Not surprising. Having simply stopped by for a

quick look at the mask, they were now witnessing the aftermath of a major art theft. Last

night, somehow, someone had gained access to the gallery and stolen Dante’s death

mask.

Marta knew there were far more valuable pieces in the museum that could have been

stolen, so she tried to count her blessings. Nonetheless, this was the first theft in this

museum’s history. I don’t even know the protocol!

Marta felt suddenly weak, and she again reached out to one of the stanchions for

support.

Both gallery guards appeared mystified as they had recounted to Marta their exact

actions and the events of last night: At around ten o’clock, Marta had entered with il

Duomino and Langdon. A short while later, the threesome had exited together. The

guards had relocked the doors, reset the alarm, and as far as they knew, nobody had

been in or out of the gallery since that moment.

“Impossible!” Marta had scolded in Italian. “The mask was in the cabinet when the

three of us left last night, so obviously somebody has been inside the gallery since then!”

The guards showed their palms, looking bewildered. “Noi non abbiamo visto nessuno!”

Now, with the police on the way, Marta moved as rapidly as her pregnant body

permitted in the direction of the security control room. Langdon and Sienna fell into step

nervously behind her.

The security video, Marta thought. That will show us precisely who was in here last

night!

Three blocks away, on the Ponte Vecchio, Vayentha moved into the shadows as a pair of

police officers filtered through the crowd, canvassing the area with photos of Langdon.

As the officers neared Vayentha, one of their radios blared—a routine all-points bulletin

from dispatch. The announcement was brief and in Italian, but Vayentha caught the gist:

Any available officer in the area of the Palazzo Vecchio should report to take a statement

at the palazzo museum.

The officers barely flinched, but Vayentha’s ears pricked up.

Il Museo di Palazzo Vecchio?

Last night’s debacle—the fiasco that had all but destroyed her career—had occurred in

the alleyways just outside the Palazzo Vecchio.

The police bulletin continued, in static-filled Italian that was mostly unintelligible,

except for two words that stood out clearly: the name Dante Alighieri.

Her body instantly tensed. Dante Alighieri?! Most certainly this was not coincidence.

She spun in the direction of the Palazzo Vecchio and located its crenellated tower peeking

over the rooftops of the nearby buildings.

What exactly happened at the museum? she wondered. And when?!

The specifics aside, Vayentha had been a field analyst long enough to know that

coincidence was far less common than most people imagined. The Palazzo Vecchio

museum … AND Dante? This had to relate to Langdon.

Vayentha had suspected all along that Langdon would return to the old city. It only

made sense—the old city was where Langdon had been last night when everything had

started to come undone.

Now, in the light of day, Vayentha wondered if Langdon had somehow returned to the

area around the Palazzo Vecchio to find whatever it was he was seeking. She was certain

Langdon had not crossed this bridge into the old city. There were plenty of other bridges,

and yet they seemed to be impossibly far on foot from the Boboli Gardens.

Beneath her, she noticed a four-man crew shell skimming across the water and passing

under the bridge. The hull read SOCIETÀ CANOT-TIERI FIRENZE / FLORENCE ROWING CLUB. The shell’s

distinctive red-and-white oars rose and fell in perfect unison.

Could Langdon have taken a boat across? It seemed unlikely, and yet something told

her the police bulletin regarding the Palazzo Vecchio was a cue she should heed.

“All cameras out, per favore!” a woman called in accented English.

Vayentha turned to see a frilly orange pom-pom waving on a stick as a female tour

guide attempted to herd her brood of duckling tourists across the Ponte Vecchio.

“Above you is Vasari’s largest masterpiece!” the guide exclaimed with practiced

enthusiasm, lifting her pom-pom into the air and directing everyone’s gaze upward.

Vayentha hadn’t noticed it before, but there appeared to be a second-story structure

that ran across the top of the shops like a narrow apartment.

“The Vasari Corridor,” the guide announced. “It’s nearly one kilometer long and

provided the Medici family with a secure passageway between the Pitti Palace and the

Palazzo Vecchio.”

Vayentha’s eyes widened as she took in the tunnel-like structure above her. She’d

heard of the corridor, but knew very little about it.

It leads to the Palazzo Vecchio?

“For those rare few with VIP connections,” the guide continued, “they can access the

corridor even today. It’s a spectacular art gallery that stretches all the way from the

Palazzo Vecchio to the northeast corner of the Boboli Gardens.”

Whatever the guide said next, Vayentha did not hear.

She was already dashing for her motorcycle.

CHAPTER 41

THE STITCHES IN Langdon’s scalp were throbbing again as he and Sienna squeezed inside

the video control room with Marta and the two guards. The cramped space was nothing

more than a converted vestment chamber with a bank of whirring hard drives and

computer monitors. The air inside was stiflingly hot and smelled of stale cigarette smoke.

Langdon felt the walls closing in around him immediately.

Marta took a seat in front of the video monitor, which was already in playback mode

and displayed a grainy black-and-white image of the andito, shot from above the door.

The time stamp on-screen indicated that the footage had been cued to midmorning

yesterday—precisely twenty-four hours ago—apparently just before the museum opened

and long before the arrival of Langdon and the mysterious il Duomino that evening.

The guard fast-forwarded through the video, and Langdon watched as an influx of

tourists flowed rapidly into the andito, moving in hurried jerky motions. The mask itself

was not visible from this perspective, but clearly it was still in its display case as tourists

repeatedly paused to peer inside or take photos before moving on.

Please hurry, Langdon thought, knowing the police were on their way. He wondered if

he and Sienna should just excuse themselves and run, but they needed to see this video:

whatever was on this recording would answer a lot of questions about what the hell was

going on.

The video playback continued, faster now, and afternoon shadows began moving

across the room. Tourists zipped in and out until finally the crowds began to thin, and

then abruptly disappeared entirely. As the time stamp raced past 1700 hours, the

museum lights went out, and all was quiet.

Five P.M. Closing time.

“Aumenti la velocità,” Marta commanded, leaning forward in her chair and staring at

the screen.

The guard let the video race on, the time stamp advancing quickly, until suddenly, at

around 10 P.M., the lights in the museum flickered back on.

The guard quickly slowed the tape back to regular speed.

A moment later, the familiar pregnant shape of Marta Alvarez came into view. She was

followed closely by Langdon, who entered wearing his familiar Harris Tweed Camberley

jacket, pressed khakis, and his own cordovan loafers. He even saw the glint of his Mickey

Mouse watch peeking out from under his sleeve as he walked.

There I am … before I got shot.

Langdon found it deeply unsettling to watch himself doing things of which he had

absolutely no recollection. I was here last night … looking at the death mask? Somehow,

between then and now, he had managed to lose his clothing, his Mickey Mouse watch,

and two days of his life.

As the video continued, he and Sienna crowded in close behind Marta and the guards

for a better view. The silent footage continued, showing Langdon and Marta arriving at

the display case and admiring the mask. As they were doing this, a broad shadow

darkened the doorway behind him, and a morbidly obese man shuffled into the frame. He

was dressed in a tan suit, carried a briefcase, and barely fit through the door. His bulging

gut made even the pregnant Marta look slender.

Langdon recognized the man at once. Ignazio?!

“That’s Ignazio Busoni,” Langdon whispered in Sienna’s ear. “Director of the Museo

dell’Opera del Duomo. An acquaintance of mine for several years. I’d just never heard

him called il Duomino.”

“A fitting epithet,” Sienna replied quietly.

In years past, Langdon had consulted Ignazio on artifacts and history relating to Il

Duomo—the basilica for which he was responsible—but a visit to the Palazzo Vecchio

seemed outside Ignazio’s domain. Then again, Ignazio Busoni, in addition to being an

influential figure in the Florentine art world, was a Dante enthusiast and scholar.

A logical source of information on Dante’s death mask.

As Langdon returned his focus to the video, Marta could now be seen waiting patiently

against the rear wall of the andito while Langdon and Ignazio leaned out over the

stanchions to get the closest possible look at the mask. As the men continued their

examination and discussion, the minutes wore on, and Marta could be seen discreetly

checking her watch behind their backs.

Langdon wished the security tape included audio. What were Ignazio and I talking

about? What are we looking for?!

Just then, on-screen, Langdon stepped over the stanchions and crouched down directly

in front of the cabinet, his face only inches from the glass. Marta immediately intervened,

apparently admonishing him, and Langdon apologetically stepped back.

“Sorry I was so strict,” Marta now said, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “But as

I told you, the display case is an antique and extremely fragile. The mask’s owner insists

we keep people behind the stanchions. He won’t even permit our staff to open the case

without him present.”

Her words took a moment to register. The mask’s owner? Langdon had assumed the

mask was the property of the museum.

Sienna looked equally surprised and chimed in immediately. “The museum doesn’t own

the mask?”

Marta shook her head, her eyes now back on the screen. “A wealthy patron offered to

buy Dante’s death mask from our collection and yet leave it on permanent display here.

He offered a small fortune, and we happily accepted.”

“Hold on,” Sienna said. “He paid for the mask … and let you keep it?”

“Common arrangement,” Langdon said. “Philanthropic acquisition—a way for donors to

make major grants to museums without registering the gift as charity.”

“The donor was an unusual man,” Marta said. “A genuine scholar of Dante, and yet a

bit … how do you say … fanatico?”

“Who is he?” Sienna demanded, her casual tone laced with urgency.

“Who?” Marta frowned, still staring at the screen. “Well, you probably read about him in

the news recently—the Swiss billionaire Bertrand Zobrist?”

For Langdon the name seemed only vaguely familiar, but Sienna grabbed Langdon’s

arm and squeezed it hard, looking as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Oh, yes …” Sienna said haltingly, her face ashen. “Bertrand Zobrist. Famous

biochemist. Made a fortune in biological patents at a young age.” She paused, swallowing

hard. She leaned over and whispered to Langdon. “Zobrist basically invented the field of

germ-line manipulation.”

Langdon had no idea what germ-line manipulation was, but it had an ominous ring,

especially in light of the recent spate of images involving plagues and death. He

wondered if Sienna knew so much about Zobrist because she was well read in the field of

medicine … or perhaps because they had both been child prodigies. Do savants follow

each other’s work?

“I first heard of Zobrist a few years ago,” Sienna explained, “when he made some

highly provocative declarations in the media about population growth.” She paused, her

face gloomy. “Zobrist is a proponent of the Population Apocalypse Equation.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Essentially it’s a mathematical recognition that the earth’s population is rising, people

are living longer, and our natural resources are waning. The equation predicts that the

current trend can have no outcome other than the apocalyptic collapse of society. Zobrist

has publicly predicted that the human race will not survive another century … unless we

have some kind of mass extinction event.” Sienna sighed heavily and locked eyes with

Langdon. “In fact, Zobrist was once quoted as saying that ‘the best thing that ever

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