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Inferno

happened to Europe was the Black Death.’ ”

Langdon stared at her in shock. The hair on his neck bristled as, once again, the image

of the plague mask flashed through his mind. He had been trying all morning to resist the

notion that his current dilemma related to a deadly plague … but that notion was getting

more and more difficult to refute.

For Bertrand Zobrist to describe the Black Death as the best thing ever to happen to

Europe was certainly appalling, and yet Langdon knew that many historians had

chronicled the long-term socioeconomic benefits of the mass extinction that had occurred

in Europe in the 1300s. Prior to the plague, overpopulation, famine, and economic

hardship had defined the Dark Ages. The sudden arrival of the Black Death, while horrific,

had effectively “thinned the human herd,” creating an abundance of food and opportunity,

which, according to many historians, had been a primary catalyst for bringing about the

Renaissance.

As Langdon pictured the biohazard symbol on the tube that had contained the modified

map of Dante’s inferno, a chilling thought struck him: the eerie little projector had been

created by someone … and Bertrand Zobrist—a biochemist and Dante fanatic—now

seemed to be a logical candidate.

The father of genetic germ-line manipulation. Langdon sensed pieces of the puzzle now

falling into place. Regrettably, the picture coming into focus felt increasingly frightening.

“Fast-forward through this part,” Marta ordered the guard, sounding eager to get past

the real-time playback of Langdon and Ignazio Busoni studying the mask so she could

find out who had broken into the museum and stolen it.

The guard hit the fast-forward button, and the time stamp accelerated.

Three minutes … six minutes … eight minutes.

On-screen, Marta could be seen standing behind the men, shifting her weight with

increasing frequency and repeatedly checking her watch.

“I’m sorry we talked so long,” Langdon said. “You look uncomfortable.”

“My own fault,” Marta replied. “You both insisted that I should go home and the guards

could let you out, but I felt that would be rude.”

Suddenly, on-screen, Marta disappeared. The guard slowed the video to normal speed.

“It’s okay,” Marta said. “I remember going to the restroom.”

The guard nodded and reached again for the fast-forward button, but before he

pressed it, Marta grabbed his arm. “Aspetti!”

She cocked her head and stared at the monitor in confusion.

Langdon had seen it, too. What in the world?!

On-screen, Langdon had just reached into the pocket of his tweed coat and produced a

pair of surgical gloves, which he was now pulling onto his hands.

Simultaneously, il Duomino positioned himself behind Langdon, peering down the

hallway where Marta had moments earlier trudged off to use the restroom. After a

moment the obese man nodded to Langdon in a way that seemed to mean that the coast

was clear.

What the hell are we doing?!

Langdon watched himself on the video as his gloved hand reached out and found the

edge of the cabinet door … and then, ever so gently, pulled back until the antique hinge

shifted and the door swung slowly open … exposing the Dante death mask.

Marta Alvarez let out a horrified gasp and brought her hands to her face.

Sharing Marta’s horror, Langdon watched himself in utter disbelief as he reached into

the case, gently gripped the Dante death mask with both hands, and lifted it out.

“Dio mi salvi!” Marta exploded, heaving herself to her feet and spinning around to face

Langdon. “Cos’ha fatto? Perché?”

Before Langdon could respond, one of the guards whipped out a black Beretta and

aimed it directly at Langdon’s chest.

Jesus!

Robert Langdon stared down the barrel of the guard’s handgun and felt the tiny room

closing in around him. Marta Alvarez was on her feet now, glaring up at him with an

incredulous look of betrayal on her face. On the security monitor behind her, Langdon

was now holding the mask up to the light and studying it.

“I took it out only for a moment,” Langdon insisted, praying that this was true. “Ignazio

assured me you wouldn’t mind!”

Marta did not reply. She looked stupefied, clearly trying to imagine why Langdon had

lied to her … and indeed how in the world Langdon could have calmly stood by and let

the tape play when he knew what it would reveal.

I had no idea I opened the case!

“Robert,” Sienna whispered. “Look! You found something!” Sienna remained riveted on

the playback, focusing on getting answers despite their predicament.

On-screen, Langdon was now holding the mask up and angling it toward the light, his

attention apparently drawn to something of interest on the back of the artifact.

From this camera angle, for a split second, the raised mask partially blocked Langdon’s

face in such a way that Dante’s dead eyes were aligned with Langdon’s. He remembered

the pronouncement—the truth can be glimpsed only through the eyes of death—and felt

a chill.

Langdon had no idea what he might have been examining on the back of the mask, but

at that moment in the video, as he shared his discovery with Ignazio, the obese man

recoiled, immediately fumbling for his spectacles and looking again … and again. He

began shaking his head vigorously and pacing the andito in an agitated state.

Suddenly both men glanced up, clearly having heard something in the hallway—most

likely Marta returning from the restroom. Hurriedly, Langdon pulled from his pocket a

large Ziploc bag, into which he sealed the death mask before gently handing it to Ignazio,

who placed it, with seeming reluctance, inside his briefcase. Langdon quickly closed the

antique glass door on the now-empty display case, and the two men strode briskly up the

hall to encounter Marta before she could discover their theft.

Both guards now had their guns trained on Langdon.

Marta wobbled on her feet, grasping the table for support. “I don’t understand!” she

sputtered. “You and Ignazio Busoni stole the Dante death mask?!”

“No!” Langdon insisted, bluffing as best as he could. “We had permission from the

owner to take the mask out of the building for the night.”

“Permission from the owner?” she questioned. “From Bertrand Zobrist!?”

“Yes! Mr. Zobrist agreed to let us examine some markings on the back! We met with

him yesterday afternoon!”

Marta’s eyes shot daggers. “Professor, I am quite certain you did not meet with

Bertrand Zobrist yesterday afternoon.”

“We most certainly did—”

Sienna placed a restraining hand on Langdon’s arm. “Robert …” She gave a grim sigh.

“Six days ago, Bertrand Zobrist threw himself off the top of the Badia tower only a few

blocks away from here.”

CHAPTER 42

VAYENTHA HAD ABANDONED her motorcycle just north of the Palazzo Vecchio and was

approaching on foot along the perimeter of the Piazza della Signoria. As she wound her

way through the Loggia dei Lanzi’s outdoor statuary, she could not help but notice that all

the figures seemed to be enacting a variation on a single theme: violent displays of male

dominance over women.

The Rape of the Sabines.

The Rape of Polyxena.

Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa.

Lovely, Vayentha thought, pulling her cap low over her eyes and edging her way

through the morning crowd toward the entrance of the palace, which was just admitting

the first tourists of the day. From all appearances, it was business as usual here at the

Palazzo Vecchio.

No police, Vayentha thought. At least not yet.

She zipped her jacket high around her neck, making certain that her weapon was

concealed, and headed through the entrance. Following signs for Il Museo di Palazzo, she

passed through two ornate atriums and then up a massive staircase toward the second

floor.

As she climbed, she replayed the police dispatch in her head.

Il Museo di Palazzo Vecchio … Dante Alighieri.

Langdon has to be here.

The signs for the museum led Vayentha into a massive, spectacularly adorned gallery—

the Hall of the Five Hundred—where a scattering of tourists mingled, admiring the

colossal murals on the walls. Vayentha had no interest in observing the art here and

quickly located another museum sign in the far right-hand corner of the room, pointing up

a staircase.

As she made her way across the hall, she noticed a group of university kids all gathered

around a single sculpture, laughing and taking pictures.

The plaque read: Hercules and Diomedes.

Vayentha eyed the statues and groaned.

The sculpture depicted the two heroes of Greek mythology—both stark naked—locked

in a wrestling match. Hercules was holding Diomedes upside down, preparing to throw

him, while Diomedes was tightly gripping Hercules’ penis, as if to say, “Are you sure you

want to throw me?”

Vayentha winced. Talk about having someone by the balls.

She removed her eyes from the peculiar statue and quickly climbed the stairs toward

the museum.

She arrived on a high balcony that overlooked the hall. A dozen or so tourists were

waiting outside the museum entrance.

“Delayed opening,” one cheerful tourist offered, peeking out from behind his

camcorder.

“Any idea why?” she asked.

“Nope, but what a great view while we wait!” The man swung his arm out over the

expanse of the Hall of the Five Hundred below.

Vayentha walked to the edge and peered at the expansive room beneath them.

Downstairs, a lone police officer was just arriving, drawing very little attention as he

moved, without any sense of urgency, across the room toward the staircase.

He’s coming up to take a statement, Vayentha imagined. The man’s lugubrious trudge

up the stairs indicated this was a routine response call—nothing like the chaotic search

for Langdon at the Porta Romana.

If Langdon is here, why aren’t they swarming the building?

Either Vayentha had assumed incorrectly that Langdon was here, or the local police

and Brüder had not yet put two and two together.

As the officer reached the top of the stairs and ambled toward the museum entrance,

Vayentha casually turned away and pretended to gaze out a window. Considering her

disavowal and the long reach of the provost, she was not taking any chances of being

recognized.

“Aspetta!” a voice shouted somewhere.

Vayentha’s heart skipped a beat as the officer stopped directly behind her. The voice,

she realized, was coming from his walkie-talkie.

“Attendi i rinforzi!” the voice repeated.

Wait for support? Vayentha sensed that something had just changed.

Just then, outside the window, Vayentha noticed a black object growing larger in the

distant sky. It was flying toward the Palazzo Vecchio from the direction of the Boboli

Gardens.

The drone, Vayentha realized. Brüder knows. And he’s headed this way.

Consortium facilitator Laurence Knowlton was still kicking himself for phoning the provost.

He knew better than to suggest that the provost preview the client’s video before it was

uploaded to the media tomorrow.

The content was irrelevant.

Protocol is king.

Knowlton still recalled the mantra taught to young facilitators when they started

handling tasks for the organization. Don’t ask. Just task.

Reluctantly, he placed the little red memory stick in the queue for tomorrow morning,

wondering what the media would make of the bizarre message. Would they even play it?

Of course they will. It’s from Bertrand Zobrist.

Not only was Zobrist a staggeringly successful figure in the biomedical world, but he

was already in the news as a result of his suicide last week. This nine-minute video would

play like a message from the grave, and its ominously macabre quality would make it

nearly impossible for people to turn it off.

This video will go viral within minutes of its release.

CHAPTER 43

MARTA ALVAREZ WAS seething as she stepped out of the cramped video room, having left

Langdon and his rude little sister at gunpoint with the guards. She marched over to a

window and peered down at the Piazza della Signoria, relieved to see a police car parked

out front.

It’s about time.

Marta still could not fathom why a man as respected in his profession as Robert

Langdon would so blatantly deceive her, take advantage of the professional courtesy she

had offered, and steal a priceless artifact.

And Ignazio Busoni assisted him!? Unthinkable!

Intent on giving Ignazio a piece of her mind, Marta pulled out her cell phone and dialed

il Duomino’s office, which was several blocks away at the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.

The line rang only once.

“Ufficio di Ignazio Busoni,” a familiar woman’s voice answered.

Marta was friendly with Ignazio’s secretary but was in no mood for small talk. “Eugenia,

sono Marta. Devo parlare con Ignazio.”

There was an odd pause on the line and then suddenly the secretary burst into

hysterical sobbing.

“Cosa succede?” Marta demanded. What’s wrong!?

Eugenia tearfully told Marta that she had just arrived at the office to learn that Ignazio

had suffered a massive heart attack last night in an alleyway near the Duomo. It was

around midnight when he had called for an ambulance, but the medics hadn’t arrived in

time. Busoni was dead.

Marta’s legs nearly buckled beneath her. This morning she’d heard on the news that an

unnamed city official had died the previous night, but she never imagined it was Ignazio.

“Eugenia, ascoltami,” Marta urged, trying to remain calm as she quickly explained what

she had just witnessed on the palazzo video cameras—the Dante death mask stolen by

Ignazio and Robert Langdon, who was now being held at gunpoint.

Marta had no idea what response she expected Eugenia to make, but it most certainly

was not what she heard.

“Roberto Langdon!?” Eugenia demanded. “Sei con Langdon ora?!” You’re with Langdon

now?!

Eugenia seemed to be missing the point. Yes, but the mask—

“Devo parlare con lui!” Eugenia all but shouted. I need to speak to him!

Inside the security room, Langdon’s head continued to throb as the guards aimed their

weapons directly at him. Abruptly, the door opened, and Marta Alvarez appeared.

Through the open door Langdon heard the distant whine of the drone somewhere

outside, its ominous buzz accompanied by the wail of approaching sirens. They found out

where we are.

“È arrivata la polizia,” Marta told the guards, sending one of them out to usher the

authorities into the museum. The other remained behind, gun barrel still aimed at

Langdon.

To Langdon’s surprise, Marta held out a cell phone to him. “Someone wants to speak to

you,” she said, sounding mystified. “You’ll need to take it out here to have a connection.”

The group migrated from the stuffy control room into the gallery space just outside,

where sunlight poured through large windows offering a spectacular view of Piazza della

Signoria below. Although he was still at gunpoint, Langdon felt relieved to be out of the

enclosed space.

Marta motioned him over near the window and handed him the phone.

Langdon took it, uncertain, and raised it to his ear. “Yes? This is Robert Langdon.”

“Signore,” the woman said in tentative, accented English. “I am Eugenia Antonucci, the

secretary of Ignazio Busoni. You and I, we meet yesterday night when you arrive his

office.”

Langdon recalled nothing. “Yes?”

“I’m very sorry to say you this, but Ignazio, he die of heart attack yesterday night.”

Langdon’s grip tightened on the phone. Ignazio Busoni is dead?!

The woman was weeping now, her voice full of sadness. “Ignazio call me before he die.

He leave me a message and tell me to be sure you hear it. I will play it for you.”

Langdon heard some rustling, and moments later, a faint breathless recording of the

voice of Ignazio Busoni reached his ears.

“Eugenia,” the man panted, clearly in pain. “Please be sure Robert Langdon hears this

message. I’m in trouble. I don’t think I’ll make it back to the office.” Ignazio groaned and

there was a long silence. When he began speaking again, his voice was weaker. “Robert,

I hope you escaped. They’re still after me … and I’m … I’m not well. I’m trying to reach a

doctor, but …” There was another long pause, as if il Duomino were mustering his last bit

of energy, and then … “Robert, listen carefully. What you seek is safely hidden. The gates

are open to you, but you must hurry. Paradise Twenty-five.” He paused a long moment

and then whispered, “Godspeed.”

Then the message ended.

Langdon’s heart raced, and he knew he had just witnessed the final words of a dying

man. That these words had been directed at him did nothing to relieve his anxiety.

Paradise 25? The gates are open to me? Langdon considered it. What gates does he

mean?! The only thing that made any sense at all was that Ignazio had said that the

mask was safely hidden.

Eugenia came back on the line. “Professor, do you understand this?”

“Some of it, yes.”

“Is there something I can do?”

Langdon considered this question a long moment. “Make sure nobody else hears this

message.”

“Even the police? A detective arrives soon to take my statement.” Langdon stiffened.

He looked at the guard who was aiming a gun at him. Quickly, Langdon turned toward

the window and lowered his voice, hurriedly whispering, “Eugenia … this will sound

strange, but for Ignazio’s sake, I need you to delete that message and do not mention to

the police that you spoke to me. Is that clear? The situation is very complicated and—”

Langdon felt a gun barrel press into his side and turned to see the armed guard, inches

away, holding out his free hand and demanding Marta’s phone.

On the line, there was a long pause, and Eugenia finally said, “Mr. Langdon, my boss

trusted you … so I will, too.”

Then she was gone.

Langdon handed the phone back to the guard. “Ignazio Busoni is dead,” he said to

Sienna. “He died of a heart attack last night after leaving this museum.” Langdon paused.

“The mask is safe. Ignazio hid it before he died. And I think he left me a clue about

where to find it.” Paradise 25.

Hope flashed in Sienna’s eyes, but when Langdon turned back to Marta, she looked

skeptical.

“Marta,” Langdon said. “I can retrieve Dante’s mask for you, but you’ll need to let us

go. Immediately.”

Marta laughed out loud. “I will do no such thing! You’re the one who stole the mask!

The police are arriving—”

“Signora Alvarez,” Sienna interrupted loudly. “Mi dispiace, ma non le abbiamo detto la

verità.”

Langdon did a double take. What is Sienna doing?! He had understood her words. Mrs.

Alvarez, I’m sorry, but we have not been honest with you.

Marta looked equally startled by Sienna’s words, although much of her shock seemed to

be over the fact that Sienna was suddenly speaking fluent, unaccented Italian.

“Innanzitutto, non sono la sorella di Robert Langdon,” Sienna declared in an apologetic

tone. First off, I am not Robert Langdon’s sister.

CHAPTER 44

MARTA ALVAREZ TOOK an unsteady step backward and folded her arms, studying the young

blond woman before her.

“Mi dispiace,” Sienna continued, still speaking fluent Italian. “Le abbiamo mentito su

molte cose.” We have lied to you about many things.

The guard looked as perplexed as Marta, although he held his position.

Sienna spoke rapidly now, still in Italian, telling Marta that she worked at a Florence

hospital where Langdon had arrived the previous night with a bullet wound to the head.

She explained that Langdon recalled nothing of the events that had brought him there,

and that he was as surprised by the security video as Marta had been.

“Show her your wound,” Sienna ordered Langdon.

When Marta saw the stitches beneath Langdon’s matted hair, she sat down on the

windowsill and held her face in her hands for several seconds.

In the past ten minutes, Marta had learned not only that the Dante death mask had

been stolen during her watch, but that the two thieves had been a respected American

professor and her trusted Florentine colleague, who was now dead. Furthermore, the

young Sienna Brooks, whom Marta had imagined to be the wide-eyed American sister of

Robert Langdon, turned out to be a doctor, admitting to a lie … and doing so in fluent

Italian.

“Marta,” Langdon said, his voice deep and understanding. “I know it must be hard to

believe, but I truly don’t remember last night at all. I have no idea why Ignazio and I took

the mask.”

Marta sensed from his eyes that he was telling the truth.

“I’ll return the mask to you,” Langdon said. “You have my word. But I can’t retrieve it

unless you let us go. The situation is complicated. You need to let us go, right away.”

Despite wanting the priceless mask returned, Marta had no intention of letting anyone

go. Where are the police?! She looked down at the lone police car in the Piazza della

Signoria. It seemed strange that the officers had not yet reached the museum. Marta also

heard a strange buzzing noise in the distance—it sounded like someone was using a

power saw. And it was getting louder.

What is that?

Langdon’s tone was beseeching now. “Marta, you know Ignazio. He would never have

removed the mask without a good reason. There’s a bigger picture here. The owner of

the mask, Bertrand Zobrist, was a very confused man. We think he may be involved in

something terrible. I don’t have time to explain it all, but I’m begging you to trust us.”

Marta could only stare. None of this seemed to make any sense at all.

“Mrs. Alvarez,” Sienna said, fixing Marta with a stony look. “If you care about your

future, and that of your baby, then you need to let us leave, right now.”

Marta folded her hands protectively across her abdomen, not at all pleased by the

veiled threat to her unborn child.

The high-pitched buzz outside was definitely getting louder, and when Marta peered

out the window, she couldn’t see the source of the noise, but she did see something else.

The guard saw it, too, his eyes widening.

Down in the Piazza della Signoria, the crowds had parted to make way for a long line of

police cars that were arriving without sirens, led by two black vans, which now skidded to

a stop outside the palace doors. Soldiers in black uniforms jumped out, carrying large

guns, and ran into the palace.

Marta felt a surge of fear. Who the hell is that?!

The security guard looked equally alarmed.

The high-pitched buzzing sound grew suddenly piercing, and Marta withdrew in distress

as she glimpsed a small helicopter rising into view just outside the window.

The machine hovered no more than ten yards away, almost as if it were staring in at

the people in the room. It was a small craft, maybe a yard long, with a long black cylinder

mounted on the front. The cylinder was pointed directly at them.

“It’s going to shoot!” Sienna shouted. “Sta per sparare! Everybody down! Tutti a terra!”

She dropped to her knees beneath the windowsill, and Marta went cold with terror as she

instinctively followed suit. The guard dropped down, too, reflexively aiming his gun at the

little machine.

From Marta’s awkward crouch below the windowsill, she could see that Langdon was

still standing, staring at Sienna with an odd look, clearly not believing there was any

danger. Sienna was on the ground for only an instant before she bounded back up,

grabbed Langdon by the wrist, and began pulling him in the direction of the hallway. An

instant later, they were fleeing together toward the main entrance of the building.

The guard spun on his knees and crouched like a sniper—raising his weapon down the

hallway in the direction of the departing duo.

“Non spari!” Marta ordered him. “Non possono scappare.” Don’t shoot! They can’t

possibly escape!

Langdon and Sienna disappeared around a corner, and Marta knew it would be only a

matter of seconds before the duo collided with the authorities coming in the other way.

“Faster!” Sienna urged, rushing with Langdon back the way they’d come in. She was

hoping they could make it to the main entrance before running into the police head-on,

but she now realized the chances of this were close to zero.

Langdon apparently had similar doubts. Without warning, he skidded to a full stop in a

wide intersection of hallways. “We’ll never make it out this way.”

“Come on!” Sienna motioned urgently for him to follow. “Robert, we can’t just stand

here!”

Langdon seemed distracted, gazing to his left, down a short corridor that appeared to

dead-end in a small, dimly lit chamber. The walls of the room were covered with antique

maps, and at the center of the room stood a massive iron globe. Langdon eyed the huge

metal sphere and began nodding slowly, and then more vigorously.

“This way,” Langdon declared, dashing off toward the iron globe.

Robert! Sienna followed against her better judgment. The corridor clearly led deeper

into the museum, away from the exit.

“Robert?” she gasped, finally catching up to him. “Where are you taking us?!”

“Through Armenia,” he replied.

“What?!”

“Armenia,” Langdon repeated, his eyes dead ahead. “Trust me.”

One story below, hidden among frightened tourists on the balcony of the Hall of the Five

Hundred, Vayentha kept her head down as Brüder’s SRS team thundered past her into the

museum. Downstairs, the sound of slamming doors resonated through the hall as police

sealed the area.

If Langdon were indeed here, he was trapped.

Unfortunately, Vayentha was, too.

CHAPTER 45

WITH ITS WARM oak wainscoting and coffered wooden ceilings, the Hall of Geographical

Maps feels a world away from the stark stone and plaster interior of the Palazzo Vecchio.

Originally the building’s cloakroom, this grand space contains dozens of closets and

cabinets once used to store the portable assets of the grand duke. On this day, the walls

were adorned with maps—fifty-three illuminations hand-painted on leather—depicting the

world as it was known in the 1550s.

The hall’s dramatic collection of cartography is dominated by the presence of a massive

globe that stands in the center of the room. Known as the Mappa Mundi, the six-foot-tall

sphere had been the largest rotating globe of its era and was said to spin almost

effortlessly with just the touch of a finger. Today the globe serves as more of a final stop

for tourists who have threaded their way through the long succession of gallery rooms

and reached a dead end, where they circle the globe and depart the way they came.

Langdon and Sienna arrived breathless in the Hall of Maps. Before them, the Mappa

Mundi rose majestically, but Langdon didn’t even glance at it, his eyes moving instead to

the outer walls of the room.

“We need to find Armenia!” Langdon said. “The map of Armenia!”

Clearly nonplussed by his request, Sienna hurried off to the room’s right-hand wall in

search of a map of Armenia.

Langdon immediately began a similar search along the left-hand wall, tracing his way

around the perimeter of the room.

Arabia, Spain, Greece …

Each country was portrayed in remarkable detail, considering that the drawings had

been made more than five hundred years ago, at a time when much of the world had yet

to be mapped or explored.

Where is Armenia?

Compared to his usually vivid eidetic memories, Langdon’s recollections of his “secret

passages tour” here several years ago felt cloudy, due in no small part to the second

glass of Gaja Nebbiolo he’d enjoyed with lunch prior to the tour. Fittingly, the word

nebbiolo meant “little fog.” Even so, Langdon now distinctly recalled being shown a single

map in this room—Armenia—a map that possessed a unique property.

I know it’s in here, Langdon thought, continuing to scan the seemingly endless line of

maps.

“Armenia!” Sienna announced. “Over here!”

Langdon spun toward where she was standing in the deep right-hand corner of the

room. He rushed over, and Sienna pointed to the map of Armenia with an expression that

seemed to say, “We found Armenia—so what?”

Langdon knew they didn’t have time for explanations. Instead, he simply reached out,

grabbed the map’s massive wooden frame, and heaved it toward him. The entire map

swung into the room, along with a large section of the wall and wainscoting, revealing a

hidden passageway.

“All right, then,” Sienna said, sounding impressed. “Armenia it is.”

Without hesitation, Sienna hurried through the opening, moving fearlessly into the dim

space beyond. Langdon followed her and quickly pulled the wall closed behind them.

Despite his foggy recollections of the secret passages tour, Langdon recalled this

passageway clearly. He and Sienna had just passed, as it were, through the looking glass

into the Palazzo Invisibile—the clandestine world that existed behind the walls of the

Palazzo Vecchio—a secret domain that had been accessible solely to the then-reigning

duke and those closest to him.

Langdon paused a moment inside the doorway and took in their new surroundings—a

pale stone hallway lit only by faint natural light that filtered through a series of leaded

windows. The passageway descended fifty yards or so to a wooden door.

He turned now to his left, where a narrow ascending staircase was blocked by a chain

swag. A sign above the stairs warned: USCITA VIETATA.

Langdon headed for the stairs.

“No!” Sienna warned. “It says ‘No Exit.’ ”

“Thanks,” Langdon said with a wry smile. “I can read the Italian.”

He unhooked the chain swag, carried it back to the secret door, and quickly used it to

immobilize the rotating wall—threading the chain through the door handle and around a

nearby fixture so the door could not be pulled open from the other side.

“Oh,” Sienna said sheepishly. “Good thinking.”

“It won’t keep them out for long,” Langdon said. “But we won’t need much time. Follow

me.”

When the map of Armenia finally crashed open, Agent Brüder and his men streamed

down the narrow corridor in pursuit, heading for the wooden door at the far end. When

they burst through, Brüder felt a blast of cold air hit him head-on, and was momentarily

blinded by bright sunlight.

He had arrived on an exterior walkway, which threaded along the rooftop of the

palazzo. His eye traced the path, which led directly to another door, some fifty yards

away, and reentered the building.

Brüder glanced to the left of the walkway, where the high, vaulted roof of the Hall of

the Five Hundred rose like a mountain. Impossible to traverse. Brüder turned now to his

right, where the walkway was bordered by a sheer cliff that plummeted down into a deep

light well. Instant death.

His eyes refocused straight ahead. “This way!”

Brüder and his men dashed along the walkway toward the second door while the

surveillance drone circled like a vulture overhead.

When Brüder and his men burst through the doorway, they all slid to an abrupt stop,

nearly piling up on one another.

They were standing in a tiny stone chamber that had no exit other than the door

through which they had just come. A lone wooden desk stood against the wall. Overhead,

the grotesque figures depicted in the chamber’s ceiling frescoes seemed to stare down at

them mockingly.

It was a dead end.

One of Brüder’s men hurried over and scanned the informational placard on the wall.

“Hold on,” he said. “This says there’s a finestra in here—some kind of secret window?”

Brüder looked around but saw no secret window. He marched over and read the

placard himself.

Apparently this space had once been the private study of Duchess Bianca Cappello and

included a secret window—una finestra segrata—through which Bianca could covertly

watch her husband deliver speeches down below in the Hall of the Five Hundred.

Brüder’s eyes searched the room again, now locating a small lattice-covered opening

discreetly hidden in the sidewall. Did they escape through there?

He stalked over and examined the opening, which appeared to be too small for

someone of Langdon’s size to get through. Brüder pressed his face to the grid and peered

through, confirming for certain that nobody had escaped this way; on the other side of

the lattice was a sheer drop, straight down several stories, to the floor of the Hall of the

Five Hundred.

So where the hell did they go?!

As Brüder turned back in to the tiny stone chamber, he felt all of the day’s frustration

mounting within him. In a rare moment of unrestrained emotion, Agent Brüder threw

back his head and let out a bellow of rage.

The noise was deafening in the tiny space.

Far below, in the Hall of the Five Hundred, tourists and police officers all spun and

stared up at the latticed opening high on the wall. From the sounds of things, the

duchess’s secret study was now being used to cage a wild animal.

Sienna Brooks and Robert Langdon stood in total darkness.

Minutes earlier, Sienna had watched Langdon cleverly use the chain to seal the rotating

map of Armenia, then turn and flee.

To her surprise, however, instead of heading down the corridor, Langdon had gone up

the steep staircase that had been marked USCITA VIETATA.

“Robert!” she whispered in confusion. “The sign said ‘No Exit’! And besides, I thought

we wanted to go down!”

“We do,” Langdon said, glancing over his shoulder. “But sometimes you need to go up

… to go down.” He gave her an encouraging wink. “Remember Satan’s navel?”

What is he talking about? Sienna bounded after him, feeling lost.

“Did you ever read Inferno?” Langdon asked.

Yes … but I think I was seven.

An instant later, it dawned on her. “Oh, Satan’s navel!” she said. “Now I remember.”

It had taken a moment, but Sienna now realized that Langdon was referring to the

finale of Dante’s Inferno. In these cantos, in order to escape hell, Dante has to climb

down the hairy stomach of the massive Satan, and when he reaches Satan’s navel—the

alleged center of the earth—the earth’s gravity suddenly switches directions, and Dante,

in order to continue climbing down to purgatory … suddenly has to start climbing up.

Sienna remembered little of the Inferno other than her disappointment in witnessing

the absurd actions of gravity at the center of the earth; apparently Dante’s genius did not

include a grasp of the physics of vector forces.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Langdon opened the lone door they found

there; on it was written: SALA DEI MODELLI DI ARCHITETTURA.

Langdon ushered her inside, closing and bolting the door behind them.

The room was small and plain, containing a series of cases that displayed wooden

models of Vasari’s architectural designs for the interior of the palazzo. Sienna barely

noticed the models. She did, however, notice that the room had no doors, no windows,

and, as advertised … no exit.

“In the mid-1300s,” Langdon whispered, “the Duke of Athens assumed power in the

palace and built this secret escape route in case he was attacked. It’s called the Duke of

Athens Stairway, and it descends to a tiny escape hatch on a side street. If we can get

there, nobody will see us exit.” He pointed to one of the models. “Look. See it there on

the side?”

He brought me up here to show me models?

Sienna shot an anxious glance at the miniature and saw the secret staircase

descending all the way from the top of the palace down to street level, stealthily hidden

between the inner and outer walls of the building.

“I can see the stairs, Robert,” Sienna said testily, “but they are on the complete

opposite side of the palace. We’ll never get over there!”

“A little faith,” he said with a lopsided grin.

A sudden crash emanating from downstairs told them that the map of Armenia had just

been breached. They stood stone-still as they listened to the footfalls of soldiers

departing down the corridor, none of them ever thinking that their quarry would climb

higher still … especially up a tiny staircase marked NO EXIT.

When the sounds below had subsided, Langdon strode with confidence across the

exhibit room, snaking through the displays, heading directly for what looked like a large

cupboard in the far wall. The cupboard was about one yard square and positioned three

feet off the floor. Without hesitation, Langdon grabbed the handle and heaved open the

door.

Sienna recoiled with surprise.

The space within appeared to be a cavernous void … as if the cupboard door were a

portal into another world. Beyond was only blackness.

“Follow me,” Langdon said.

He grabbed a lone flashlight that was hanging on the wall beside the opening. Then,

with surprising agility and strength, the professor hoisted himself up through the opening

and disappeared into the rabbit hole.

CHAPTER 46

LA SOFFITTA, LANGDON thought. The most dramatic attic on earth.

The air inside the void smelled musty and ancient, as if centuries of plaster dust had

now become so fine and light that it refused to settle and instead hung suspended in the

atmosphere. The vast space creaked and groaned, giving Langdon the sense that he had

just climbed into the belly of a living beast.

Once he had found solid footing on a broad horizontal truss chord, he raised his

flashlight, letting the beam pierce the darkness.

Spreading out before him was a seemingly endless tunnel, crisscrossed by a wooden

web of triangles and rectangles formed by the intersections of posts, beams, chords, and

other structural elements that made up the invisible skeleton of the Hall of the Five

Hundred.

This enormous attic space was one Langdon had viewed during his Nebbiolo-fogged

secret passages tour a few years ago. The cupboardlike viewing window had been cut in

the wall of the architectural-model room so visitors could inspect the models of the truss

work and then peer through the opening with a flashlight and see the real thing.

Now that Langdon was actually inside the garret, he was surprised by how much the

truss architecture resembled that of an old New England barn—traditional king post-and-

strut assembly with “Jupiter’s arrow point” connections.

Sienna had also climbed through the opening and now steadied herself on the beam

beside him, looking disoriented. Langdon swung the flashlight back and forth to show her

the unusual landscape.

From this end, the view down the length of the garret was like peering through a long

line of isosceles triangles that telescoped into the distance, extending out toward some

distant vanishing point. Beneath their feet, the garret had no floorboards, and its

horizontal supporting beams were entirely exposed, resembling a series of massive

railroad ties.

Langdon pointed straight down the long shaft, speaking in hushed tones. “This space is

directly over the Hall of the Five Hundred. If we can get to the other end, I know how to

reach the Duke of Athens Stairway.”

Sienna cast a skeptical eye into the labyrinth of beams and supports that stretched

before them. The only apparent way to advance through the garret would be to jump

between the struts like kids on a train track. The struts were large—each consisting of

numerous beams strapped together with wide iron clasps into a single powerful sheaf—

plenty large enough to balance on. The challenge, however, was that the separation

between the struts was much too far to leap across safely.

“I can’t possibly jump between those beams,” Sienna whispered.

Langdon doubted he could either, and falling would be certain death. He aimed the

flashlight down through the open space between the struts.

Eight feet below them, suspended by iron rods, hung a dusty horizontal expanse—a

floor of sorts—which extended as far as they could see. Despite its appearance of solidity,

Langdon knew the floor consisted primarily of stretched fabric covered in dust. This was

the “back side” of the Hall of the Five Hundred’s suspended ceiling—a sprawling expanse

of wooden lacunars that framed thirty-nine Vasari canvases, all mounted horizontally in a

kind of patchwork-quilt configuration.

Sienna pointed down to the dusty expanse beneath them. “Can we climb down there

and walk across?”

Not unless you want to fall through a Vasari canvas into the Hall of the Five Hundred.

“Actually, there’s a better way,” Langdon said calmly, not wanting to frighten her. He

began moving down the strut toward the central backbone of the garret.

On his previous visit, in addition to peering through the viewing window in the room of

architectural models, Langdon had explored the garret on foot, entering through a

doorway at the other end of the attic. If his wine-impaired memory served him, a sturdy

boardwalk ran along the central spine of the garret, providing tourists access to a large

viewing deck in the center of the space.

However, when Langdon arrived at the center of the strut, he found a boardwalk that

in no way resembled the one he recalled from his tour.

How much Nebbiolo did I drink that day?

Rather than a sturdy, tourist-worthy structure, he was looking at a hodgepodge of loose

planks that had been laid perpendicularly across the beams to create a rudimentary

catwalk—more of a tightrope than a bridge.

Apparently, the sturdy tourist walkway that originated at the other end extended only

as far as the central viewing platform. From there, the tourists evidently retraced their

steps. This jerry-rigged balance beam that Langdon and Sienna now faced was most

likely installed so engineers could service the remaining attic space at this end.

“Looks like we’re walking the plank,” Langdon said, eyeing the narrow boards with

uncertainty.

Sienna shrugged, unfazed. “No worse than Venice in flood season.”

Langdon realized she had a point. On his most recent research trip to Venice, St. Mark’s

Square had been under a foot of water, and he had walked from the Hotel Danieli to the

basilica on wooden planks propped between cinder blocks and inverted buckets. Of

course, the prospect of possibly getting one’s loafers wet was a far cry from that of

plunging through a Renaissance masterpiece to one’s death.

Pushing the thought from his mind, Langdon stepped out onto the narrow board with a

feigned self-assurance that he hoped would calm any worries Sienna might secretly be

harboring. Nonetheless, despite his confident exterior, his heart was pounding as he

moved across the first plank. As he neared the middle, the plank bowed beneath his

weight, creaking ominously. He pressed on, faster now, finally reaching the other side

and the relative safety of the second strut.

Exhaling, Langdon turned to shine the light for Sienna and also offer any coaxing words

she might need. She apparently needed none. As soon as his beam illuminated the plank,

she was skimming along its length with remarkable dexterity. The board barely bent

beneath her slender body, and within seconds she had joined him on the other side.

Encouraged, Langdon turned back and headed out across the next plank. Sienna waited

until he had crossed and could turn around and shine the light for her, and then she

followed, staying right with him. Settling into a steady rhythm, they pressed on—two

figures moving one after the other by the light of a single flashlight. From somewhere

beneath them, the sound of police walkie-talkies crackled up through the thin ceiling.

Langdon permitted himself a faint smile. We’re hovering above the Hall of the Five

Hundred, weightless and invisible.

“So, Robert,” Sienna whispered. “You said Ignazio told you where to find the mask?”

“He did … but in a kind of code.” Langdon quickly explained that Ignazio had

apparently not wanted to blurt out the mask’s location on the answering machine, and so

he had shared the information in a more cryptic manner. “He referenced paradise, which I

assume is an allusion to the final section of The Divine Comedy. His exact words were

‘Paradise Twenty-five.’ ”

Sienna glanced up. “He must mean Canto Twenty-five.”

“I agree,” Langdon said. A canto was the rough equivalent of a chapter, the word

harkening back to the oral tradition of “singing” epic poems. The Divine Comedy

contained precisely one hundred cantos in all, divided into three sections.

Inferno 1–34

Purgatorio 1–33

Paradiso 1–33

Paradise Twenty-five , Langdon thought, wishing his eidetic memory were strong

enough to recall the entire text. Not even close—we need to find a copy of the text.

“There’s more,” Langdon continued. “The last thing Ignazio said to me was: ‘The gates

are open to you, but you must hurry.’ ” He paused, glancing back at Sienna. “Canto

Twenty-five probably makes reference to a specific location here in Florence. Apparently,

someplace with gates.”

Sienna frowned. “But this city probably has dozens of gates.”

“Yes, which is why we need to read Canto Twenty-five of Paradise.” He gave her a

hopeful smile. “You don’t, by any chance, know the entire Divine Comedy by heart, do

you?”

She gave him a dumb look. “Fourteen thousand lines of archaic Italian that I read as a

kid?” She shook her head. “You’re the one with the freakish memory, Professor. I’m just a

doctor.”

As they pressed on, Langdon found it sad somehow that Sienna, even after all they’d

been through together, apparently still preferred to withhold the truth about her

exceptional intellect. She’s just a doctor? Langdon had to chuckle. Most humble doctor on

earth, he thought, recalling the clippings he’d read about her special skills—skills that,

unfortunately but not surprisingly, did not include total recall of one of history’s longest

epic poems.

In silence, they continued on, crossing several more beams. Finally, up ahead Langdon

saw a heartening shape in the darkness. The viewing platform! The precarious planking

on which they were walking led directly to a much sturdier structure with guardrails. If

they climbed onto the platform, they could continue on along the walkway until they

exited the garret through a doorway, which, as Langdon recalled, was very close to the

Duke of Athens Stairway.

As they neared the platform, Langdon glanced down at the ceiling suspended eight feet

below. So far all the lunettes beneath them had been similar. The upcoming lunette,

however, was massive—far larger than the others.

The Apotheosis of Cosimo I, Langdon mused.

This vast, circular lunette was Vasari’s most precious painting—the central lunette in

the entire Hall of the Five Hundred. Langdon often showed slides of this work to his

students, pointing out its similarities to The Apotheosis of Washington in the U.S. Capitol

—a humble reminder that fledgling America had adopted far more from Italy than merely

the concept of a republic.

Today, however, Langdon was more interested in hurrying past the Apotheosis than in

studying it. As he hastened his pace, he turned his head ever so slightly to whisper back

to Sienna that they were nearly there.

As he did so, his right foot missed the center of the plank and his borrowed loafer

landed half off the edge. His ankle rolled, and Langdon lurched forward, half stumbling,

half running, trying to make a quick stutter step to regain his balance.

But it was too late.

His knees hit the plank hard, and his hands strained desperately forward, trying to

reach the crossing strut. The flashlight went clattering into the dark space beneath them,

landing on the canvas, which caught it like a net. Langdon’s legs pumped, barely

propelling him to safety on the next strut as the plank fell away beneath him, landing

with a crash eight feet below on the wooden lacunar surrounding the canvas of Vasari’s

Apotheosis.

The sound echoed through the garret.

Horrified, Langdon scrambled to his feet and turned back toward Sienna.

In the dim glow of the abandoned flashlight, which lay on the canvas below, Langdon

could see that Sienna was standing on the strut behind him, now trapped, with no way

across. Her eyes conveyed what Langdon already knew. The noise of the falling plank

had almost certainly given them away.

Vayentha’s eyes bolted upward to the ornate ceiling.

“Rats in the attic?” the man with the camcorder joked nervously as the sound

reverberated down.

Big rats, Vayentha thought, gazing up at the circular painting in the center of the hall’s

ceiling. A small cloud of dust was now filtering down from between the lacunars, and

Vayentha could swear she saw a slight bulge in the canvas … almost as if someone were

pushing on it from the other side.

“Maybe one of the officers dropped his gun off the viewing platform,” the man said,

eyeing the lump in the painting. “What do you think they’re looking for? All this activity is

very exciting.”

“A viewing platform?” Vayentha demanded. “People can actually go up there?”

“Sure.” He motioned to the museum entrance. “Just inside that door is a door that

leads up to a catwalk in the attic. You can see Vasari’s truss work. It’s incredible.”

Brüder’s voice suddenly echoed again across the Hall of the Five Hundred. “So where

the hell did they go?!”

His words, like his anguished yell a little earlier, had emanated from behind a lattice

grate positioned high on the wall to Vayentha’s left. Brüder was apparently in a room

behind the grate … a full story beneath the room’s ornate ceiling.

Vayentha’s eyes climbed again to the bulge in the canvas overhead.

Rats in the attic, she thought. Trying to find a way out.

She thanked the man with the camcorder and drifted quickly toward the museum

entrance. The door was closed, but with all the officers running in and out, she suspected

that it was unlocked.

Sure enough, her instincts were correct.

CHAPTER 47

OUTSIDE IN THE piazza, amid the chaos of arriving police, a middle-aged man stood in the

shadows of the Loggia dei Lanzi, where he had been observing the activity with great

interest. The man wore Plume Paris spectacles, a paisley necktie, and a tiny gold stud in

one ear.

As he watched the commotion, he caught himself scratching at his neck again. The

man had developed a rash overnight, which seemed to be getting worse, manifesting in

small pustules on his jawline, neck, cheeks, and over his eyes.

When he glanced down at his fingernails, he saw they were bloody. He took out his

handkerchief and wiped his fingers, also dabbing the bloody pustules on his neck and

cheeks.

When he had cleaned himself up, he returned his gaze to the two black vans parked

outside the palazzo. The closest van contained two people in the backseat.

One was an armed soldier in black.

The other was an older, but very beautiful silver-haired woman wearing a blue amulet.

The soldier looked as if he were preparing a hypodermic syringe.

Inside the van, Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey gazed absently out at the palazzo, wondering about

how this crisis had deteriorated to such an extent.

“Ma’am,” a deep voice said beside her.

She turned groggily to the soldier accompanying her. He was gripping her forearm and

holding up a syringe. “Just be still.”

The sharp stab of a needle pierced her flesh.

The soldier completed the injection. “Now go back to sleep.”

As she closed her eyes, she could have sworn she saw a man studying her from the

shadows. He wore designer glasses and a preppie necktie. His face was rashy and red.

For a moment she thought she knew him, but when she opened her eyes for another

look, the man had disappeared.

CHAPTER 48

IN THE DARKNESS of the garret, Langdon and Sienna were now separated by a twenty-foot

expanse of open air. Eight feet beneath them, the fallen plank had come to rest across

the wooden framing that supported the canvas bearing Vasari’s Apotheosis. The large

flashlight, still glowing, was resting on the canvas itself, creating a small indentation, like

a stone on a trampoline.

“The plank behind you,” Langdon whispered. “Can you drag it across to reach this

strut?”

Sienna eyed the plank. “Not without the other end falling into the canvas.”

Langdon had feared as much; the last thing they needed now was to send a two-by-six

crashing through a Vasari canvas.

“I’ve got an idea,” Sienna said, now moving sideways along the strut, heading for the

sidewall. Langdon followed on his beam, the footing becoming more treacherous with

each step as they ventured away from the flashlight beam. By the time they reached the

sidewall, they were almost entirely in darkness.

“Down there,” Sienna whispered, pointing into the obscurity below them. “At the edge

of the frame. It’s got to be mounted to the wall. It should hold me.”

Before Langdon could protest, Sienna was climbing down off the strut, using a series of

supporting beams as a ladder. She eased herself down onto the edge of the wooden

lacunar. It creaked once, but held. Then, inching along the wall, Sienna began moving in

Langdon’s direction as if she were inching across the ledge of a high building. The lacunar

creaked again.

Thin ice, Langdon thought. Stay near shore.

As Sienna reached the halfway point, approaching the strut on which he stood in the

darkness, Langdon felt a sudden renewed hope that they might indeed get out of here in

time.

Suddenly, somewhere in the darkness ahead, a door slammed and he heard fast-

moving footsteps approaching along the walkway. The beam of a flashlight now

appeared, sweeping the area, getting closer every second. Langdon felt his hopes sink.

Someone was coming their way—moving along the main walkway and cutting off their

escape route.

“Sienna, keep going,” he whispered, reacting on instinct. “Continue the entire length of

the wall. There’s an exit at the far end. I’ll run interference.”

“No!” Sienna whispered urgently. “Robert, come back!”

But Langdon was already on the move, heading back along the strut toward the central

spine of the garret, leaving Sienna in the darkness, inching across the sidewall, eight feet

below him.

When Langdon arrived at the center of the garret, a faceless silhouette with a flashlight

had just arrived on the raised viewing platform. The person halted at the low guardrail

and aimed the flashlight beam down into Langdon’s eyes.

The glare was blinding, and Langdon immediately raised his arms in surrender. He

could not have felt more vulnerable—balanced high above the Hall of the Five Hundred,

blinded by a bright light.

Langdon waited for a gunshot or for an authoritative command, but there was only

silence. After a moment the beam swung away from his face and began probing the

darkness behind him, apparently looking for something … or someone else. As the beam

left his eyes, Langdon could just make out the silhouette of the person now blocking his

escape route. It was a woman, lean and dressed all in black. He had no doubt that

beneath her baseball cap was a head of spiked hair.

Langdon’s muscles tightened instinctively as his mind flooded with images of Dr.

Marconi dying on the hospital floor.

She found me. She’s here to finish the job.

Langdon flashed on an image of Greek free divers swimming deep into a tunnel, far

past the point of no return, and then colliding with a stony dead end.

The assassin swung her flashlight beam back down into Langdon’s eyes.

“Mr. Langdon,” she whispered. “Where is your friend?”

Langdon felt a chill. This killer is here for both of us.

Langdon made a show of glancing away from Sienna, over his shoulder into the

darkness from which they’d come. “She has nothing to do with this. You want me.”

Langdon prayed that Sienna was now making progress along the wall. If she could

sneak beyond the viewing platform, she could then quietly cross back to the central

boardwalk, behind the spike-haired woman, and move toward the door.

The assassin again raised her light and scanned the empty garret behind him. With the

glare momentarily out of his eyes, Langdon caught a sudden glimpse of a form in the

darkness behind her.

Oh God, no!

Sienna was indeed making her way across a strut in the direction of the central

boardwalk, but unfortunately, she was only ten yards behind their attacker.

Sienna, no! You’re too close! She’ll hear you!

The beam returned to Langdon’s eyes again.

“Listen carefully, Professor,” the assassin whispered. “If you want to live, I suggest you

trust me. My mission has been terminated. I have no reason to harm you. You and I are

on the same team now, and I may know how to help you.”

Langdon was barely listening, his thoughts focused squarely on Sienna, who was now

faintly visible in profile, climbing deftly up onto the walkway behind the viewing platform,

entirely too close to the woman with the gun.

Run! he willed her. Get the hell out of here!

Sienna, however, to Langdon’s alarm, held her ground, crouching low in the shadows

and watching in silence.

Vayentha’s eyes probed the darkness behind Langdon. Where the hell did she go? Did

they separate?

Vayentha had to find a way to keep the fleeing couple out of Brüder’s hands. It’s my

only hope.

“Sienna?!” Vayentha ventured in a throaty whisper. “If you can hear me, listen

carefully. You do not want to be captured by the men downstairs. They will not be

lenient. I know an escape route. I can help you. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” Langdon challenged, his voice suddenly loud enough that anyone nearby

could hear him. “You’re a killer!”

Sienna is nearby, Vayentha realized. Langdon is talking to her … trying to warn her.

Vayentha tried again. “Sienna, the situation is complicated, but I can get you out of

here. Consider your options. You’re trapped. You have no choice.”

“She has a choice,” Langdon called out loudly. “And she’s smart enough to run as far

from you as possible.”

“Everything’s changed,” Vayentha insisted. “I have no reason to hurt either of you.”

“You killed Dr. Marconi! And I’m guessing you’re also the one who shot me in the

head!”

Vayentha knew that the man was never going to believe she had no intention of killing

him.

The time for talking is over. There’s nothing I can say to convince him.

Without hesitation, she reached into her leather jacket and extracted the silenced

handgun.

Motionless in the shadows, Sienna remained crouched on the walkway no more than ten

yards behind the woman who had just confronted Langdon. Even in the dark, the

woman’s silhouette was unmistakable. To Sienna’s horror, she was brandishing the same

weapon she had used on Dr. Marconi.

She’s going to fire, Sienna knew, sensing the woman’s body language.

Sure enough, the woman took two threatening steps toward Langdon, stopping at the

low railing that enclosed the viewing platform above Vasari’s Apotheosis. The assassin

was now as close to Langdon as she could get. She raised the gun and pointed it directly

at Langdon’s chest.

“This will only hurt for an instant,” she said, “but it’s my only choice.”

Sienna reacted on instinct.

The unexpected vibration in the boards beneath Vayentha’s feet was just enough to

cause her to turn slightly as she was firing. Even as her weapon discharged, she knew it

was no longer pointed at Langdon.

Something was approaching behind her.

Approaching fast.

Vayentha spun in place, swinging her weapon 180 degrees toward her attacker, and a

flash of blond hair glinted in the darkness as someone collided with Vayentha at full

speed. The gun hissed again, but the person had crouched below barrel level in order to

apply a forceful upward body check.

Vayentha’s feet left the floor and her midsection crashed hard into the low railing of the

viewing platform. As her torso was propelled out over the railing, she flailed her arms,

trying to grab onto anything to stop her fall, but it was too late. She went over the edge.

Vayentha fell through the darkness, bracing herself for the collision with the dusty floor

that lay eight feet beneath the platform. Strangely, though, her landing was softer than

she’d imagined … as if she had been caught by a cloth hammock, which now sagged

beneath her weight.

Disoriented, Vayentha lay on her back and stared up at her attacker. Sienna Brooks

was looking down at her over the railing. Stunned, Vayentha opened her mouth to speak,

but suddenly, just beneath her, there was a loud ripping sound.

The cloth that was supporting her weight tore open.

Vayentha was falling again.

This time she fell for three very long seconds, during which she found herself staring

upward at a ceiling that was covered with beautiful paintings. The painting directly above

her—a massive circular canvas depicting Cosimo I encircled by cherubs on a heavenly

cloud—now showed a jagged dark tear that cut through its center.

Then, with a sudden crash, Vayentha’s entire world vanished into blackness.

High above, frozen in disbelief, Robert Langdon peered through the torn Apotheosis into

the cavernous space below. On the stone floor of the Hall of the Five Hundred, the spike-

haired woman lay motionless, a dark pool of blood quickly spreading from her head. She

still had the gun clutched in her hand.

Langdon raised his eyes to Sienna, who was also staring down, transfixed by the grim

scene below. Sienna’s expression was one of utter shock. “I didn’t mean to …”

“You reacted on instinct,” Langdon whispered. “She was about to kill me.”

From down below, shouts of alarm filtered up through the torn canvas.

Gently, Langdon guided Sienna away from the railing. “We need to keep moving.”

CHAPTER 49

IN THE SECRET study of Duchess Bianca Cappello, Agent Brüder had heard a sickening thud

followed by a growing commotion in the Hall of the Five Hundred. He rushed to the grate

in the wall and peered through it. The scene on the elegant stone floor below took him

several seconds to process.

The pregnant museum administrator had arrived beside him at the grate, immediately

covering her mouth in mute terror at the sight below—a crumpled figure surrounded by

panicked tourists. As the woman’s gaze shifted slowly upward to the ceiling of the Hall of

the Five Hundred, she let out a pained whimper. Brüder looked up, following her gaze to

a circular ceiling panel—a painted canvas with a large tear across the center.

He turned to the woman. “How do we get up there!?”

At the other end of the building, Langdon and Sienna descended breathlessly from the

attic and burst through a doorway. Within a matter of seconds, Langdon had found the

small alcove, deftly hidden behind a crimson curtain. He had recalled it clearly from his

secret passages tour.

The Duke of Athens Stairway.

The sound of running footsteps and shouting seemed to be coming from all directions

now, and Langdon knew their time was short. He pulled aside the curtain, and he and

Sienna slipped through onto a small landing.

Without a word, they began to descend the stone staircase. The passage had been

designed as a series of frighteningly narrow switchback stairs. The deeper they went, the

tighter it seemed to get. Just as Langdon felt as if the walls were moving in to crush him,

thankfully, they could go no farther.

Ground level.

The space at the bottom of the stairs was a tiny stone chamber, and although its exit

had to be one of the smallest doors on earth, it was a welcome sight. Only about four

feet high, the door was made of heavy wood with iron rivets and a heavy interior bolt to

keep people out.

“I can hear street sounds beyond the door,” Sienna whispered, still looking shaken.

“What’s on the other side?”

“The Via della Ninna,” Langdon replied, picturing the crowded pedestrian walkway. “But

there may be police.”

“They won’t recognize us. They’ll be looking for a blond girl and a dark-haired man.”

Langdon eyed her strangely. “Which is precisely what we are …”

Sienna shook her head, a melancholy resolve crossing her face. “I didn’t want you to

see me like this, Robert, but unfortunately it’s what I look like at the moment.” Abruptly,

Sienna reached up and grabbed a handful of her blond hair. Then she yanked down, and

all of her hair slid off in a single motion.

Langdon recoiled, startled both by the fact that Sienna wore a wig and by her altered

appearance without it. Sienna Brooks was in fact totally bald, her bare scalp smooth and

pale, like a cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy. On top of it all, she’s ill?

“I know,” she said. “Long story. Now bend down.” She held up the wig, clearly

intending to put it on Langdon’s head.

Is she serious? Langdon halfheartedly bent over, and Sienna wedged the blond hair

onto his head. The wig barely fit, but she arranged it as best as she could. Then she

stepped back and assessed him. Not quite satisfied, she reached up, loosened his tie, and

slipped the loop up onto his forehead, retightening it like a bandanna and securing the ill-

fitting wig to his head.

Sienna now set to work on herself, rolling up her pant legs and pushing her socks down

around her ankles. When she stood up, she had a sneer on her lips. The lovely Sienna

Brooks was now a punk-rock skinhead. The former Shakespearean actress’s

transformation was startling.

“Remember,” she said, “ninety percent of personal recognition is body language, so

when you move, move like an aging rocker.”

Aging, I can do, Langdon thought. Rocker, I’m not so sure.

Before Langdon could argue the point, Sienna had unbolted the tiny door and swung it

open. She ducked low and exited onto the crowded cobblestone street. Langdon followed,

nearly on all fours as he emerged into the daylight.

Aside from a few startled glances at the mismatched couple emerging from the tiny

door in the foundation of Palazzo Vecchio, nobody gave them a second look. Within

seconds, Langdon and Sienna were moving east, swallowed up by the crowd.

The man in the Plume Paris eyeglasses picked at his bleeding skin as he snaked through

the crowd, keeping a safe distance behind Robert Langdon and Sienna Brooks. Despite

their clever disguises, he had spotted them emerging from the tiny door on the Via della

Ninna and had immediately known who they were.

He had tailed them only a few blocks before he got winded, his chest aching acutely,

forcing him to take shallow breaths. He felt like he’d been punched in the sternum.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forced his attention back to Langdon and Sienna

as he continued to follow them through the streets of Florence.

CHAPTER 50

THE MORNING SUN had fully risen now, casting long shadows down the narrow canyons that

snaked between the buildings of old Florence. Shopkeepers had begun throwing open the

metal grates that protected their shops and bars, and the air was heavy with the aromas

of morning espresso and freshly baked cornetti.

Despite a gnawing hunger, Langdon kept moving. I’ve got to find the mask … and see

what’s hidden on the back.

As Langdon led Sienna northward along the slender Via dei Leoni, he was having a

hard time getting used to the sight of her bald head. Her radically altered appearance

reminded him that he barely knew her. They were moving in the direction of Piazza del

Duomo—the square where Ignazio Busoni had been found dead after placing his final

phone call.

Robert, Ignazio had managed to say, breathless. What you seek is safely hidden. The

gates are open to you, but you must hurry. Paradise Twenty-five. Godspeed.

Paradise Twenty-five , Langdon repeated to himself, still puzzled that Ignazio Busoni

had recalled Dante’s text well enough to reference a specific canto off the top of his head.

Something about that canto was apparently memorable to Busoni. Whatever it was,

Langdon knew he would find out soon enough, as soon as he laid his hands on a copy of

the text, which he could easily do at any number of locations up ahead.

His shoulder-length wig was beginning to itch now, and though he felt somewhat

ridiculous in his disguise, he had to admit that Sienna’s impromptu styling had been an

effective ruse. Nobody had given them a second look, not even the police reinforcements

who had just rushed past them en route to the Palazzo Vecchio.

Sienna had been walking in total silence beside him for several minutes, and Langdon

glanced over to make sure she was okay. She seemed miles away, probably trying to

accept the fact that she had just killed the woman who had been chasing them.

“Lira for your thoughts,” he ventured lightly, hoping to pull her mind from the image of

the spike-haired woman lying dead on the palazzo floor.

Sienna emerged slowly from her contemplations. “I was thinking of Zobrist,” she said

slowly. “Trying to recall anything else I might know about him.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “Most of what I know is from a controversial essay he wrote a few years

ago. It really stayed with me. Among the medical community, it instantly went viral.” She

winced. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”

Langdon gave a grim chuckle. “Go on.”

“His essay essentially declared that the human race was on the brink of extinction, and

that unless we had a catastrophic event that precipitously decreased global population

growth, our species would not survive another hundred years.”

Langdon turned and stared at her. “A single century?”

“It was a pretty stark thesis. The predicted time frame was substantially shorter than

previous estimates, but it was supported by some very potent scientific data. He made a

lot of enemies by declaring that all doctors should stop practicing medicine because

extending the human life span was only exacerbating the population problem.”

Langdon now understood why the article spread wildly through the medical community.

“Not surprisingly,” Sienna continued, “Zobrist was immediately attacked from all sides—

politicians, clergy, the World Health Organization—all of whom derided him as a

doomsayer lunatic who was simply trying to cause panic. They took particular umbrage at

his statement that today’s youth, if they chose to reproduce, would have offspring that

literally would witness the end of the human race. Zobrist illustrated his point with a

‘Doomsday Clock,’ which showed that if the entire span of human life on earth were

compressed into a single hour … we are now in its final seconds.”

“I’ve actually seen that clock online,” Langdon said.

“Yes, well, it’s his, and it caused quite an uproar. The biggest backlash against Zobrist,

however, came when he declared that his advances in genetic engineering would be far

more helpful to mankind if they were used not to cure disease, but rather to create it.”

“What?!”

“Yes, he argued that his technology should be used to limit population growth by

creating hybrid strains of disease that our modern medicine would be unable to cure.”

Langdon felt a rising dread as his mind conjured images of strange, hybrid “designer

viruses” that, once released, were totally unstoppable.

“Over a few short years,” Sienna said, “Zobrist went from being the toast of the

medical world to being a total outcast. An anathema.” She paused, a look of compassion

crossing her face. “It’s really no wonder he snapped and killed himself. Even sadder

because his thesis is probably correct.”

Langdon almost fell over. “I’m sorry—you think he’s right?!”

Sienna gave him a solemn shrug. “Robert, speaking from a purely scientific standpoint

—all logic, no heart—I can tell you without a doubt that without some kind of drastic

change, the end of our species is coming. And it’s coming fast. It won’t be fire, brimstone,

apocalypse, or nuclear war … it will be total collapse due to the number of people on the

planet. The mathematics is indisputable.”

Langdon stiffened.

“I’ve studied a fair amount of biology,” she said, “and it’s quite normal for a species to

go extinct simply as a result of overpopulating its environment. Picture a colony of surface

algae living in a tiny pond in the forest, enjoying the pond’s perfect balance of nutrients.

Unchecked, they reproduce so wildly that they quickly cover the pond’s entire surface,

blotting out the sun and thereby preventing the growth of the nutrients in the pond.

Having sapped everything possible from their environment, the algae quickly die and

disappear without a trace.” She gave a heavy sigh. “A similar fate could easily await

mankind. Far sooner and faster than any of us imagine.”

Langdon felt deeply unsettled. “But … that seems impossible.”

“Not impossible, Robert, just unthinkable. The human mind has a primitive ego defense

mechanism that negates all realities that produce too much stress for the brain to handle.

It’s called denial.”

“I’ve heard of denial,” Langdon quipped blithely, “but I don’t think it exists.”

Sienna rolled her eyes. “Cute, but believe me, it’s very real. Denial is a critical part of

the human coping mechanism. Without it, we would all wake up terrified every morning

about all the ways we could die. Instead, our minds block out our existential fears by

focusing on stresses we can handle—like getting to work on time or paying our taxes. If

we have wider, existential fears, we jettison them very quickly, refocusing on simple

tasks and daily trivialities.”

Langdon recalled a recent Web-tracking study of students at some Ivy League

universities which revealed that even highly intellectual users displayed an instinctual

tendency toward denial. According to the study, the vast majority of university students,

after clicking on a depressing news article about arctic ice melt or species extinction,

would quickly exit that page in favor of something trivial that purged their minds of fear;

favorite choices included sports highlights, funny cat videos, and celebrity gossip.

“In ancient mythology,” Langdon offered, “a hero in denial is the ultimate manifestation

of hubris and pride. No man is more prideful than he who believes himself immune to the

dangers of the world. Dante clearly agreed, denouncing pride as the worst of the seven

deadly sins … and punished the prideful in the deepest ring of the inferno.”

Sienna reflected a moment and then continued. “Zobrist’s article accused many of the

world’s leaders of being in extreme denial … putting their heads in the sand. He was

particularly critical of the World Health Organization.”

“I bet that went over well.”

“They reacted by equating him with a religious zealot on a street corner holding a sign

that says ‘The End Is Near.’ ”

“Harvard Square has a couple of those.”

“Yes, and we all ignore them because none of us can imagine it will happen. But

believe me, just because the human mind can’t imagine something happening … doesn’t

mean it won’t.”

“You almost sound like you’re a fan of Zobrist’s.”

“I’m a fan of the truth,” she replied forcefully, “even if it’s painfully hard to accept.”

Langdon fell silent, again feeling strangely isolated from Sienna at the moment, trying

to understand her bizarre combination of passion and detachment.

Sienna glanced over at him, her face softening. “Robert, look, I’m not saying Zobrist is

correct that a plague that kills half the world’s people is the answer to overpopulation.

Nor am I saying we should stop curing the sick. What I am saying is that our current path

is a pretty simple formula for destruction. Population growth is an exponential

progression occurring within a system of finite space and limited resources. The end will

arrive very abruptly. Our experience will not be that of slowly running out of gas … it will

be more like driving off a cliff.”

Langdon exhaled, trying to process everything he had just heard.

“Speaking of which,” she added, somberly pointing up in the air to their right, “I’m

pretty sure that’s where Zobrist jumped.”

Langdon glanced up and saw that they were just passing the austere stone facade of

the Bargello Museum to their right. Behind it, the tapered spire of the Badia tower rose

above the surrounding structures. He stared at the top of the tower, wondering why

Zobrist had jumped and hoped to hell it wasn’t because the man had done something

terrible and hadn’t wanted to face what was coming.

“Critics of Zobrist,” Sienna said, “like to point out how paradoxical it is that many of the

genetic technologies he developed are now extending life expectancy dramatically.”

“Which only compounds the population problem.”

“Exactly. Zobrist once said publicly that he wished he could put the genie back in the

bottle and erase some of his contributions to human longevity. I suppose that makes

sense ideologically. The longer we live, the more our resources go to supporting the

elderly and ailing.”

Langdon nodded. “I’ve read that in the U.S. some sixty percent of health care costs go

to support patients during the last six months of their lives.”

“True, and while our brains say, ‘This is insane,’ our hearts say, ‘Keep Grandma alive as

long as we can.’ ”

Langdon nodded. “It’s the conflict between Apollo and Dionysus—a famous dilemma in

mythology. It’s the age-old battle between mind and heart, which seldom want the same

thing.”

The mythological reference, Langdon had heard, was now being used in AA meetings

to describe the alcoholic who stares at a glass of alcohol, his brain knowing it will harm

him, but his heart craving the comfort it will provide. The message apparently was: Don’t

feel alone—even the gods were conflicted.

“Who needs agathusia?” Sienna whispered suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

Sienna glanced up. “I finally remembered the name of Zobrist’s essay. It was called:

‘Who Needs Agathusia?’ ”

Langdon had never heard the word agathusia, but took his best guess based on its

Greek roots—agathos and thusia. “Agathusia … would be a ‘good sacrifice’?”

“Almost. Its actual meaning is ‘a self-sacrifice for the common good.’ ” She paused.

“Otherwise known as benevolent suicide.”

Langdon had indeed heard this term before—once in relation to a bankrupt father who

killed himself so his family could collect his life insurance, and a second time to describe a

remorseful serial killer who ended his life fearing he couldn’t control his impulse to kill.

The most chilling example Langdon recalled, however, was in the 1967 novel Logan’s

Run, which depicted a future society in which everyone gladly agreed to commit suicide

at age twenty-one—thus fully enjoying their youth while not letting their numbers or old

age stress the planet’s limited resources. If Langdon recalled correctly, the movie version

of Logan’s Run had increased the “termination age” from twenty-one to thirty, no doubt in

an attempt to make the film more palatable to the box office’s crucial eighteen-to-

twenty-five demographic.

“So, Zobrist’s essay …” Langdon said. “I’m not sure I understand the title. ‘Who Needs

Agathusia?’ Was he saying it sarcastically? As in who needs benevolent suicide … we all

do?”

“Actually no, the title is a pun.”

Langdon shook his head, not seeing it.

“Who needs suicide—as in the W-H-O—the World Health Organization. In his essay,

Zobrist railed against the director of the WHO—Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey—who has been

there forever and, according to Zobrist, is not taking population control seriously. His

article was saying that the WHO would be better off if Director Sinskey killed herself.”

“Compassionate guy.”

“The perils of being a genius, I guess. Oftentimes, those special brains, the ones that

are capable of focusing more intently than others, do so at the expense of emotional

maturity.”

Langdon pictured the articles he had seen about the young Sienna, the child prodigy

with the 208 IQ and off-the-chart intellectual function. Langdon wondered if, in talking

about Zobrist, she was also, on some level, talking about herself; he also wondered how

long she would choose to keep her secret.

Up ahead, Langdon spotted the landmark he had been looking for. After crossing the

Via dei Leoni, Langdon led her to the intersection of an exceptionally narrow street—

more of an alleyway. The sign overhead read VIA DANTE ALIGHIERI.

“It sounds like you know a lot about the human brain,” Langdon said. “Was that your

area of concentration in medical school?”

“No, but when I was a kid, I read a lot. I became interested in brain science because I

had some … medical issues.”

Langdon shot her a curious look, hoping she would continue.

“My brain …” Sienna said quietly. “It grew differently from most kids’, and it caused

some … problems. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what was wrong with me, and

in the process I learned a lot about neuroscience.” She caught Langdon’s eye. “And yes,

my baldness is related to my medical condition.”

Langdon averted his eyes, embarrassed he’d asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’ve learned to live with it.”

As they moved into the cold air of the shadowed alleyway, Langdon considered

everything he had just learned about Zobrist and his alarming philosophical positions.

A recurring question nagged at him. “These soldiers,” Langdon began. “The ones trying

to kill us. Who are they? It makes no sense. If Zobrist has put a potential plague out

there, wouldn’t everyone be on the same side, working to stop its release?”

“Not necessarily. Zobrist may be a pariah in the medical community, but he probably

has a legion of devout fans of his ideology—people who agree that a culling is a

necessary evil to save the planet. For all we know, these soldiers are trying to ensure

that Zobrist’s vision is realized.”

Zobrist’s own private army of disciples? Langdon considered the possibility. Admittedly,

history was full of zealots and cults who killed themselves because of all kinds of crazy

notions—a belief that their leader is the Messiah, a belief that a spaceship is waiting for

them behind the moon, a belief that Judgment Day is imminent. The speculation about

population control was at least grounded in science, and yet something about these

soldiers still didn’t feel right to Langdon.

“I just can’t believe that a bunch of trained soldiers would knowingly agree to kill

innocent masses … all the while fearing they might get sick and die themselves.”

Sienna shot him a puzzled look. “Robert, what do you think soldiers do when they go to

war? They kill innocent people and risk their own death. Anything is possible when people

believe in a cause.”

“A cause? Releasing a plague?”

Sienna glanced at him, her brown eyes probing. “Robert, the cause is not releasing a

plague … it’s saving the world.” She paused. “One of the passages in Bertrand Zobrist’s

essay that got a lot of people talking was a very pointed hypothetical question. I want

you to answer it.”

“What’s the question?”

“Zobrist asked the following: If you could throw a switch and randomly kill half the

population on earth, would you do it?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. But what if you were told that if you didn’t throw that switch right now, the

human race would be extinct in the next hundred years?” She paused. “Would you throw

it then? Even if it meant you might murder friends, family, and possibly even yourself?”

“Sienna, I can’t possibly—”

“It’s a hypothetical question,” she said. “Would you kill half the population today in

order to save our species from extinction?”

Langdon felt deeply disturbed by the macabre subject they were discussing, and so he

was grateful to see a familiar red banner hanging on the side of a stone building just

ahead.

“Look,” he announced, pointing. “We’re here.”

Sienna shook her head. “Like I said. Denial.”

CHAPTER 51

THE CASA DI Dante is located on the Via Santa Margherita and is easily identified by the

large banner suspended from the stone facade partway up the alleyway: MUSEO CASA DI

DANTE.

Sienna eyed the banner with uncertainty. “We’re going to Dante’s house?”

“Not exactly,” Langdon said. “Dante lived around the corner. This is more of a Dante …

museum.” Langdon had ventured inside the place once, curious about the art collection,

which turned out to be no more than reproductions of famous Dante-related works from

around the world, and yet it was interesting to see them all gathered together under one

roof.

Sienna looked suddenly hopeful. “And you think they have an ancient copy of The

Divine Comedy on display?”

Langdon chuckled. “No, but I know they have a gift shop that sells huge posters with

the entire text of Dante’s Divine Comedy printed in microscopic type.”

She gave him a slightly appalled glance.

“I know. But it’s better than nothing. The only problem is that my eyes are going, so

you’ll have to read the fine print.”

“È chiusa,” an old man called out, seeing them approach the door. “È il giorno di

riposo.”

Closed for the Sabbath? Langdon felt suddenly disoriented again. He looked at Sienna.

“Isn’t today … Monday?”

She nodded. “Florentines prefer a Monday Sabbath.”

Langdon groaned, suddenly recalling the city’s unusual weekly calendar. Because

tourist dollars flowed most heavily on weekends, many Florentine merchants chose to

move the Christian “day of rest” from Sunday to Monday to prevent the Sabbath from

cutting too deeply into their bottom line.

Unfortunately, Langdon realized, this probably also ruled out his other option: the

Paperback Exchange—one of Langdon’s favorite Florentine bookshops—which would

definitely have had copies of The Divine Comedy on hand.

“Any other ideas?” Sienna said.

Langdon thought a long moment and finally nodded. “There’s a site just around the

corner where Dante enthusiasts gather. I bet someone there has a copy we can borrow.”

“It’s probably closed, too,” Sienna warned. “Almost every place in town moves the

Sabbath away from Sunday.”

“This place wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” Langdon replied with a smile. “It’s a

church.”

Fifty yards behind them, lurking among the crowd, the man with the skin rash and gold

earring leaned on a wall, savoring this chance to catch his breath. His breathing was not

getting any better, and the rash on his face was nearly impossible to ignore, especially

the sensitive skin just above his eyes. He took off his Plume Paris glasses and gently

rubbed his sleeve across his eye sockets, trying not to break the skin. When he replaced

his glasses, he could see his quarry moving on. Forcing himself to follow, he continued

after them, breathing as gently as possible.

Several blocks behind Langdon and Sienna, inside the Hall of the Five Hundred, Agent

Brüder stood over the broken body of the all-too-familiar spike-haired woman who was

now lying sprawled out on the floor. He knelt down and retrieved her handgun, carefully

removing the clip for safety before handing it off to one of his men.

The pregnant museum administrator, Marta Alvarez, stood off to one side. She had just

relayed to Brüder a brief but startling account of what had transpired with Robert

Langdon since the previous night … including a single piece of information that Brüder

was still trying to process.

Langdon claims to have amnesia.

Brüder pulled out his phone and dialed. The line at the other end rang three times

before his boss answered, sounding distant and unsteady.

“Yes, Agent Brüder? Go ahead.”

Brüder spoke slowly to ensure that his every word was understood. “We are still trying

to locate Langdon and the girl, but there’s been another development.” Brüder paused.

“And if it’s true … it changes everything.”

The provost paced his office, fighting the temptation to pour himself another Scotch,

forcing himself to face this growing crisis head-on.

Never in his career had he betrayed a client or failed to keep an agreement, and he

most certainly had no intention of starting now. At the same time he suspected that he

might have gotten himself tangled up in a scenario whose purpose diverged from what he

had originally imagined.

One year ago, the famous geneticist Bertrand Zobrist had come aboard The Mendacium

and requested a safe haven in which to work. At that time the provost imagined that

Zobrist was planning to develop a secret medical procedure whose patenting would

increase Zobrist’s vast fortune. It would not be the first time the Consortium had been

hired by paranoid scientists and engineers who preferred working in extreme isolation to

prevent their valuable ideas from being stolen.

With that in mind, the provost accepted the client and was not surprised when he

learned that the people at the World Health Organization had begun searching for him.

Nor did he give it a second thought when the director of the WHO herself—Dr. Elizabeth

Sinskey—seemed to make it her personal mission to locate their client.

The Consortium has always faced powerful adversaries.

As agreed, the Consortium carried out their agreement with Zobrist, no questions

asked, thwarting Sinskey’s efforts to find him for the entire length of the scientist’s

contract.

Almost the entire length.

Less than a week before the contract was to expire, Sinskey had somehow located

Zobrist in Florence and moved in, harassing and chasing him until he committed suicide.

For the first time in his career, the provost had failed to provide the protection he had

agreed to, and it haunted him … along with the bizarre circumstances of Zobrist’s death.

He committed suicide … rather than being captured?

What the hell was Zobrist protecting?

In the aftermath of his death, Sinskey had confiscated an item from Zobrist’s safe-

deposit box, and now the Consortium was locked in a head-to-head battle with Sinskey in

Florence—a high-stakes treasure hunt to find …

To find what?

The provost felt himself glance instinctively toward the bookshelf and the heavy tome

given to him two weeks ago by the wild-eyed Zobrist.

The Divine Comedy.

The provost retrieved the book and carried it back to his desk, where he dropped it

with a heavy thud. With unsteady fingers, he opened the cover to the first page and

again read the inscription.

My dear friend, thank you for helping me find the path.

The world thanks you, too.

First off, the provost thought, you and I were never friends.

He read the inscription three more times. Then he turned his eyes to the bright red

circle his client had scrawled on his calendar, highlighting tomorrow’s date.

The world thanks you?

He turned and gazed out at the horizon a long moment.

In the silence, he thought about the video and heard the voice of facilitator Knowlton

from his earlier phone call. I thought you might want to preview it before upload … the

content is quite disturbing.

The call still puzzled the provost. Knowlton was one of his best facilitators, and making

such a request was entirely out of character. He knew better than to suggest an override

of the compartmentalization protocol.

After replacing The Divine Comedy on the shelf, the provost walked to the Scotch

bottle and poured himself half a glass.

He had a very difficult decision to make.

CHAPTER 52

KNOWN AS THE Church of Dante, the sanctuary of Chiesa di Santa Margherita dei Cerchi is

more of a chapel than a church. The tiny, one-room house of worship is a popular

destination for devotees of Dante who revere it as the sacred ground on which transpired

two pivotal moments in the great poet’s life.

According to lore, it was here at this church, at the age of nine, that Dante first laid

eyes on Beatrice Portinari—the woman with whom he fell in love at first sight, and for

whom his heart ached his entire life. To Dante’s great anguish, Beatrice married another

man, and then died at the youthful age of twenty-four.

It was also in this church, some years later, that Dante married Gemma Donati—a

woman who, even by the account of the great writer and poet Boccaccio, was a poor

choice of wife for Dante. Despite having children, the couple showed little signs of

affection for each other, and after Dante’s exile, neither spouse seemed eager to see the

other ever again.

The love of Dante’s life had always been and would always remain the departed

Beatrice Portinari, whom Dante had scarcely known, and yet whose memory was so

overpowering for him that her ghost became the muse that inspired his greatest works.

Dante’s celebrated volume of poetry La Vita Nuova overflows with flattering verses

about “the blessed Beatrice.” More worshipful still, The Divine Comedy casts Beatrice as

none other than the savior who guides Dante through paradise. In both works, Dante

longs for his unattainable lady.

Nowadays, the Church of Dante has become a shrine for the brokenhearted who suffer

from unrequited love. The tomb of young Beatrice herself is inside the church, and her

simple sepulchre has become a pilgrimage destination for both Dante fans and heartsick

lovers alike.

This morning, as Langdon and Sienna wound their way through old Florence toward the

church, the streets continued to narrow until they became little more than glorified

pedestrian walkways. An occasional local car appeared, inching through the maze and

forcing pedestrians to flatten themselves against the buildings as it passed.

“The church is just around the corner,” Langdon told Sienna, hopeful that one of the

tourists inside would be able to help them. He knew their chances of finding a good

Samaritan were better now that Sienna had taken back her wig in exchange for

Langdon’s jacket, and both had reverted to their normal selves, transforming from rocker

and skinhead … to college professor and clean-cut young woman.

Langdon was relieved once again to feel like himself.

As they strode into an even tighter alleyway—the Via del Presto—Langdon scanned the

various doorways. The entrance of the church was always tricky to locate because the

building itself was very small, unadorned, and wedged tightly between two other

buildings. One could easily walk past it without even noticing. Oddly, it was often easier

to locate this church using not one’s eyes … but one’s ears.

One of the peculiarities of La Chiesa di Santa Margherita dei Cerchi was that it hosted

frequent concerts, and when no concert was scheduled, the church piped in recordings of

those concerts so visitors could enjoy the music at any time.

As anticipated, as they advanced down the alleyway, Langdon began to hear the thin

strains of recorded music, which grew steadily louder, until he and Sienna were standing

before the inconspicuous entrance. The only indication that this was indeed the correct

location was a tiny sign—the antithesis of the bright red banner at the Museo Casa di

Dante—that humbly announced that this was the church of Dante and Beatrice.

When Langdon and Sienna stepped off the street into the dark confines of the church,

the air grew cooler and the music grew louder. The interior was stark and simple …

smaller than Langdon recalled. There was only a handful of tourists, mingling, writing in

journals, sitting quietly in the pews enjoying the music, or examining the curious

collection of artwork.

With the exception of the Madonna-themed altarpiece by Neri di Bicci, almost all of the

original art in this chapel had been replaced with contemporary pieces representing the

two celebrities—Dante and Beatrice—the reasons most visitors sought out this tiny

chapel. Most of the paintings depicted Dante’s longing gaze during his famous first

encounter with Beatrice, during which the poet, by his own account, instantly fell in love.

The paintings were of widely varying quality, and most, to Langdon’s taste, seemed

kitschy and out of place. In one such rendering, Dante’s iconic red cap with earflaps

looked like something Dante had stolen from Santa Claus. Nonetheless, the recurring

theme of the poet’s yearning gaze at his muse, Beatrice, left no doubt that this was a

church of painful love—unfulfilled, unrequited, and unattained.

Langdon turned instinctively to his left and gazed upon the modest tomb of Beatrice

Portinari. This was the primary reason people visited this church, although not so much to

see the tomb itself as to see the famous object that sat beside it.

A wicker basket.

This morning, as always, the simple wicker basket sat beside Beatrice’s tomb. And this

morning, as always, it was overflowing with folded slips of paper—each a handwritten

letter from a visitor, written to Beatrice herself.

Beatrice Portinari had become something of a patron saint of star-crossed lovers, and

according to long-standing tradition, handwritten prayers to Beatrice could be deposited

in the basket in the hope that she would intervene on the writer’s behalf—perhaps

inspiring someone to love them more, or helping them find their true love, or even giving

them the strength to forget a love who had passed away.

Langdon, many years ago, while in the throes of researching a book on art history, had

paused in this church to leave a note in the basket, entreating Dante’s muse not to grant

him true love, but to shed on him some of the inspiration that had enabled Dante to write

his massive tome.

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story …

The opening line of Homer’s Odyssey had seemed a worthy supplication, and Langdon

secretly believed his message had indeed sparked Beatrice’s divine inspiration, for upon

his return home, he had written the book with unusual ease.

“Scusate!” Sienna’s voice boomed suddenly. “Potete ascoltarmi tutti?” Everyone?

Langdon spun to see Sienna loudly addressing the scattering of tourists, all of whom

now glanced over at her, looking somewhat alarmed.

Sienna smiled sweetly at everyone and asked in Italian if anyone happened to have a

copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy. After some strange looks and shakes of the head, she

tried the question in English, without any more success.

An older woman who was sweeping the altar hissed sharply at Sienna and held up a

finger to her lips for silence.

Sienna turned back to Langdon and frowned, as if to say, “Now what?”

Sienna’s calling-all-cars solicitation was not quite what Langdon had had in mind, but

he had to admit he’d anticipated a better response than she’d received. On previous

visits, Langdon had seen no shortage of tourists reading The Divine Comedy in this

hallowed space, apparently enjoying a total immersion in the Dante experience.

Not so today.

Langdon set his sights on an elderly couple seated near the front of the church. The old

man’s bald head was dipped forward, chin to chest; clearly he was stealing a nap. The

woman beside him seemed very much awake, with a pair of white earbud cables dangling

from beneath her gray hair.

A glimmer of promise, Langdon thought, making his way up the aisle until he was even

with the couple. As Langdon had hoped, the woman’s telltale white earbuds snaked down

to an iPhone in her lap. Sensing she was being watched, she looked up and pulled the

earbuds from her ears.

Langdon had no idea what language the woman spoke, but the global proliferation of

iPhones, iPads, and iPods had resulted in a vocabulary as universally understood as the

male/female symbols that graced restrooms around the world.

“iPhone?” Langdon asked, admiring her device.

The old woman brightened at once, nodding proudly. “Such a clever little toy,” she

whispered in a British accent. “My son got it for me. I’m listening to my e-mail. Can you

believe it—listening to my e-mail? This little treasure actually reads it for me. With my old

eyes, it’s such a help.”

“I have one, too,” Langdon said with a smile as he sat down beside her, careful not to

wake up her sleeping husband. “But somehow I lost it last night.”

“Oh, tragedy! Did you try the ‘find your iPhone’ feature? My son says—”

“Stupid me, I never activated that feature.” Langdon gave her a sheepish look and

ventured hesitantly, “If it’s not too much of an intrusion, would you mind terribly if I

borrowed yours for just a moment? I need to look up something online. It would be a big

help to me.”

“Of course!” She pulled out the earbuds and thrust the device into his hands. “No

problem at all! Poor dear.”

Langdon thanked her and took the phone. While she prattled on beside him about how

terrible she would feel if she lost her iPhone, Langdon pulled up Google’s search window

and pressed the microphone button. When the phone beeped once, Langdon articulated

his search string.

“Dante, Divine Comedy, Paradise, Canto Twenty-five.”

The woman looked amazed, apparently having yet to learn about this feature. As the

search results began to materialize on the tiny screen, Langdon stole a quick glance back

at Sienna, who was thumbing through some printed material near the basket of letters to

Beatrice.

Not far from where Sienna stood, a man in a necktie was kneeling in the shadows,

praying intently, his head bowed low. Langdon couldn’t see his face, but he felt a pang of

sadness for the solitary man, who had probably lost his loved one and had come here for

comfort.

Langdon returned his focus to the iPhone, and within seconds was able to pull up a link

to a digital offering of The Divine Comedy— freely accessible because it was in the public

domain. When the page opened precisely to Canto 25, he had to admit he was impressed

with the technology. I’ve got to stop being such a snob about leather-bound books, he

reminded himself. E-books do have their moments.

As the elderly woman looked on, showing a bit of concern and saying something about

the high data rates for surfing the Internet abroad, Langdon sensed that his window of

opportunity would be brief, and he focused intently on the Web page before him.

The text was small, but the dim lighting in the chapel made the illuminated screen

more legible. Langdon was pleased to see he had randomly stumbled into the

Mandelbaum translation—a popular modern rendition by the late American professor

Allen Mandelbaum. For his dazzling translation, Mandelbaum had received Italy’s highest

honor, the Presidential Cross of the Order of the Star of Italian Solidarity. While

admittedly less overtly poetic than Longfellow’s version, Mandelbaum’s translation tended

to be far more comprehensible.

Today I’ll take clarity over poesy , Langdon thought, hoping to quickly spot in the text a

reference to a specific location in Florence—the location where Ignazio hid the Dante

death mask.

The iPhone’s tiny screen displayed only six lines of text at a time, and as Langdon

began to read, he recalled the passage. In the opening of Canto 25, Dante referenced

The Divine Comedy itself, the physical toll its writing had taken on him, and the aching

hope that perhaps his heavenly poem could overcome the wolfish brutality of the exile

that kept him from his fair Florence.

CANTO XXV

If it should happen … if this sacred poem—

this work so shared by heaven and by earth

that it has made me lean through these long years—

can ever overcome the cruelty

that bars me from the fair fold where I slept,

a lamb opposed to wolves that war on it …

While the passage was a reminder that fair Florence was the home for which Dante

longed while writing The Divine Comedy, Langdon saw no reference to any specific

location in the city.

“What do you know about data charges?” the woman interrupted, eyeing her iPhone

with sudden concern. “I just remembered my son told me to be careful about Web surfing

abroad.”

Langdon assured her he would be only a minute and offered to reimburse her, but even

so, he sensed she would never let him read all one hundred lines of Canto 25.

He quickly scrolled down to the next six lines and continued reading.

By then with other voice, with other fleece,

I shal return as poet and put on,

at my baptismal font, the laurel crown;

for there I first found entry to that faith

which makes souls welcome unto God, and then,

for that faith, Peter garlanded my brow.

Langdon loosely recalled this passage, too—an oblique reference to a political deal

offered to Dante by his enemies. According to history, the “wolves” who banished Dante

from Florence had told him he could return to the city only if he agreed to endure a public

shaming—that of standing before an entire congregation, alone at his baptismal font,

wearing only sackcloth as an admission of his guilt.

In the passage Langdon had just read, Dante, having declined the deal, proclaims that

if he ever returns to his baptismal font, he will be wearing not the sackcloth of a guilty

man but the laurel crown of a poet.

Langdon raised his index finger to scroll farther, but the woman suddenly protested,

holding out her hand for the iPhone, apparently having reconsidered her loan.

Langdon barely heard her. In the split second before he had touched the screen, his

eye had glossed over a line of text … seeing it a second time.

I shal return as poet and put on,

at my baptismal font, the laurel crown;

Langdon stared at the words, sensing that in his eagerness to find mention of a specific

location, he’d almost missed a glowing prospect in the very opening lines.

at my baptismal font …

Florence was home to one of the world’s most celebrated baptismal fonts, which for

more than seven hundred years had been used to purify and christen young Florentines—

among them, Dante Alighieri.

Langdon immediately conjured an image of the building containing the font. It was a

spectacular, octagonal edifice that in many ways was more heavenly than the Duomo

itself. He now wondered if perhaps he’d read all he needed to read.

Could this building be the place Ignazio was referring to?

A ray of golden light blazed now in Langdon’s mind as a beautiful image materialized—

a spectacular set of bronze doors—radiant and glistening in the morning sun.

I know what Ignazio was trying to tell me!

Any lingering doubts evaporated an instant later when he realized that Ignazio Busoni

was one of the only people in Florence who could possibly unlock those doors.

Robert, the gates are open to you, but you must hurry.

Langdon handed the iPhone back to the old woman and thanked her profusely.

He rushed over to Sienna and whispered excitedly, “I know what gates Ignazio was

talking about! The Gates of Paradise!”

Sienna looked dubious. “The gates of paradise? Aren’t those … in heaven?”

“Actually,” Langdon said, giving her a wry smile and heading for the door, “if you know

where to look, Florence is heaven.”

CHAPTER 53

I SHALL RETURN as poet … at my baptismal font.

Dante’s words echoed repeatedly in Langdon’s mind as he led Sienna northward along

the narrow passageway known as Via dello Studio. Their destination lay ahead, and with

every step Langdon was feeling more confident that they were on the right course and

had left their pursuers behind.

The gates are open to you, but you must hurry.

As they neared the end of the chasmlike alleyway, Langdon could already hear the low

thrum of activity ahead. Abruptly the cavern on either side of them gave way, spilling

them out into a sprawling expanse.

The Piazza del Duomo.

This enormous plaza with its complex network of structures was the ancient religious

center of Florence. More of a tourist center nowadays, the piazza was already bustling

with tour buses and throngs of visitors crowding around Florence’s famed cathedral.

Having arrived on the south side of the piazza, Langdon and Sienna were now facing

the side of the cathedral with its dazzling exterior of green, pink, and white marble. As

breathtaking in its size as it was in the artistry that had gone into its construction, the

cathedral stretched off in both directions to seemingly impossible distances, its full length

nearly equal to that of the Washington Monument laid on its side.

Despite its abandonment of traditional monochromatic stone filigree in favor of an

unusually flamboyant mix of colors, the structure was pure Gothic—classic, robust, and

enduring. Admittedly, Langdon, on his first trip to Florence, had found the architecture

almost gaudy. On subsequent trips, however, he found himself studying the structure for

hours at a time, strangely captivated by its unusual aesthetic effects, and finally

appreciating its spectacular beauty.

Il Duomo—or, more formally, the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore—in addition to

providing a nickname for Ignazio Busoni, had long provided not only a spiritual heart to

Florence but centuries of drama and intrigue. The building’s volatile past ranged from

long and vicious debates over Vasari’s much-despised fresco of The Last Judgment on the

dome’s interior … to the hotly disputed competition to select the architect to finish the

dome itself.

Filippo Brunelleschi had eventually secured the lucrative contract and completed the

dome—the largest of its kind at the time—and to this day Brunelleschi himself can be

seen in sculpture, seated outside the Palazzo dei Canonici, staring contentedly up at his

masterpiece.

This morning, as Langdon raised his eyes skyward to the famed red-tiled dome that

had been an architectural feat of its era, he recalled the time he had foolishly decided to

ascend the dome only to discover that its narrow, tourist-crammed staircases were as

distressing as any of the claustrophobic spaces he’d ever encountered. Even so, Langdon

was grateful for the ordeal he’d endured while climbing “Brunelleschi’s Dome,” since it

had encouraged him to read an entertaining Ross King book of the same name.

“Robert?” Sienna said. “Are you coming?”

Langdon lowered his gaze from the dome, realizing he had stopped in his tracks to

admire the architecture. “Sorry about that.”

They continued moving, hugging the perimeter of the square. The cathedral was on

their right now, and Langdon noted that tourists were already flowing out of its side exits,

checking the site off their to-see lists.

Up ahead rose the unmistakable shape of a campanile—the second of the three

structures in the cathedral complex. Commonly known as Giotto’s bell tower, the

campanile left no doubt that it belonged with the cathedral beside it. Adorned in the

identical pink, green, and white facing stones, the square spire climbed skyward to a

dizzying height of nearly three hundred feet. Langdon had always found it amazing that

this slender structure could remain standing all these centuries, through earthquakes and

bad weather, especially knowing how top-heavy it was, with its apex belfry supporting

more than twenty thousand pounds of bells.

Sienna walked briskly beside him, her eyes nervously scanning the skies beyond the

campanile, clearly searching for the drone, but it was nowhere to be seen. The crowd was

fairly dense, even at this early hour, and Langdon made a point of staying in the thick of

it.

As they approached the campanile, they passed a line of caricature artists standing at

their easels sketching garish cartoons of tourists—a teenage boy grinding on a

skateboard, a horse-toothed girl wielding a lacrosse stick, a pair of honeymooners kissing

on a unicorn. Langdon found it amusing somehow that this activity was permitted on the

same sacred cobbles where Michelangelo had set up his own easel as a boy.

Continuing quickly around the base of Giotto’s bell tower, Langdon and Sienna turned

right, moving out across the open square directly in front of the cathedral. Here the

crowds were thickest, with tourists from around the world aiming camera phones and

video cameras upward at the colorful main facade.

Langdon barely glanced up, having already set his sights on a much smaller building

that had just come into view. Positioned directly opposite the front entrance of the

cathedral stood the third and final structure in the cathedral complex.

It was also Langdon’s favorite.

The Baptistry of San Giovanni.

Adorned in the same polychromatic facing stones and striped pilasters as the cathedral,

the baptistry distinguished itself from the larger building by its striking shape—a perfect

octagon. Resembling a layer cake, some had claimed, the eight-sided structure consisted

of three distinct tiers that ascended to a shallow white roof.

Langdon knew the octagonal shape had nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to

do with symbolism. In Christianity, the number eight represented rebirth and re-creation.

The octagon served as a visual reminder of the six days of God’s creation of heaven and

earth, the one day of Sabbath, and the eighth day, upon which Christians were “reborn”

or “re-created” through baptism. Octagons had become a common shape for baptistries

around the world.

While Langdon considered the baptistry one of Florence’s most striking buildings, he

always found the choice of its location a bit unfair. This baptistry, nearly anywhere else

on earth, would be the center of attention. Here, however, in the shadow of its two

colossal siblings, the baptistry gave the impression of being the runt of the litter.

Until you step inside, Langdon reminded himself, picturing the mind-boggling mosaic

work of the interior, which was so spectacular that early admirers claimed the baptistry

ceiling resembled heaven itself. If you know where to look, Langdon had wryly told

Sienna, Florence is heaven.

For centuries, this eight-sided sanctuary had hosted the baptisms of countless notable

figures—Dante among them.

I shall return as poet … at my baptismal font.

Because of his exile, Dante had never been permitted to return to this sacred site—the

place of his baptism—although Langdon felt a rising hope that Dante’s death mask,

through the unlikely series of events that had occurred last night, had finally found its

way back in his stead.

The baptistry, Langdon thought. This has to be where Ignazio hid the mask before he

died. He recalled Ignazio’s desperate phone message, and for a chilling moment,

Langdon pictured the corpulent man clutching his chest, lurching across the piazza into an

alley, and making his final phone call after leaving the mask safely inside the baptistry.

The gates are open to you.

Langdon’s eyes remained fixed on the baptistry as he and Sienna snaked through the

crowd. Sienna was moving now with such nimble eagerness that Langdon nearly had to

jog to keep up. Even at a distance, he could see the baptistry’s massive main doors

glistening in the sun.

Crafted of gilded bronze and over fifteen feet tall, the doors had taken Lorenzo Ghiberti

more than twenty years to complete. They were adorned with ten intricate panels of

delicate biblical figures of such quality that Giorgio Vasari had called the doors

“undeniably perfect in every way and … the finest masterpiece ever created.”

It had been Michelangelo, however, whose gushing testimonial had provided the doors

with a nickname that endured even today. Michelangelo had proclaimed them so

beautiful as to be fit for use … as the Gates of Paradise.

CHAPTER 54

THE BIBLE IN bronze, Langdon thought, admiring the beautiful doors before them.

Ghiberti’s shimmering Gates of Paradise consisted of ten square panels, each depicting

an important scene from the Old Testament. Ranging from the Garden of Eden to Moses

to King Solomon’s temple, Ghiberti’s sculpted narrative unfolded across two vertical

columns of five panels each.

The stunning array of individual scenes had spawned over the centuries something of a

popularity contest among artists and art historians, with everyone from Botticelli to

modern-day critics arguing their preference for “the finest panel.” The winner, by general

consensus, over the centuries had been Jacob and Esau—the central panel of the left-

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