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Inferno

he went. Brüder spun and watched him go, scrutinizing him carefully. Langdon felt a faint

tickle in his own throat but told himself it was his imagination.

Brüder now took a tentative step forward on the boardwalk, eyeing their numerous

options. The path before them looked like the entrance to the Minotaur’s labyrinth. The

single boardwalk quickly forked into three, each of those branching off again, creating a

suspended maze, hovering over the water, weaving in and out of the columns and

snaking into the darkness.

I found myself within a forest dark, Langdon thought, recalling the ominous first canto

of Dante’s masterwork, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Langdon peered over the walkway’s railing into the water. It was about four feet deep

and surprisingly clear. The stone tile floor was visible, blanketed by a fine layer of silt.

Brüder took a quick look down, gave a noncommittal grunt, and then raised his eyes

back to the room. “Do you see anything that looks like the area in Zobrist’s video?”

Everything, Langdon thought, surveying the steep, damp walls around them. He

motioned to the most remote corner of the cavern, far off to the right, away from the

congestion of the orchestral platform. “I’m guessing back there somewhere.”

Brüder nodded. “My instinct as well.”

The two of them hurried down the boardwalk, choosing the right-hand fork, which

carried them away from the crowd, in the direction of the farthest reaches of the sunken

palace.

As they walked, Langdon realized how easy it would be to hide overnight in this space,

undetected. Zobrist could have done just that to make his video. Of course, if he had

generously underwritten this week-long concert series, he also could have simply

requested some private time in the cistern.

Not that it matters anymore.

Brüder was striding faster now, as if subconsciously keeping pace with the symphony’s

tempo, which had increased into a cascading series of descending semitone suspensions.

Dante and Virgil’s descent into hell.

Langdon intently scanned the steep, mossy walls in the distance to their right, trying to

match them up with what they had seen in the video. At each new fork in the boardwalk,

they turned right, moving farther from the crowd, heading for the cavern’s most remote

corner. Langdon looked back and was astounded by the distance they had covered.

They advanced at almost a jog now, passing a handful of meandering visitors, but by

the time they entered the deepest parts of the cistern, the number of people had thinned

to nothing.

Brüder and Langdon were alone.

“It all looks the same,” Brüder despaired. “Where do we start?” Langdon shared his

frustration. He remembered the video vividly, but nothing down here leaped out as a

recognizable feature.

Langdon studied the softly lit informational signs that dotted the boardwalk as they

moved ahead. One described the twenty-one-million-gallon capacity of the room. Another

pointed out a nonmatching pillar that had been looted from a nearby structure during

construction. And still another offered a diagram of an ancient carving now faded from

view—the Crying Hen’s Eye symbol, which wept for all the slaves who died while building

the cistern.

Strangely, it was a sign that bore a single word that now stopped Langdon dead in his

tracks.

Brüder halted, too, turning. “What’s wrong?”

Langdon pointed.

On the sign, accompanied by a directional arrow, was the name of a fearsome Gorgon

—an infamous female monster.

MEDUSA⇒

Brüder read the sign and shrugged. “So what?”

Langdon’s heart was pounding. He knew Medusa was not only the fearsome snake-

haired spirit whose gaze could turn anyone who looked at her to stone, but was also a

prominent member of the Greek pantheon of subterranean spirits … a specific category

known as the chthonic monsters.

Folow deep into the sunken palace …

for here, in the darkness, the chthonic monster waits …

She’s pointing the way, Langdon realized, breaking into a run along the boardwalk.

Brüder could barely keep up with him as Langdon zigzagged into the darkness, following

the signs for Medusa. Finally, he reached a dead end at a small viewing platform near the

base of the cistern’s rightmost wall.

There before him was an incredible sight.

Rising out of the water was a colossal carved marble block—the head of Medusa—her

hair writhing with snakes. Making her presence here even more bizarre was the fact that

her head had been placed on her neck upside down.

Inverted as the damned, Langdon realized, picturing Botticelli’s Map of Hell and the

inverted sinners he had placed in the Malebolge.

Brüder arrived breathless beside Langdon at the railing, staring out at the upside-down

Medusa with a look of bewilderment.

Langdon suspected that this carved head, which now served as a plinth supporting one

of the columns, had probably been pillaged from elsewhere and used here as an

inexpensive building supply. The reason for Medusa’s inverted position was no doubt the

superstitious belief that the inversion would rob her of her evil powers. Even so, Langdon

could not shake off the barrage of haunting thoughts that assailed him.

Dante’s Inferno. The finale. The center of the earth. Where gravity inverts itself. Where

up becomes down.

His skin now prickling with foreboding, Langdon squinted through the reddish haze that

surrounded the sculpted head. Most of Medusa’s serpent-infested hair was submerged

underwater, but her eyes were above the surface, facing to the left, staring out across

the lagoon.

Fearfully, Langdon leaned over the railing and turned his head, letting his gaze follow

the statue’s out into the familiar empty corner of the sunken palace.

In an instant, he knew.

This was the spot.

Zobrist’s ground zero.

CHAPTER 92

AGENT BRÜDER LOWERED himself stealthily, sliding beneath the railing and dropping down into

the chest-deep water. As the rush of cool liquid permeated his clothing, his muscles

tensed against the chill. The floor of the cistern was slippery beneath his boots, but it felt

solid. He stood a moment, taking stock, watching the concentric circles of water rippling

away from his body like shock waves across the lagoon.

For a moment Brüder didn’t breathe. Move slowly, he told himself. Create no

turbulence.

Above him on the boardwalk, Langdon stood at the railing, scanning the surrounding

boardwalks.

“All set,” Langdon whispered. “Nobody sees you.”

Brüder turned and faced the huge upside-down head of Medusa, which was brightly lit

by a red spotlight. The inverted monster looked even larger now that Brüder was down at

her level.

“Follow Medusa’s gaze across the lagoon,” Langdon whispered. “Zobrist had a flair for

symbolism and dramatics … I wouldn’t be surprised if he placed his creation directly in the

lethal sight line of Medusa.”

Great minds think alike. Brüder felt grateful that the American professor had insisted on

making the descent with him; Langdon’s expertise had guided them almost immediately

to this distant corner of the cistern.

As the strains of the Dante Symphony continued to reverberate in the distance, Brüder

took out his waterproof Tovatec penlight and submerged it beneath the water, flipping

the switch. A bright halogen beam pierced the water, illuminating the cistern floor before

him.

Easy, Brüder reminded himself. Don’t disturb a thing.

Without another word, he began his careful journey out into the lagoon, wading in slow

motion through the water, moving his flashlight methodically back and forth like an

underwater minesweeper.

At the railing, Langdon had begun to feel an unsettling tightness in his throat. The air in

the cistern, despite the humidity, tasted stale and oxygen-depleted to him. As Brüder

waded carefully out into the lagoon, the professor reassured himself that everything

would be fine.

We arrived in time.

It’s all intact.

Brüder’s team can contain this.

Even so, Langdon felt jumpy. As a lifelong claustrophobe, he knew he would be anxious

down here under any circumstances. Something about thousands of tons of earth

hovering overhead … supported by nothing but decaying pillars.

He pushed the thought from his mind and took another glance behind him for anyone

taking undue interest.

Nothing.

The only people nearby were standing on various other boardwalks, and they were all

looking in the opposite direction, toward the orchestra. No one seemed to have noticed

Brüder slowly wading across the water in this deep corner of the cistern.

Langdon returned his gaze to the SRS team leader, whose submerged halogen beam

still oscillated eerily in front of him, lighting the way.

As Langdon looked on, his peripheral vision suddenly picked up movement to his left—

an ominous black form rising out of the water in front of Brüder. Langdon wheeled and

stared into the looming darkness, half expecting to see some kind of leviathan rearing up

from beneath the surface.

Brüder had stopped short, apparently having seen it, too.

In the far corner, a wavering black shape rose some thirty feet up the wall. The ghostly

silhouette looked nearly identical to that of the plague doctor who’d appeared in Zobrist’s

video.

It’s a shadow, Langdon realized, exhaling. Brüder’s shadow.

The shadow had been cast as Brüder moved past a submerged spotlight in the lagoon,

exactly, it seemed, as Zobrist’s shadow had done in the video.

“This is the spot,” Langdon called out to Brüder. “You’re close.”

Brüder nodded and continued inching his way out into the lagoon. Langdon moved

along the railing, staying even with him. As the agent moved farther and farther away,

Langdon stole another quick glance toward the orchestra to make sure Brüder had not

been noticed.

Nothing.

As Langdon again returned his gaze to the lagoon, a glint of reflected light caught his

eye on the boardwalk at his feet.

He looked down and saw a tiny puddle of red liquid.

Blood.

Strangely, Langdon was standing in it.

Am I bleeding?

Langdon felt no pain, and yet he frantically began searching himself for some injury or

possible reaction to an unseen toxin in the air. He checked his nose for a possible bleed,

his fingernails, his ears.

Baffled as to where the blood had come from, Langdon glanced around, confirming that

he was indeed alone on the deserted walkway.

Langdon looked down at the puddle again, and this time he noticed a tiny rivulet

flowing along the boardwalk and collecting in the low spot at his feet. The red liquid, it

seemed, was coming from somewhere up ahead and trickling down an incline in the

boardwalk.

Someone is injured up there, Langdon sensed. He glanced quickly out at Brüder, who

was nearing the center of the lagoon.

Langdon strode quickly up the boardwalk, following the rivulet. As he advanced toward

the dead end, the rivulet became wider, flowing freely. What in the world? At this point it

turned into a small stream. He broke into a jog, following the flowing liquid all the way to

the wall, where the boardwalk suddenly ended.

Dead end.

In the murky darkness, he found a large pool, which was glistening red, as if someone

had just been slaughtered here.

In that instant, as Langdon watched the red liquid dripping off the boardwalk into the

cistern, he realized that his original assessment was mistaken.

It’s not blood.

The red lights of the vast space, combined with the red hue of the boardwalk, had

created an illusion, giving these clear droplets a reddish-black tint.

It’s just water.

Instead of bringing a sense of relief, the revelation infused him with blunt fear. He

stared down at the puddle of water, now seeing splashes on the banister … and

footprints.

Someone climbed out of the water here.

Langdon spun to call out to Brüder, but he was too far away and the music had

progressed into a fortissimo of brass and timpani. It was deafening. Langdon suddenly

felt a presence beside him.

I’m not alone out here.

In slow motion, Langdon turned toward the wall where the boardwalk dead-ended. Ten

feet away, shrouded in dark shadows, he was able to discern a rounded form, like a large

stone cloaked in black cloth, dripping in a pool of water. The form was motionless.

And then it moved.

The form elongated, its featureless head rotating upward from its bowed position.

A person huddled in a black burka, Langdon realized.

The traditional Islamic body covering left no skin showing, but as the veiled head

turned toward Langdon, two dark eyes materialized, staring out through the narrow slit of

the burka’s face covering, locking intently on Langdon.

In an instant, he knew.

Sienna Brooks exploded from her hiding place. She accelerated to a sprint in a single

stride, plowing into Langdon and driving him to the ground as she raced off down the

boardwalk.

CHAPTER 93

OUT IN THE lagoon, Agent Brüder had stopped in his tracks. The halogen beam of his

Tovatec penlight had just picked up the sharp glint of metal up ahead on the submerged

cistern floor.

Barely breathing, Brüder took a delicate step closer, cautious not to create any

turbulence in the water. Through the glassy surface, he could now make out a sleek

rectangle of titanium, bolted to the floor.

Zobrist’s plaque.

The water was so clear he could almost read tomorrow’s date and accompanying text:

IN THIS PLACE, ON THIS DATE,

THE WORLD WAS CHANGED FOREVER.

Think again, Brüder mused, his confidence rising. We have several hours to stop this

before tomorrow.

Picturing Zobrist’s video, Brüder gently inched the flashlight beam to the left of the

plaque, searching for the tethered Solublon bag. As the beam illuminated the darkened

water, Brüder strained his gaze in confusion.

No bag.

He moved the beam farther to the left, to the precise spot where the bag had

appeared on the video.

Still nothing.

But … it was right here!

Brüder’s jaw clenched as he took another tentative step closer, sweeping the beam

slowly around the entire area.

There was no bag. Only the plaque.

For a brief, hopeful instant, Brüder wondered if perhaps this threat, like so many things

today, had been nothing but an illusion.

Was it all a hoax?!

Did Zobrist just want to scare us?!

And then he saw it.

To the left of the plaque, barely visible on the lagoon floor, lay a limp tether. The

flaccid string looked like a lifeless worm in the water. At the far end of the string was a

tiny plastic clasp, from which hung a few tatters of Solublon plastic.

Brüder stared down at the frayed relic of the transparent bag. It clung to the end of the

tether like the tattered knot of a popped party balloon.

The truth settled slowly in his gut.

We’re too late.

He pictured the submerged bag dissolving and breaking apart … its deadly contents

spreading out into the water … and bubbling up to the surface of the lagoon.

With a tremulous finger, he flicked off his flashlight and stood a moment in the

darkness, trying to gather his thoughts.

Those thoughts turned quickly to prayer.

God help us all.

“Agent Brüder, repeat!” Sinskey shouted into her radio, descending halfway down the

stairwell into the cistern, trying to get better reception. “I didn’t copy that!”

The warm wind rushed past her, up the stairs toward the open doorway above.

Outside, the SRS team had arrived and its members were prepping behind the building in

an effort to keep their hazmat gear out of sight while they waited to receive Brüder’s

assessment.

“… ruptured bag …” Brüder’s voice crackled in Sinskey’s comm. “… and … released.”

What?! Sinskey prayed she was misunderstanding as she rushed farther down the

stairs. “Repeat!” she commanded, nearing the base of the stairwell, where the orchestral

music grew louder.

Brüder’s voice was much clearer this time. “… and I repeat … the contagion has been

dispersed!”

Sinskey lurched forward, nearly falling into the cistern’s entryway at the base of the

stairwell. How can that be?!

“The bag has dissolved,” Brüder’s voice snapped loudly. “The contagion is in the

water!”

A cold sweat gripped Dr. Sinskey as she raised her eyes and tried to process the

sprawling underground world now spread out before her. Through the reddish haze, she

saw a vast expanse of water from which sprang hundreds of columns. Most of all,

however, she saw people.

Hundreds of people.

Sinskey stared out at the unsuspecting crowd, all of them confined in Zobrist’s

underground death trap. She reacted on instinct. “Agent Brüder, come up at once. We’ll

begin evacuating people immediately.”

Brüder’s reply was instantaneous. “Absolutely not! Seal the doors! Nobody gets out of

here!”

As director of the World Health Organization, Elizabeth Sinskey was accustomed to

having her orders followed without question. For an instant, she thought she had

misunderstood the lead SRS agent’s words. Seal the doors?!

“Dr. Sinskey!” Brüder shouted over the music. “Do you read me?! Close the goddamn

doors!”

Brüder repeated the command, but it was unnecessary. Sinskey knew he was correct.

In the face of a possible pandemic, containment was the only viable option.

Sinskey reflexively reached up and gripped her lapis lazuli amulet. Sacrifice the few to

save the many. With a hardening resolve, she raised the radio to her lips. “Confirmed,

Agent Brüder. I’ll give the order to seal the doors.”

Sinskey was about to turn away from the horror of the cistern and give the command to

seal the area when she sensed a sudden commotion in the crowd.

Not far away, a woman in a black burka was dashing toward her along a crowded

boardwalk, knocking people out of the way as she ran. The veiled woman seemed to be

headed directly for Sinskey and the exit.

She’s being chased, Sinskey realized, spotting a man running behind her.

Then Sinskey froze. That’s Langdon!

Sinskey’s eyes whipped back to the woman in the burka, who was approaching fast and

now shouting something in Turkish to all the people on the boardwalk. Sinskey didn’t

speak Turkish, but judging from the panicked reaction of the people, the woman’s words

were the equivalent of shouting “Fire!” in a crowded theater.

A ripple of panic swept through the crowd, and suddenly it was not only the veiled

woman and Langdon who were dashing for the stairs. Everyone was.

Sinskey turned her back to the oncoming stampede and began shouting desperately up

the stairs to her team.

“Lock the doors!” Sinskey screamed. “Seal the cistern! NOW!”

By the time Langdon skidded around the corner into the stairwell, Sinskey was halfway up

the stairs, clambering toward the surface, shouting wildly to close the doors. Sienna

Brooks was close on her heels, struggling with her heavy, wet burka as she lumbered up

the stairs.

Bounding after them, Langdon could feel a tidal wave of terrified concertgoers surging

up behind him.

“Seal the exit!” Sinskey shouted again.

Langdon’s long legs carried him three steps at a time, gaining fast on Sienna. Above,

he could see the cistern’s heavy double doors begin to swing inward.

Too slow.

Sienna overtook Sinskey, grabbing her shoulder and using it as leverage to launch past

her, clambering wildly over her toward the exit. Sinskey stumbled forward onto her

knees, her beloved amulet hitting the cement stairs and breaking in half.

Langdon fought the instinct to stop and help the fallen woman, but instead, he hurtled

past her, sprinting toward the top landing.

Sienna was only a few feet away now, almost within reach, but she had attained the

landing, and the doors were not closing fast enough. Without breaking stride, Sienna

deftly angled her slender body and leaped sideways through the narrow opening.

She was halfway through the doors when her burka snagged on a latch, halting her in

her tracks, wedged in the middle of the doorway, mere inches from freedom. As she

writhed to escape, Langdon’s hand shot out and seized a clump of her burka. He held

fast, pulling back, trying to reel her in, but she wriggled frantically and suddenly Langdon

was holding only a wet clump of fabric.

The doors slammed onto the fabric, barely missing Langdon’s hands. The wadded cloth

was now pinched in the doorway, making it impossible for the men outside to push the

doors all the way closed.

Through the narrow slit, Langdon could see Sienna Brooks sprinting across a busy

street, her bald head shining in the streetlights. She was wearing the same sweater and

blue jeans she had been wearing all day, and Langdon suddenly felt a fiery, upwelling

sense of betrayal.

The feeling lasted only an instant. A sudden, crushing weight rammed Langdon hard

against the door.

The stampede had arrived behind him.

The stairwell echoed with shouts of terror and confusion as the sounds of the

symphony orchestra deteriorated into a confused cacophony below. Langdon could feel

the pressure on his back increasing as the bottleneck thickened. His rib cage began to

compress painfully against the door.

Then the doors exploded outward, and Langdon was launched into the night like a cork

from a bottle of champagne. He stumbled across the sidewalk, nearly falling into the

street. Behind him, a stream of humanity was flowing up out of the earth like ants

escaping from a poisoned anthill.

The SRS agents, hearing the sounds of chaos, now emerged from behind the building.

Their appearance in full hazmat gear and respirators immediately amplified the panic.

Langdon turned away and peered across the street after Sienna. All he could see was

traffic and lights and confusion.

Then, for a fleeting instant, down the street to his left, the pale flash of a bald head

shone in the night, darting along a crowded sidewalk and disappearing around a corner.

Langdon shot a desperate glance behind him, searching for Sinskey, or the police, or an

SRS agent who was not wearing a bulky hazmat suit.

Nothing.

Langdon knew he was on his own.

Without hesitation, he sprinted after Sienna.

Far below, in the deepest recesses of the cistern, Agent Brüder stood all alone in the

waist-deep water. The sounds of pandemonium echoed through the darkness as frenzied

tourists and musicians shoved their way toward the exit and disappeared up the stairs.

The doors were never sealed, Brüder realized to his horror. Containment has failed.

CHAPTER 94

ROBERT LANGDON WAS not a runner, but years of swimming made for powerful legs, and his

stride was long. He reached the corner in a matter of seconds and rounded it, finding

himself on a wider avenue. His eyes urgently scanned the sidewalks.

She’s got to be here!

The rain had stopped, and from this corner, Langdon could clearly see the entire well-lit

street. There was nowhere to hide.

And yet Sienna seemed to have vanished.

Langdon came to a stop, hands on his hips, panting as he surveyed the rain-soaked

street before him. The only movement he saw was fifty yards ahead, where one of

Istanbul’s modern otobüses was pulling away from the curb and powering up the avenue.

Did Sienna jump on a city bus?

It seemed far too risky. Would she really trap herself on a bus when she knew

everyone would be looking for her? Then again, if she believed nobody had seen her

round the corner, and if the bus had been just pulling away by chance, offering a perfectly

timed opportunity …

Maybe.

Affixed to the top of the bus was a destination sign—a programmable matrix of lights

displaying a single word: GALATA.

Langdon rushed up the street toward an elderly man who was standing outside a

restaurant under an awning. He was nicely dressed in an embroidered tunic and a white

turban.

“Excuse me,” Langdon said breathless, arriving before him. “Do you speak English?”

“Of course,” the man said, looking unnerved by the urgency of Langdon’s tone.

“Galata?! That’s a place?”

“Galata?” the man replied. “Galata Bridge? Galata Tower? Galataport?”

Langdon pointed to the departing otobüs. “Galata! Where is the bus going!”

The man in the turban looked after the departing bus and considered it a moment.

“Galata Bridge,” he replied. “It departs the old city and crosses the waterway.”

Langdon groaned, his eyes making another frantic pass of the street but seeing no hint

of Sienna. Sirens blared everywhere now, as emergency response vehicles tore past them

in the direction of the cistern.

“What’s happening?” the man demanded, looking alarmed. “Is everything okay?”

Langdon took another look at the departing bus and knew it was a gamble, but he had

no other choice.

“No, sir,” Langdon replied. “There’s an emergency, and I need your help.” He motioned

to the curb, where a valet had just delivered a slick, silver Bentley. “Is that your car?”

“It is, but—”

“I need a ride,” Langdon said. “I know we’ve never met, but something catastrophic is

happening. It’s a matter of life and death.”

The turbaned man stared into the professor’s eyes a long moment, as if searching his

soul. Finally he nodded. “Then you’d better get in.”

As the Bentley roared away from the curb, Langdon found himself gripping his seat.

The man was clearly an experienced driver and seemed to enjoy the challenge of

weaving in and out of traffic, playing catch-up with the bus.

It took him less than three blocks to position his Bentley directly behind the otobüs.

Langdon leaned forward in his seat, squinting at the rear window. The interior lights were

dim, and the only things Langdon could make out were the vague silhouettes of the

passengers.

“Stay with the bus, please,” Langdon said. “And do you have a phone?”

The man produced a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to his passenger, who

thanked him profusely before realizing that he had no idea whom to call. He had no

contact numbers for Sinskey or Brüder, and calling the WHO’s offices in Switzerland could

take forever.

“How do I reach the local police?” Langdon asked.

“One-five-five,” the man replied. “Anywhere in Istanbul.”

Langdon dialed the three numbers and waited. The line seemed to ring forever. Finally

a recorded voice answered, conveying both in Turkish and English that due to high call

volume, he would need to hold. Langdon wondered if the reason for the call volume was

the crisis at the cistern.

The sunken palace was now probably in a state of total pandemonium. He pictured

Brüder wading out in the lagoon and wondered what he had discovered out there.

Langdon had a sinking feeling he already knew.

Sienna had gotten into the water before him.

Up ahead, the bus’s brake lights flashed, and the transport pulled over to a curbside

bus stop. The Bentley’s driver pulled over as well, idling about fifty feet behind the bus,

providing Langdon a perfect view of the passengers getting on and off. Only three people

disembarked—all of them men—and yet Langdon studied each carefully, fully aware of

Sienna’s skills for disguise.

His eyes shifted again to the rear window. It was tinted, but the lights inside were now

fully illuminated, and Langdon could see the people on board more clearly. He leaned

forward, craning his neck, holding his face close to the Bentley’s windshield as he

searched for Sienna.

Please don’t tell me I gambled wrong!

Then he saw her.

In the rearmost part of the vehicle, facing away from him, a pair of slender shoulders

sloped up to the back of a shaved head.

It could only be Sienna.

As the bus accelerated, the interior lights faded once more. In the fleeting second

before it disappeared into darkness, the head turned backward, glancing out the rear

window.

Langdon lowered himself down in the seat, into the shadows of the Bentley. Did she

see me? His turbaned driver was already pulling out again, tailing the bus.

The road was descending toward the water now, and up ahead Langdon could see the

lights of a low-slung bridge that stretched out over the water. The bridge looked

completely deadlocked with traffic. In fact, the entire area near its entrance looked

congested.

“Spice Bazaar,” the man said. “Very popular on rainy nights.”

The man pointed down to the water’s edge, where an incredibly long building sat in the

shadow of one of Istanbul’s more spectacular mosques—the New Mosque, if Langdon

were not mistaken, judging from the height of its famed twin minarets. The Spice Bazaar

looked larger than most American malls, and Langdon could see people streaming in and

out of its enormous arched doorway.

“Alo?!” a tiny voice declared somewhere in the car. “Acil Durum! Alo?!”

Langdon glanced down at the phone in his hand. The police.

“Yes, hello!” Langdon blurted, raising the receiver. “My name is Robert Langdon. I’m

working with the World Health Organization. You have a major crisis at the city cistern,

and I’m tailing the person responsible. She’s on a bus near the Spice Bazaar, heading for

—”

“One moment, please,” the operator said. “Let me connect you with dispatch.”

“No, wait!” But Langdon was on hold again.

The Bentley’s driver turned to him with a look of fear. “A crisis at the cistern?!”

Langdon was about to explain when the driver’s face suddenly glowed red, like a

demon.

Brake lights!

The driver’s head whipped around and the Bentley skidded to a stop directly behind the

bus. The interior lights flickered on again and Langdon could see Sienna as plain as day.

She was standing at the back door, yanking repeatedly on the emergency stop cord and

banging to get off the bus.

She saw me, Langdon realized. No doubt Sienna had also seen the traffic on Galata

Bridge and knew she could not afford to get caught in it.

Langdon opened his door in a flash, but Sienna had already bolted from the bus and

was sprinting into the night. Langdon tossed the cell phone back to its owner. “Tell the

police what happened! Tell them to surround this area!”

The turbaned man gave a frightened nod.

“And thank you!” Langdon shouted. “Teşekkürler!”

With that, Langdon dashed down the hill after Sienna, who was running directly toward

the crowds milling around the Spice Bazaar.

CHAPTER 95

ISTANBUL’S THREE-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD SPICE Bazaar is one of the largest covered marketplaces in

the world. Built in the shape of an L, the sprawling complex has eighty-eight vaulted

rooms divided into hundreds of stalls, where local merchants zealously hawk a mind-

boggling array of edible pleasures from around the world—spices, fruits, herbs, and

Istanbul’s ubiquitous candylike confection, Turkish delight.

The bazaar’s entryway—a massive stone portal with a Gothic arch—is located on the

corner of Çiçek Pazari and Tahmis Street, and is said to witness the passage of more than

three hundred thousand visitors a day.

Tonight, as Langdon approached the swarming entrance, he felt as if all three hundred

thousand were here at that very moment. He was still running hard, his eyes never

leaving Sienna. She was now only twenty yards ahead of him, racing directly toward the

bazaar’s gateway and showing no signs of stopping.

Sienna reached the arched portal and came up hard against the crowd. She snaked

through the people, clawing her way inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, she

stole a glance backward. Langdon saw in her eyes a frightened little girl, running scared

… desperate and out of control.

“Sienna!” he shouted.

But she plunged into the sea of humanity and was gone.

Langdon dove in after her, bumping, pushing, craning his neck until he spotted her

weaving down the bazaar’s western hallway to his left.

Burgeoning casks of exotic spices lined the way—Indian curry, Iranian saffron, Chinese

flower tea—their dazzling colors creating a tunnel of yellows, browns, and golds. With

every step, Langdon smelled a new aroma—pungent mushrooms, bitter roots, musky oils

—all wafting through the air with a deafening chorus of languages from around the world.

The result was an overwhelming rush of sensory stimuli … set against the unceasing

thrum of people.

Thousands of people.

A wrenching feeling of claustrophobia gripped Langdon, and he almost pulled up before

gathering himself again and forcing his way deeper into the bazaar. He could see Sienna

just ahead, pushing through the masses with adamant force. She clearly was taking this

ride to the end … wherever that might be for her.

For a moment Langdon wondered why he was chasing her.

For justice? Considering what Sienna had done, Langdon could not begin to fathom

what kind of punishment awaited her if she were caught.

To prevent a pandemic? Whatever had been done was done.

As Langdon pushed through the ocean of strangers, he suddenly realized why he

wanted so badly to stop Sienna Brooks.

I want answers.

Only ten yards ahead, Sienna was headed for an exit door at the end of the western

arm of the bazaar. She stole another quick glance behind her, looking alarmed to see

Langdon so close. As she turned again, facing front, she tripped and fell.

Sienna’s head snapped forward, colliding with the shoulder of the person in front of her.

As he went down, her right hand shot out, searching for anything to break her fall. She

found only the rim of a barrel of dried chestnuts, which she seized in desperation, pulling

it over on top of her and sending a landslide of nuts across the floor.

It took Langdon three strides to reach the spot where she had fallen. He looked down

at the floor but saw only the toppled barrel and the chestnuts. No Sienna.

The shopkeeper was screaming wildly.

Where did she go?!

Langdon spun in a circle, but Sienna had somehow vanished. By the time his gaze

landed on the western exit only fifteen yards ahead, he knew that her dramatic fall had

been anything but accidental.

Langdon raced to the exit and burst out into an enormous plaza, also crowded with

people. He stared into the plaza, searching in vain.

Directly ahead, on the far side of a multilane highway, Galata Bridge stretched out

across the wide waters of the Golden Horn. The dual minarets of the New Mosque rose to

Langdon’s right, shining brightly over the plaza. And to his left was nothing but open

plaza … packed with people.

The sound of blaring car horns drew Langdon’s gaze ahead again, toward the highway

that separated the plaza from the water. He saw Sienna, already a hundred yards away,

darting through speeding traffic and narrowly avoiding being crushed between two trucks.

She was headed for the sea.

To Langdon’s left, on the banks of the Golden Horn, a transportation hub bustled with

activity—ferry docks, otobüses, taxis, tour boats.

Langdon sprinted hard across the plaza toward the highway. When he reached the

guardrail, he timed his leap with the oncoming headlights and safely bounded across the

first of several two-lane highways. For fifteen seconds, assaulted by blinding headlights

and angry car horns, Langdon managed to advance from median to median—stopping,

starting, weaving, until he finally vaulted over the final guardrail onto the grassy banks of

the sea.

Although he could still see her, Sienna was a long way ahead, eschewing the taxi stand

and idling buses and heading directly for the docks, where Langdon saw all manner of

boats moving in and out—tourist barges, water taxis, private fishing boats, speedboats.

Out across the water, city lights twinkled on the western side of the Golden Horn, and

Langdon had no doubt that if Sienna reached the other side, there would be no hope of

finding her, probably ever.

When Langdon finally reached the waterfront, he turned left and dashed along the

boardwalk, drawing startled looks from tourists who were queued up waiting to board a

flotilla of gaudily decorated dinner barges, complete with mosquelike domes, faux-gold

flourishes, and blinking neon trim.

Las Vegas on the Bosporus, Langdon moaned, powering past.

He saw Sienna far ahead, and she was no longer running. She was stopped on the dock

in an area cluttered by private powerboats, pleading with one of the owners.

Don’t let her aboard!

As he closed the gap, he could see that Sienna’s appeal was directed at a young man

who stood at the helm of a sleek powerboat that was just preparing to pull away from

the dock. The man was smiling but politely shaking his head no. Sienna continued

gesticulating, but the boater appeared to decline with finality, and he turned back to his

controls.

As Langdon dashed closer, Sienna glanced at him, her face a mask of desperation.

Below her, the boat’s twin outboards revved, churning the water and moving the craft

away from the dock.

Sienna was suddenly airborne, leaping off the dock over the open water. She landed

with a crash on the boat’s fiberglass stern. Feeling the impact, the driver turned with an

expression of disbelief on his face. He yanked back the throttle, idling the boat, which

was now twenty yards from the dock. Yelling angrily, he marched back toward his

unwanted passenger.

As the driver advanced on her, Sienna effortlessly stepped aside, seizing the man’s

wrist and using his own momentum to launch him up and over the stern gunwale. The

man plunged headlong into the water. Moments later, he rose to the surface, sputtering

and thrashing wildly, and shouting a string of what were no doubt Turkish obscenities.

Sienna seemed detached as she tossed a flotation cushion into the water, moved to

the helm of the boat, and pushed the dual throttles forward.

The engines roared and the boat sped off.

Langdon stood on the dock, catching his breath as he watched the sleek white hull

skimming away across the water, becoming a ghostly shadow in the night. Langdon

raised his eyes toward the horizon and knew that Sienna now had access not only to the

distant shores, but also to an almost endless web of waterways that stretched from the

Black Sea to the Mediterranean.

She’s gone.

Nearby, the boat’s owner climbed out of the water, got to his feet, and hurried off to

call the police.

Langdon felt starkly alone as he watched the lights of the stolen boat growing faint.

The whine of the powerful engines was growing distant as well.

And then the engines faded abruptly to silence.

Langdon peered into the distance. Did she kill the motor?

The boat’s lights seemed to have stopped receding and were now bobbing gently in the

small waves of the Golden Horn. For some unknown reason, Sienna Brooks had stopped.

Did she run out of gas?

He cupped his hands and listened, now able to hear the faint thrum of her engines

idling.

If she’s not out of gas, what is she doing?

Langdon waited.

Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. Thirty seconds.

Then, without warning, the engines revved up again, reluctantly at first, and then more

decidedly. To Langdon’s bewilderment, the boat’s lights began banking into a wide turn,

and the bow swung around toward him.

She’s coming back.

As the boat approached, Langdon could see Sienna at the wheel, staring blankly ahead.

Thirty yards away, she throttled down and eased the boat safely back to the dock it had

just left. Then she killed the engines.

Silence.

Above her, Langdon stared down in disbelief.

Sienna never looked up.

Instead, she buried her face in her hands. She began trembling, her shoulders hunched

and shuddering. When she finally looked at Langdon, her eyes were overflowing with

tears.

“Robert,” she sobbed. “I can’t run away anymore. I have nowhere left to go.”

CHAPTER 96

IT’S OUT.

Elizabeth Sinskey stood at the bottom of the cistern stairwell and gazed at the void of

the evacuated cavern. Her breathing felt strained through the respirator she was wearing.

Although she had probably already been exposed to whatever pathogen might be down

here, Sinskey felt relieved to be wearing a hazmat suit as she and the SRS team entered

the desolate space. They were dressed in bulbous white jumpsuits that locked into

airtight helmets, and the group looked like a team of astronauts breaching an alien

spacecraft.

Sinskey knew that upstairs on the street, hundreds of frightened concertgoers and

musicians were huddling in confusion, many being treated for injuries suffered in the

stampede. Others had fled the area entirely. She felt lucky to have escaped with only a

bruised knee and a broken amulet.

Only one form of contagion travels faster than a virus, Sinskey thought. And that’s fear.

The doors upstairs were now locked, hermetically sealed, and guarded by local

authorities. Sinskey had anticipated a jurisdictional showdown with the arriving local

police, but any potential conflicts had evaporated instantly when they saw the SRS team’s

biohazard gear and heard Sinskey’s warnings of a possible plague.

We’re on our own, the director of the WHO thought, staring out at the forest of columns

reflected in the lagoon. Nobody wants to come down here.

Behind her, two agents were stretching a huge polyurethane sheet across the bottom

of the stairwell and sealing it to the wall with a heat gun. Two others had found an open

area of boardwalk planks and had begun setting up an array of electronic gear as if

preparing to analyze a crime scene.

That’s exactly what this is, Sinskey thought. A crime scene.

She again pictured the woman in the wet burka who had fled the cistern. By all

appearances, Sienna Brooks had risked her own life in order to sabotage the WHO’s

containment efforts and fulfill Zobrist’s twisted mission. She came down here and broke

the Solublon bag …

Langdon had chased Sienna off into the night, and Sinskey had still not received word

regarding what had happened to either of them.

I hope Professor Langdon is safe, she thought.

Agent Brüder stood dripping on the boardwalk, staring blankly out at the inverted head of

Medusa and wondering how to proceed.

As an SRS agent, Brüder had been trained to think on the macrocosmic level, setting

aside any immediate ethical or personal concerns and focusing on saving as many lives as

possible over the long term. Threats to his own health had barely registered on him until

this moment. I waded into this stuff, he thought, chastising himself for the risky action he

had taken and yet knowing he’d had little choice. We needed an immediate assessment.

Brüder forced his thoughts to the task at hand—implement Plan B. Unfortunately, in a

containment crisis, Plan B was always the same: widen the radius. Fighting

communicable disease was often like fighting a forest fire: sometimes you had to drop

back and surrender a battle in hopes of winning the war.

At this point, Brüder had still not given up the idea that a full containment was

possible. Most likely Sienna Brooks had ruptured the bag only minutes before the mass

hysteria and evacuation. If that were true, even though hundreds of people had fled the

scene, everyone might have been located far enough away from the source to avoid

contamination.

Everyone except Langdon and Sienna, Brüder realized. Both of whom were here at

ground zero, and are now someplace out in the city.

Brüder had another concern as well—a gap in logic that continued to nag at him. While

in the water, he had never found the actual breached Solublon bag. It seemed to Brüder

that if Sienna had broken the bag—by kicking it or ripping it or whatever she had done—

he would have found the damaged, deflated remnants floating somewhere in the area.

But Brüder had found nothing. Any remains of the bag seemed to have vanished.

Brüder strongly doubted that Sienna would have carried off the Solublon bag with her,

since by this point it would have been no more than a slimy, dissolving mess.

So where did it go?

Brüder had an uneasy sense that he was missing something. Even so, he focused on a

new containment strategy, which required him to answer one critical question.

What is the contagion’s current dispersal radius?

Brüder knew the question would be answered in a matter of minutes. His team had set

up a series of portable virus-detection devices along the boardwalks at increasing

distances from the lagoon. These devices—known as PCR units—used what was called a

polymerase chain reaction to detect the presence of viral contamination.

The SRS agent remained hopeful. With no movement of the water in the lagoon, and

the passage of very little time, he was confident that the PCR devices would detect a

relatively small region of contamination, which they could then attack with chemicals and

the use of suction.

“Ready?” a technician called out through a megaphone.

Agents stationed around the cistern gave the thumbs-up.

“Run your samples,” the megaphone crackled.

Throughout the cavern, analysts crouched down and started their individual PCR

machines. Each device began analyzing a sample from the point at which its operator was

located on the boardwalk, spaced in ever-widening arcs around Zobrist’s plaque.

A hush fell across the cistern as everyone waited, praying to see only green lights.

And then it happened.

On the machine closest to Brüder, a virus-detection light began flashing red. His

muscles tensed, and his eyes shifted to the next machine.

It, too, began blinking red.

No.

Stunned murmurs reverberated throughout the cavern. Brüder watched in horror as,

one by one, every PCR device began blinking red, all the way across the cistern to the

entrance.

Oh, God … he thought. The sea of blinking red detection lights painted an unmistakable

picture.

The radius of contamination was enormous.

The entire cistern was teeming with virus.

CHAPTER 97

ROBERT LANGDON STARED down at Sienna Brooks, huddled at the wheel of the stolen

powerboat, and struggled to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

“I’m sure you despise me,” she sobbed, looking up at him through tearful eyes.

“Despise you?!” Langdon exclaimed. “I don’t have the slightest idea who you are! All

you’ve done is lie to me!”

“I know,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to do the right thing.”

“By releasing a plague?”

“No, Robert, you don’t understand.”

“ I do understand!” Langdon replied. “I understand you waded out into the water to

break that Solublon bag! You wanted to release Zobrist’s virus before anyone could

contain it!”

“Solublon bag?” Sienna’s eyes flashed confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking

about. Robert, I went to the cistern to stop Bertrand’s virus … to steal it and make it

disappear forever … so nobody could ever study it, including Dr. Sinskey and the WHO.”

“Steal it? Why keep it from the WHO?”

Sienna took a long breath. “There’s so much you don’t know, but it’s all moot now. We

arrived much too late, Robert. We never had a chance.”

“Of course we had a chance! The virus was not going to be released until tomorrow!

That’s the date Zobrist chose, and if you hadn’t gone into the water—”

“Robert, I didn’t release the virus!” Sienna yelled. “When I went into the water, I was

trying to find it, but it was too late. There was nothing there.”

“I don’t believe you,” Langdon said.

“I know you don’t. And I don’t blame you.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out

a soggy pamphlet. “But maybe this will help.” She tossed the paper to Langdon. “I found

this just before I waded into the lagoon.”

He caught it and opened it up. It was a concert program for the cistern’s seven

performances of the Dante Symphony.

“Look at the dates,” she said.

Langdon read the dates and then reread them, puzzled by what he saw. For some

reason, he had been under the impression that this evening’s performance was opening

night—the first of seven performances to be given during the week, designed to lure

people into a plague-infested cistern. This program, however, told a different story.

“Tonight was closing night?” Langdon asked, glancing up from the paper. “The

orchestra has been playing all week?”

Sienna nodded. “I was as surprised as you are.” She paused, her eyes somber. “The

virus is already out, Robert. It has been for a week.”

“That can’t be true,” Langdon argued. “ Tomorrow is the date. Zobrist even made a

plaque with tomorrow’s date on it.”

“Yes, I saw the plaque in the water.”

“Then you know he was fixated on tomorrow.”

Sienna sighed. “Robert, I knew Bertrand well, better than I ever admitted to you. He

was a scientist, a results-oriented person. I now realize that the date on the plaque is not

the virus’s release date. It’s something else, something more important to his goal.”

“And that would be …?”

Sienna gazed up solemnly from the boat. “It’s a global-saturation date—a

mathematical projection of the date after which his virus will have propagated across the

world … and infected every individual.”

The prospect sent a visceral tremor through Langdon, and yet he couldn’t help but

suspect that she was lying. Her story contained a fatal flaw, and Sienna Brooks had

already proven she’d lie about anything.

“One problem, Sienna,” he said, staring down at her. “If this plague has already spread

all over the world, then why aren’t people getting sick?”

Sienna glanced away, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

“If this plague has been out a week,” Langdon repeated, “why aren’t people dying?”

She turned slowly back to him. “Because … ” she began, the words catching in her

throat. “Bertrand didn’t create a plague.” Her eyes welled up again with tears. “He

created something far more dangerous.”

CHAPTER 98

DESPITE THE FLOW of oxygen that passed through her respirator, Elizabeth Sinskey felt light-

headed. Five minutes had passed since Brüder’s PCR devices had revealed the horrifying

truth.

Our window for containment closed long ago.

The Solublon bag had apparently dissolved sometime last week, most likely on the

opening night of the concert, which Sinskey now knew had been playing for seven nights

straight. The few remaining shreds of Solublon attached to the tether had not disappered,

only because they had been coated with an adhesive to help secure them to the tether’s

clasp.

The contagion has been out for a week.

Now, with no possibility of isolating the pathogen, the SRS agents huddled over

samples in the cistern’s makeshift lab and assumed their usual fallback position—analysis,

classification, and threat assessment. So far, the PCR units had revealed only one solid

piece of data, and the discovery surprised no one.

The virus was now airborne.

The contents of the Solublon bag had apparently bubbled up to the surface and

aerosolized viral particles into the air. It wouldn’t take many, Sinskey knew. Especially in

such an enclosed area.

A virus—unlike a bacteria or chemical pathogen—could spread through a population

with astounding speed and penetration. Parasitic in their behavior, viruses entered an

organism and attached to a host cell in a process called adsorption. They then injected

their own DNA or RNA into that cell, recruiting the invaded cell, and forcing it to replicate

multiple versions of the virus. Once a sufficient number of copies existed, the new virus

particles would kill the cell and burst through the cell wall, speeding off to find new host

cells to attack, and the process would be repeated.

An infected individual would then exhale or sneeze, sending respiratory droplets out of

his body; these droplets would remain suspended in the air until they were inhaled by

other hosts, and the process began all over again.

Exponential growth, Sinskey mused, recalling Zobrist’s graphs illustrating the human

population explosion. Zobrist is using the exponential growth of viruses to combat the

exponential growth of people.

The burning question now, however, was: How would this virus behave?

Coldly stated: How will it attack its host?

The Ebola virus impaired the blood’s ability to coagulate, resulting in unstoppable

hemorrhaging. The hantavirus triggered the lungs to fail. A whole host of viruses known

a s oncoviruses caused cancer. And the HIV virus attacked the immune system, causing

the disease AIDS. It was no secret in the medical community that, had the HIV virus gone

airborne, it could have been an extinction event.

So what the hell does Zobrist’s virus do?

Whatever it did, the effects clearly took time to reveal themselves … and nearby

hospitals had reported no cases of patients showing symptoms that were out of the

ordinary.

Impatient for answers, Sinskey moved toward the lab. She saw Brüder standing near

the stairwell, having found a faint signal for his cell phone. He was speaking to someone

in hushed tones.

She hurried over, arriving just as he was finishing his call.

“Okay, understood,” Brüder said, the look on his face expressing an emotion between

disbelief and terror. “And once again, I cannot stress strongly enough the confidentiality

of this information. Your eyes only at this point. Call me when you know more. Thanks.”

He hung up.

“What’s going on?” Sinskey demanded.

Brüder blew out a slow breath. “I just spoke to an old friend of mine who is a top

virologist at the CDC in Atlanta.”

Sinskey bristled. “You alerted the CDC without my authorization?”

“I made a judgment call,” he replied. “My contact will be discreet, and we’re going to

need far better data than we can get from this makeshift lab.”

Sinskey glanced over at the handful of SRS agents who were taking water samples and

huddling over portable electronics. He’s right.

“My CDC contact,” Brüder continued, “is standing in a fully equipped microbiology lab

and has already confirmed the existence of an extremely contagious and never-before-

seen viral pathogen.”

“Hold on!” Sinskey interjected. “How did you get him a sample so fast?”

“I didn’t,” Brüder said tautly. “He tested his own blood.”

Sinskey needed only a moment for the meaning to register.

It’s already gone global.

CHAPTER 99

LANGDON WALKED SLOWLY , feeling strangely disembodied, as if he were moving through a

particularly vivid nightmare. What could be more dangerous than a plague?

Sienna had said nothing more since she had climbed out of the boat and motioned for

Langdon to follow her away from the docks, along a quiet gravel path, farther away from

the water and the crowds.

Although Sienna’s tears had stopped, Langdon sensed a torrent of emotion building up

within her. He could hear sirens wailing in the distance, but Sienna appeared not to

notice. She was staring blankly at the ground, seemingly hypnotized by the rhythmic

crunch of the gravel beneath their feet.

They entered a small park, and Sienna guided him into a dense grove of trees, where

they were hidden away from the world. Here they sat on a bench that overlooked the

water. On the far shore, the ancient Galata Tower glistened above the quiet residences

that dotted the hillside. The world looked strangely peaceful from here, a far cry,

Langdon imagined, from what was probably transpiring at the cistern. By now, he

suspected, Sinskey and the SRS team had realized that they had arrived too late to stop

the plague.

Beside him, Sienna stared out across the sea. “I don’t have much time, Robert,” she

said. “The authorities will eventually figure out where I went. But before they do, I need

you to hear the truth … all of it.”

Langdon gave her a silent nod.

Sienna wiped her eyes and shifted on the bench to face him fully. “Bertrand Zobrist …”

she began. “He was my first love. He became my mentor.”

“I’ve already been told, Sienna,” Langdon said.

She gave him a startled look but continued speaking, as if afraid to lose her

momentum. “I met him at an impressionable age, and his ideas and intellect bewitched

me. Bertrand believed, as I do, that our species is on the brink of collapse … that we’re

facing a horrifying end, which is racing toward us so much faster than anyone dares

accept.”

Langdon made no reply.

“My entire childhood,” Sienna said, “I wanted to save the world. And all I was ever told

was: ‘You can’t save the world, so don’t sacrifice your happiness trying.’ ” She paused, her

face taut, holding back tears. “Then I met Bertrand—a beautiful, brilliant man who told

me not only that saving the world was possible … but that doing so was a moral

imperative. He introduced me to an entire circle of like-minded individuals—people of

staggering abilities and intellect … people who really could change the future. For the first

time in my life, I no longer felt all alone, Robert.”

Langdon offered a soft smile, sensing the pain in her words.

“I’ve endured some terrible things in my life,” Sienna continued, her voice increasingly

unsteady. “Things I’ve had trouble moving past …” She broke his gaze and ran an anxious

palm across her bald scalp before collecting herself and turning back to him. “And maybe

that’s why the only thing that keeps me going is my belief that we are capable of being

better than we are … capable of taking action to avoid a catastrophic future.”

“And Bertrand believed that, too?” Langdon asked.

“Absolutely. Bertrand had boundless hope for humankind. He was a Transhumanist who

believed we are living on the threshold of a glittering ‘posthuman’ age—an era of true

transformation. He had the mind of a futurist, eyes that could see down the road in ways

few others could even imagine. He understood the astonishing powers of technology and

believed that in the span of several generations, our species would become a different

animal entirely—genetically enhanced to be healthier, smarter, stronger, even more

compassionate.” She paused. “Except for one problem. He didn’t think we’d live long

enough as a species to realize that possibility.”

“Due to overpopulation …” Langdon said.

She nodded. “The Malthusian catastrophe. Bertrand used to tell me he felt like St.

George trying to slay the chthonic monster.”

Langdon didn’t follow her meaning. “Medusa?”

“Metaphorically, yes. Medusa and the entire class of chthonic deities live underground

because they’re associated directly with Mother Earth. In allegory, chthonics are always

symbols of—”

“Fertility,” Langdon said, startled that the parallel had not occurred to him earlier.

Fruitfulness. Population.

“Yes, fertility,” Sienna replied. “Bertrand used the term ‘chthonic monster’ to represent

the ominous threat of our own fecundity. He described our overproduction of offspring as

a monster looming on the horizon … a monster we needed to contain immediately, before

it consumed us all.”

Our own virility stalks us, Langdon realized. The chthonic monster. “And Bertrand

battled this monster … how?”

“Please understand,” she said defensively, “these are not easy problems to solve.

Triage is always a messy process. A man who severs the leg of a three-year-old child is a

horrific criminal … until that man is a doctor who saves the child from gangrene.

Sometimes the only choice is the lesser of two evils.” She began tearing up again. “I

believe Bertrand had a noble goal … but his methods …” She looked away, on the verge

of breaking down.

“Sienna,” Langdon whispered gently. “I need to understand all of this. I need you to

explain to me what Bertrand did. What did he release into the world?”

Sienna faced him again, her soft brown eyes radiating a darker fear. “He released a

virus,” she whispered. “A very specific kind of virus.”

Langdon held his breath. “Tell me.”

“Bertrand created something known as a viral vector. It’s a virus intentionally designed

to install genetic information into the cell it’s attacking.” Sienna paused to let him process

the idea. “A vector virus … rather than killing its host cell … inserts a piece of

predetermined DNA into that cell, essentially modifying the cell’s genome.”

Langdon struggled to grasp her meaning. This virus changes our DNA?

“The insidious nature of this virus,” Sienna continued, “is that none of us know it has

infected us. No one gets sick. It causes no overt symptoms to suggest that it’s changing

us genetically.”

For a moment Langdon could feel the blood pulsing in his veins. “And what changes

does it make?”

Sienna closed her eyes for a moment. “Robert,” she whispered, “as soon as this virus

was released into the cistern’s lagoon, a chain reaction began. Every person who

descended into that cavern and breathed the air became infected. They became viral

hosts … unwitting accomplices who transferred the virus to others, sparking an

exponential proliferation of disease that will now have torn across the planet like a forest

fire. By now, the virus will have penetrated the global population. You, me … everyone.”

Langdon rose from the bench and began pacing frantically before her. “And what does

it do to us?” he repeated.

Sienna was silent for a long moment. “The virus has the ability to render the human

body … infertile.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Bertrand created a sterility plague.”

Her words struck Langdon hard. A virus that makes us infertile? Langdon knew there

existed viruses that could cause sterility, but a highly contagious airborne pathogen that

could do so by altering us genetically seemed to belong in another world … some kind of

Orwellian dystopia of the future.

“Bertrand often theorized about a virus like this,” Sienna said quietly, “but I never

imagined he would attempt to create it … much less succeed. When I got his letter and

learned what he had done, I was in shock. I tried desperately to find him, to beg him to

destroy his creation. But I arrived too late.”

“Hold on,” Langdon interjected, finally finding his voice. “If the virus makes everyone

on earth infertile, there will be no new generations, and the human race will start dying

out … immediately.”

“Correct,” she responded, her voice sounding small. “Except extinction was not

Bertrand’s goal—quite the opposite, in fact—which is why he created a randomly

activating virus. Even though Inferno is now endemic in all human DNA and will be

passed along by all of us from this generation forward, it will ‘activate’ only in a certain

percentage of people. In other words, the virus is now carried by everyone on earth, and

yet it will cause sterility in only a randomly selected part of the population.”

“What … part?” Langdon heard himself say, incredulous even to be asking such a

question.

“Well, as you know, Bertrand was fixated on the Black Death—the plague that

indiscriminately killed one third of the European population. Nature, he believed, knew

how to cull itself. When Bertrand did the math on infertility, he was exhilarated to

discover that the plague’s death rate of one in three seemed to be the precise ratio

required to start winnowing the human population at a manageable rate.”

That’s monstrous, Langdon thought.

“The Black Plague thinned the herd and paved the way for the Renaissance,” she said,

“and Bertrand created Inferno as a kind of modern-day catalyst for global renewal—a

Transhumanist Black Death—the difference being that those manifesting the disease,

rather than perishing, would simply become infertile. Assuming Bertrand’s virus has taken

hold, one third of the world’s population is now sterile … and one third of the population

will continue to be sterile for all time. The effect would be similar to that of a recessive

gene … which gets passed along to all offspring, and yet exerts its influence in only a

small percentage of them.”

Sienna’s hands were shaking as she continued. “In Bertrand’s letter to me, he sounded

quite proud, saying he considered Inferno to be a very elegant and humane resolution of

the problem.” Fresh tears formed in her eyes, and she wiped them away. “Compared to

the virulence of the Black Death, I admit there is some compassion in this approach.

There will be no hospitals overflowing with the sick and dying, no bodies rotting in the

streets, and no anguished survivors enduring the death of loved ones. Humans will simply

stop having so many babies. Our planet will experience a steady reduction in our birth

rate until the population curve actually inverts, and our total numbers begin to decrease.”

She paused. “The result will be far more potent than the plague, which only briefly curbed

our numbers, creating a temporary dip in the graph of human expansion. With Inferno,

Bertrand created a long-term solution, a permanent solution … a Transhumanist solution.

He was a germ-line genetic engineer. He solved problems at the root level.”

“It’s genetic terrorism …” Langdon whispered. “It’s changing who we are, who we’ve

always been, at the most fundamental level.”

“Bertrand didn’t see it that way. He dreamed of fixing the fatal flaw in human evolution

… the fact that our species is simply too prolific. We are an organism that, despite our

unmatched intellect, cannot seem to control our own numbers. No amount of free

contraception, education, or government enticement works. We keep having babies …

whether we want to or not. Did you know the CDC just announced that nearly half of all

pregnancies in the U.S. are unplanned? And, in underdeveloped nations, that number is

over seventy percent!”

Langdon had seen these statistics before and yet only now was he starting to

understand their implications. As a species, humans were like the rabbits that were

introduced on certain Pacific islands and allowed to reproduce unchecked to the point that

they decimated their ecosystem and finally went extinct.

Bertrand Zobrist has redesigned our species … in an attempt to save us … transforming

us into a less fruitful population.

Langdon took a deep breath and stared out at the Bosporus, feeling as ungrounded as

the boats sailing in the distance. The sirens were growing still louder, coming from the

direction of the docks, and Langdon sensed that time was running out.

“The most frightening thing of all,” Sienna said, “is not that Inferno causes sterility, but

rather that it has the ability to do so. An airborne viral vector is a quantum leap—years

ahead of its time. Bertrand has suddenly lifted us out of the dark ages of genetic

engineering and launched us headlong into the future. He has unlocked the evolutionary

process and given humankind the ability to redefine our species in broad, sweeping

strokes. Pandora is out of the box, and there’s no putting her back in. Bertrand has

created the keys to modify the human race … and if those keys fall into the wrong hands,

then God help us. This technology should never have been created. As soon as I read

Bertrand’s letter explaining how he had achieved his goals, I burned it. Then I vowed to

find his virus and destroy all traces of it.”

“I don’t understand,” Langdon declared, his voice laced with anger. “If you wanted to

destroy the virus, why didn’t you cooperate with Dr. Sinskey and the WHO? You should

have called the CDC or someone.”

“You can’t be serious! Government agencies are the last entities on earth that should

have access to this technology! Think about it, Robert. Throughout all of human history,

every groundbreaking technology ever discovered by science has been weaponized—from

simple fire to nuclear power—and almost always at the hands of powerful governments.

Where do you think our biological weapons come from? They originate from research

done at places like the WHO and CDC. Bertrand’s technology—a pandemic virus used as a

genetic vector—is the most powerful weapon ever created. It paves the way for horrors

we can’t yet even imagine, including targeted biological weapons. Imagine a pathogen

that attacks only those people whose genetic code contains certain ethnic markers. It

could enable widespread ethnic cleansing on the genetic level!”

“I see your concerns, Sienna, I do, but this technology could also be used for good,

couldn’t it? Isn’t this discovery a godsend for genetic medicine? A new way to deliver

global inoculations, for example?”

“Perhaps, but unfortunately, I’ve learned to expect the worst from people who hold

power.”

In the distance Langdon could hear the whine of a helicopter shatter the air. He peered

through the trees back in the direction of the Spice Bazaar and saw the running lights of

an aircraft skimming up over the hill and streaking toward the docks.

Sienna tensed. “I need to go,” she said, standing up and glancing to the west toward

Atatürk Bridge. “I think I can get across the bridge on foot, and from there reach—”

“You’re not leaving, Sienna,” he said firmly.

“Robert, I came back because I felt I owed you an explanation. Now you have it.”

“No, Sienna,” Langdon said. “You came back because you’ve been running your whole

life, and you finally realized you can’t run anymore.”

Sienna seemed to shrink before him. “What choice do I have?” she asked, watching the

helicopter scan the water. “They’ll put me in prison as soon as they find me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Sienna. You didn’t create this virus … nor did you release

it.”

“True, but I went to great lengths to prevent the World Health Organization from

finding it. If I don’t end up in a Turkish prison, I’ll face some kind of international tribunal

on charges of biological terrorism.”

As the thrum of the helicopter grew louder, Langdon looked toward the docks in the

distance. The craft was hovering in place, rotors churning the water as its searchlight

strafed the boats.

Sienna looked ready to bolt at any instant.

“Please listen,” Langdon said, softening his tone. “I know you’ve been through a lot,

and I know you’re scared, but you need to think of the big picture. Bertrand created this

virus. You tried to stop it.”

“But I failed.”

“Yes, and now that the virus is out, the scientific and medical communities will need to

understand it fully. You’re the only person who knows anything at all about it. Maybe

there’s a way to neutralize it … or do something to prepare.” Langdon’s penetrating gaze

bore into her. “Sienna, the world needs to know what you know. You can’t just

disappear.”

Sienna’s slim frame was shaking now, as if the floodgates of sorrow and uncertainty

were about to burst wide. “Robert, I … I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know who I

am anymore. Look at me.” She put a hand on her bald scalp. “I’ve turned into a monster.

How can I possibly face—”

Langdon stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. He could feel her body

trembling, feel her frailty against his chest. He whispered softly in her ear.

“Sienna, I know you want to run, but I’m not going to let you. Sooner or later you need

to start trusting someone.”

“I can’t …” She was sobbing. “I’m not sure I know how.”

Langdon held her tighter. “You start small. You take that first tiny step. You trust me.”

CHAPTER 100

THE SHARP CLANG of metal on metal rang through the fuselage of the windowless C-130

transport, causing the provost to jump. Outside, someone was banging the butt of a

pistol against the aircraft’s hatch and demanding entry.

“Everyone stay seated,” the C-130 pilot commanded, moving toward the door. “It’s the

Turkish police. They just drove out to the plane.”

The provost and Ferris exchanged a quick glance.

From the flurry of panicked calls among the WHO staff on board, the provost sensed

that their containment mission had failed. Zobrist carried out his plan, he thought. And

my company made it possible.

Outside the hatch, authoritative-sounding voices began shouting in Turkish.

The provost jumped to his feet. “Don’t open the door!” he ordered the pilot.

The pilot stopped short, glaring at the provost. “Why the hell not?”

“The WHO is an international relief organization,” the provost replied, “and this plane is

sovereign territory!”

The pilot shook his head. “Sir, this plane is parked at a Turkish airport, and until it

leaves Turkish airspace, it is subject to the laws of the land.” The pilot moved to the exit

and threw open the hatch.

Two uniformed men stared in. Their humorless eyes showed not the slightest hint of

leniency. “Who is the captain of this aircraft?” one of them demanded in a heavy accent.

“I am,” the pilot said.

An officer handed the pilot two sheets of paper. “Arrest documents. These two

passengers must come with us.”

The pilot skimmed the pages and glanced over at the provost and Ferris.

“Call Dr. Sinskey,” the provost ordered the WHO pilot. “We’re on an international

emergency mission.”

One of the officers eyed the provost with an amused sneer. “Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey?

Director of the World Health Organization? She is the one who ordered your arrest.”

“That can’t be,” the provost replied. “Mr. Ferris and I are here in Turkey trying to help

Dr. Sinskey.”

“Then you are not doing a very good job,” the second officer replied. “Dr. Sinskey

contacted us and named you both as conspirators in a bio-terrorism plot on Turkish soil.”

He pulled out handcuffs. “You both are coming to headquarters for questioning.”

“I demand an attorney!” the provost shouted.

Thirty seconds later, he and Ferris were shackled, muscled down the gangway, and

shoved roughly into the backseat of a black sedan. The sedan raced away, skimming

across the tarmac to a remote corner of the airport, where it stopped at a chicken-wire

fence that had been cut and pulled apart to allow their car to pass. Once through the

perimeter fence, the car bounced across a dusty wasteland of broken airport machinery

and came to a halt near an old service building.

The two uniformed men got out of the sedan and scanned the area. Apparently

satisfied that they had not been followed, they stripped off their police uniforms and

tossed them aside. Then they helped Ferris and the provost out of the car and removed

their handcuffs.

The provost rubbed his wrists, realizing that he would not do well in captivity.

“The car keys are under the mat,” one of the agents said, motioning to a white van

parked nearby. “There’s a duffel in the backseat with everything you requested—travel

documents, cash, prepaid phones, clothing, as well as a few other items we thought you

might appreciate.”

“Thank you,” the provost said. “You guys are good.”

“Just well trained, sir.”

With that, the two Turkish men got back into the black sedan and drove off.

Sinskey was never going to let me walk away, the provost reminded himself. Having

sensed as much while flying to Istanbul, the provost had e-mailed an alert to the

Consortium’s local branch, indicating that he and Ferris might need an extraction.

“You think she’ll come after us?” Ferris asked.

“Sinskey?” The provost nodded. “Absolutely. Although I suspect she has other concerns

at the moment.”

The two men climbed into the white van, and the provost rummaged through the

contents of the duffel, getting their documentation in order. He pulled out a baseball cap

and slipped it on. Wrapped inside the cap, he found a small bottle of Highland Park single

malt.

These guys are good.

The provost eyed the amber liquid, telling himself he should wait until tomorrow. Then

again, he pictured Zobrist’s Solublon bag and wondered what tomorrow would even look

like.

I broke my cardinal rule, he thought. I gave up my client.

The provost felt strangely adrift, knowing that in the coming days the world would be

blanketed with news of a catastrophe in which he had played a very significant role. This

would not have happened without me.

For the first time in his life, ignorance no longer felt like the moral high ground. His

fingers broke the seal on the bottle of Scotch.

Enjoy it, he told himself. One way or another, your days are numbered.

The provost took a deep pull on the bottle, relishing the warmth in his throat.

Suddenly the darkness lit up with spotlights and the blue flashing strobes of police cars,

which surrounded them on all sides.

The provost looked frantically in every direction … and then sat as still as stone.

No escape.

As armed Turkish police officers approached the van, rifles extended, the provost took

a final sip of Highland Park and quietly raised his hands over his head.

This time, he knew, the officers were not his own.

CHAPTER 101

THE SWISS CONSULATE in Istanbul is located at One Levent Plaza in a sleek, ultramodern

skyscraper. The building’s concave, blue-glass facade resembles a futuristic monolith

along the skyline of the ancient metropolis.

Nearly an hour had passed since Sinskey had left the cistern to set up a temporary

command post in the consulate offices. The local news stations hummed with reports of

the panicked stampede at the cistern’s final performance of Liszt’s Dante Symphony. No

specifics had been reported yet, but the presence of an international medical team

wearing hazmat suits had sparked wild speculation.

Sinskey stared out the window at the lights of the city and felt utterly alone.

Reflexively, she reached to her neck for her amulet necklace, but there was nothing to

grasp. The broken talisman now lay on her desk in two fractured halves.

The WHO director had just finished coordinating an array of emergency meetings to be

held in Geneva in several hours. Specialists from various agencies were already en route,

and Sinskey herself planned to fly there shortly to brief them. Mercifully, someone on the

night staff had delivered a piping-hot mug of authentic Turkish coffee, which Sinskey had

quickly drained.

A young man on the consulate staff peered in her open door. “Ma’am? Robert Langdon

is here to see you.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “You can send him in.”

Twenty minutes earlier, Langdon had contacted Sinskey by phone and explained that

Sienna Brooks had eluded him, having stolen a boat and fled out to sea. Sinskey had

already heard this news from the authorities, who were still searching the area, but so far

had come up empty-handed.

Now, as Langdon’s tall frame materialized in the doorway, she barely recognized him.

His suit was dirty, his dark hair tousled, and his eyes looked weary and sunken.

“Professor, are you okay?” Sinskey stood up.

Langdon gave her a tired smile. “I’ve had easier nights.”

“Please,” she said, motioning to a chair. “Have a seat.”

“Zobrist’s contagion,” Langdon began without preamble as he sat down. “I think it may

have been released a week ago.”

Sinskey gave a patient nod. “Yes, we’ve come to the same conclusion. No symptoms

have been reported yet, but we’ve isolated samples and are already gearing up for

intensive testing. Unfortunately, it could take days or weeks to get a real grip on what

this virus is … and what it might do.”

“It’s a vector virus,” Langdon said.

Sinskey cocked her head in surprise, startled to hear that he even knew the term. “I

beg your pardon?”

“Zobrist created an airborne vector virus capable of modifying human DNA.”

Sinskey rose abruptly, knocking her chair over in the process. That’s not even possible!

“What would ever make you claim such a thing?”

“Sienna,” Langdon replied quietly. “She told me. Half an hour ago.”

Sinskey leaned her hands on her desk and stared across at Langdon with sudden

distrust. “She didn’t escape?”

“She certainly did,” he replied. “She was free, in a boat speeding out to sea, and she

easily could have disappeared forever. But she thought better of it. She came back of her

own volition. Sienna wants to help with this crisis.”

A harsh laugh escaped Sinskey’s lips. “Forgive me if I’m not inclined to trust Ms. Brooks,

especially when she’s making such a far-fetched claim.”

“I believe her,” Langdon said, his tone unwavering. “And if she claims that this is a

vector virus, I think you’d better take her seriously.”

Sinskey felt suddenly exhausted, her mind struggling to analyze Langdon’s words. She

moved to the window and stared out. A DNA-altering viral vector? As improbable and

horrifying as the prospect sounded, she had to admit there was an eerie logic to it. After

all, Zobrist was a genetic engineer and knew firsthand that the smallest mutation in a

single gene could have catastrophic effects on the body—cancers, organ failure, and

blood disorders. Even a disease as abhorrent as cystic fibrosis—which drowns its victim in

mucus—was caused by nothing more than a minuscule hiccup in a regulator gene on

chromosome seven.

Specialists had now started treating these genetic conditions with rudimentary vector

viruses that were injected directly into the patient. These noncontagious viruses were

programmed to travel through the patient’s body and install replacement DNA that fixed

the damaged sections. This new science, however, like all sciences, had a dark side. The

effects of a vector virus could be either favorable or destructive … depending on the

engineer’s intentions. If a virus were maliciously programmed to insert damaged DNA into

healthy cells, the results would be devastating. Moreover, if that destructive virus were

somehow engineered to be highly contagious and airborne …

The prospect made Sinskey shudder. What genetic horror has Zobrist dreamed up?

How does he plan to thin the human herd?

Sinskey knew that finding the answer could take weeks. The human genetic code

contained a seemingly infinite labyrinth of chemical permutations. The prospect of

searching its entirety in hopes of finding Zobrist’s one specific alteration would be like

looking for a needle in a haystack … without even knowing on what planet that particular

haystack was located.

“Elizabeth?” Langdon’s deep voice pulled her back.

Sinskey turned from the window and looked at him.

“Did you hear me?” he asked, still seated calmly. “Sienna wanted to destroy this virus

as much as you did.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

Langdon exhaled, standing now. “I think you should listen to me. Shortly before his

death, Zobrist wrote a letter to Sienna, telling her what he had done. He outlined exactly

what this virus would do … how it would attack us … how it would achieve his goals.”

Sinskey froze. There’s a letter?!

“When Sienna read Zobrist’s description of what he had created, she was horrified. She

wanted to stop him. She considered his virus so dangerous that she didn’t want anybody

to gain access to it, including the World Health Organization. Don’t you see? Sienna has

been trying to destroy the virus … not release it.”

“There’s a letter?” Sinskey demanded, her focus now singular. “With specifics?”

“That’s what Sienna told me, yes.”

“We need that letter! Having specifics could save us months in understanding what this

thing is and knowing how to handle it.”

Langdon shook his head. “You don’t understand. When Sienna read Zobrist’s letter, she

was terrified. She burned it immediately. She wanted to be sure nobody—”

Sinskey smacked her hand down on the desk. “She destroyed the one thing that could

help us prepare for this crisis? And you want me to trust her?”

“I know it’s asking a lot, in light of her actions, but rather than castigating her, it might

be helpful to remember that Sienna has a unique intellect, including a rather startling

capacity for recall.” Langdon paused. “What if she can re-create enough of Zobrist’s letter

to be helpful to you?”

Sinskey narrowed her gaze, nodding slightly. “Well, Professor, in that case, what do you

suggest I do?”

Langdon motioned to her empty coffee cup. “I suggest you order more coffee … and

listen to the one condition that Sienna has requested.”

Sinskey’s pulse quickened, and she glanced at the phone. “You know how to reach

her?”

“I do.”

“Tell me what she requested.”

Langdon told her, and Sinskey fell silent, considering the proposal.

“I think it’s the right thing to do,” Langdon added. “And what do you have to lose?”

“If everything you’re saying is true, then you have my word.” Sinskey pushed the phone

toward him. “Please make the call.”

To Sinskey’s surprise, Langdon ignored the phone. Instead, he stood up and headed

out the door, stating that he would be back in a minute. Puzzled, Sinskey walked into the

hall and observed him striding through the consulate’s waiting area, pushing open the

glass doors, and exiting into the elevator foyer beyond. For a moment, she thought he

was leaving, but then, rather than summoning the elevator, he slipped quietly into the

women’s restroom.

A few moments later, he emerged with a woman who looked to be in her early thirties.

Sinskey needed a long moment to accept the fact that this was truly Sienna Brooks. The

pretty ponytailed woman she had seen earlier in the day had been utterly transformed.

She was totally bald, as if her scalp had been shaved clean.

When the two entered her office, they silently took seats facing the desk.

“Forgive me,” Sienna said quickly. “I know we have a lot to discuss, but first, I was

hoping you would permit me to say something that I really need to say.”

Sinskey noted the sadness in Sienna’s voice. “Of course.”

“Ma’am,” she began, her voice frail, “you are the director of the World Health

Organization. You know better than anyone that we are a species on the edge of collapse

… a population out of control. For years, Bertrand Zobrist attempted to engage with

influential people like yourself to discuss the impending crisis. He visited countless

organizations that he believed could effect change—Worldwatch Institute, the Club of

Rome, Population Matters, the Council on Foreign Relations—but he never found anyone

who dared engage in a meaningful conversation about a real solution. You all responded

with plans for better contraceptive education, tax incentives for smaller families, and

even talk of colonizing the moon! It’s no wonder Bertrand lost his mind.”

Sinskey stared at her, offering no reaction.

Sienna took a deep breath. “Dr. Sinskey, Bertrand came to you personally. He begged

you to acknowledge that we are on the brink … begged you to engage in some kind of

dialogue. But rather than listening to his ideas, you called him a madman, put him on a

watch list, and drove him underground.” Sienna’s voice grew heavy with emotion.

“Bertrand died all alone because people like yourself refused to open your minds enough

even to admit that our catastrophic circumstances might actually require an

uncomfortable solution. All Bertrand ever did was speak the truth … and for that, he was

ostracized.” Sienna wiped her eyes and gazed across the desk at Sinskey. “Believe me, I

know what it’s like to feel all alone … the worst kind of loneliness in the world is the

isolation that comes from being misunderstood. It can make people lose their grasp on

reality.”

Sienna stopped talking, and a strained silence followed.

“That’s all I wanted to say,” she whispered.

Sinskey studied her for a long while and then sat down. “Ms. Brooks,” she said, as

calmly as possible, “you’re right. I may not have listened before …” She folded her hands

on the desk and looked directly at Sienna. “But I’m listening now.”

CHAPTER 102

THE CLOCK IN the Swiss Consulate’s lobby had long since chimed 1 A.M.

The notepad on Sinskey’s desk was now a patchwork of handwritten text, questions,

and diagrams. The director of the World Health Organization had neither moved nor

spoken in more than five minutes. She stood at the window, staring out into the night.

Behind her, Langdon and Sienna waited, seated in silence, cradling the last of their

Turkish coffee, the heavy aroma of its pulverized grounds and pistachio grains filling the

room.

The only sound was the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Sienna could feel her own heart pounding, and she wondered what Sinskey was

thinking, having now heard the truth in brutal detail. Bertrand’s virus is a sterility plague.

One third of the human population will be infertile.

Throughout the explanation, Sienna had watched Sinskey’s range of emotions, which,

while restrained, had been palpable. First, there was a stunned acceptance of the fact

that Zobrist had actually created an airborne vector virus. Next she had displayed fleeting

hope when she learned that the virus was not designed to kill people. Then … slowly,

there had been the spiraling horror as the truth set in, and she realized that vast portions

of the earth’s population would be rendered sterile. It was clear that the revelation that

the virus attacked human fertility affected Sinskey on a deeply personal level.

In Sienna’s case, the overwhelming emotion was relief. She had shared the complete

contents of Bertrand’s letter with the WHO director. I have no more secrets.

“Elizabeth?” Langdon ventured.

Sinskey emerged slowly from her thoughts. When she returned her gaze to them, her

face was drawn. “Sienna,” she began, speaking in a flat tone, “the information you have

provided will be very helpful in preparing a strategy to deal with this crisis. I appreciate

your candor. As you know, pandemic vector viruses have been discussed theoretically as

a possible way to immunize large populations, but everyone believed that the technology

was still many years away.”

Sinskey returned to her desk, where she sat down.

“Forgive me,” she said, shaking her head. “This all feels like science fiction to me at the

moment.”

Not surprising, Sienna thought. Every quantum leap in medicine had always felt this

way—penicillin, anesthesia, X-rays, the first time humans looked through a microscope

and saw a cell divide.

Dr. Sinskey gazed down at her notepad. “In a few hours, I will arrive in Geneva to a

firestorm of questions. I have no doubt that the first question will be whether there is any

way to counteract this virus.”

Sienna suspected she was right.

“And,” Sinskey continued, “I imagine the first proposed solution will be to analyze

Bertrand’s virus, understand it as best as we can, and then attempt to engineer a second

strain of it—a strain that we reprogram in order to change our DNA back to its original

form.” Sinskey did not look optimistic as she turned her gaze to Sienna. “Whether a

countervirus is even possible remains to be seen, but hypothetically speaking, I’d like to

hear your thoughts on that approach.”

My thoughts? Sienna felt herself glance reflexively at Langdon. The professor gave her

a nod, sending a very clear message: You’ve come this far. Speak your mind. Tell the

truth as you see it.

Sienna cleared her throat, turned to Sinskey, and spoke in a clear, strong voice.

“Ma’am, the world of genetic engineering is one I’ve inhabited with Bertrand for many

years. As you know, the human genome is an extremely delicate structure … a house of

cards. The more adjustments we make, the greater the chances we mistakenly alter the

wrong card and bring the entire thing crashing down. My personal belief is that there is

enormous danger in attempting to undo what has already been done. Bertrand was a

genetic engineer of exceptional skill and vision. He was years ahead of his peers. At this

point in time, I’m not sure I would trust anyone else to go poking around in the human

genome, hoping to get it right. Even if you designed something you thought might work,

trying it would involve reinfecting the entire population with something new.”

“Very true,” Sinskey said, seeming unsurprised by what she had just heard. “But of

course, there is the bigger issue. We might not even want to counteract it.”

Her words caught Sienna off guard. “I’m sorry?”

“Ms. Brooks, I may disagree with Bertrand’s methods, but his assessment of the state

of the world is accurate. This planet is facing a serious overpopulation issue. If we

manage to neutralize Bertrand’s virus without a viable alternate plan … we are simply

back at square one.”

Sienna’s shock must have been apparent, because Sinskey gave her a tired chuckle and

added, “Not a viewpoint you expected to hear from me?”

Sienna shook her head. “I guess I’m not sure what to expect anymore.”

“Then perhaps I can surprise you again,” Sinskey went on. “As I mentioned earlier,

leaders from top health agencies around the world will be gathering in Geneva in a

matter of hours to discuss this crisis and prepare an action plan. I can’t recall a gathering

of greater significance in all my years at the WHO.” She leveled her gaze at the young

doctor. “Sienna, I would like you to have a seat at that table.”

“Me?” Sienna recoiled. “I’m not a genetic engineer. I’ve told you everything I know.”

She pointed to Sinskey’s notepad. “Everything I have to offer is right there in your notes.”

“Not by a long shot,” Langdon interjected. “Sienna, any meaningful debate about this

virus will require context. Dr. Sinskey and her team will need to develop a moral

framework to assess their response to this crisis. She obviously believes you are in a

unique position to add to that dialogue.”

“My moral framework, I suspect, will not please the WHO.”

“Probably not,” Langdon replied, “which is all the more reason for you to be there. You

are a member of a new breed of thinkers. You provide counterpoint. You can help them

understand the mind-set of visionaries like Bertrand—brilliant individuals whose

convictions are so strong that they take matters into their own hands.”

“Bertrand was hardly the first.”

“No,” Sinskey interjected, “and he won’t be the last. Every month, the WHO uncovers

labs where scientists are dabbling in the gray areas of science—everything from

manipulating human stem cells to breeding chimeras … blended species that don’t exist

in nature. It’s disturbing. Science is progressing so fast that nobody knows where the

lines are drawn anymore.”

Sienna had to agree. Just recently, two very respected virologists—Fouchier and

Kawaoka—had created a highly pathogenic mutant H5N1 virus. Despite the researchers’

purely academic intent, their new creation possessed certain capabilities that had

alarmed biosecurity specialists and had created a firestorm of controversy online.

“I’m afraid it’s only going to get murkier,” Sinskey said. “We’re on the verge of new

technologies that we can’t yet even imagine.”

“And new philosophies as well,” Sienna added. “The Transhumanist movement is about

to explode from the shadows into the mainstream. One of its fundamental tenets is that

we as humans have a moral obligation to participate in our evolutionary process … to use

our technologies to advance the species, to create better humans—healthier, stronger,

with higher-functioning brains. Everything will soon be possible.”

“And you don’t think that such beliefs are in conflict with the evolutionary process?”

“No,” Sienna responded without hesitation. “Humans have evolved incrementally over

millennia, inventing new technologies along the way—rubbing sticks together for warmth,

developing agriculture to feed ourselves, inventing vaccines to fight disease, and now,

creating genetic tools to help engineer our own bodies so we can survive in a changing

world.” She paused. “I believe genetic engineering is just another step in a long line of

human advances.”

Sinskey was silent, deep in thought. “So you believe we should embrace these tools

with open arms.”

“If we don’t embrace them,” Sienna replied, “then we are as undeserving of life as the

caveman who freezes to death because he’s afraid to start a fire.”

Her words seemed to hang in the room for a long time before anyone spoke.

It was Langdon who broke the silence. “Not to sound old-fashioned,” he began, “but I

was raised on the theories of Darwin, and I can’t help but question the wisdom of

attempting to accelerate the natural process of evolution.”

“Robert,” Sienna said emphatically, “genetic engineering is not an acceleration of the

evolutionary process. It is the natural course of events! What you forget is that it was

evolution that created Bertrand Zobrist. His superior intellect was the product of the very

process Darwin described … an evolution over time. Bertrand’s rare insight into genetics

did not come as a flash of divine inspiration … it was the product of years of human

intellectual progress.”

Langdon fell silent, apparently considering the notion.

“And as a Darwinist,” she continued, “you know that nature has always found a way to

keep the human population in check—plagues, famines, floods. But let me ask you this—

isn’t it possible that nature found a different way this time? Instead of sending us horrific

disasters and misery … maybe nature, through the process of evolution, created a

scientist who invented a different method of decreasing our numbers over time. No

plagues. No death. Just a species more in tune with its environment—”

“Sienna,” Sinskey interrupted. “It’s late. We need to go. But before we do, I need to

clarify one more thing. You have told me repeatedly tonight that Bertrand was not an evil

man … that he loved humankind, and that he simply longed so deeply to save our species

that he was able to rationalize taking such drastic measures.”

Sienna nodded. “The ends justify the means,” she said, quoting the notorious

Florentine political theorist Machiavelli.

“So tell me,” Sinskey said, “do you believe that the ends justify the means? Do you

believe that Bertrand’s goal to save the world was so noble that it warranted his

releasing this virus?”

A tense silence settled in the room.

Sienna leaned in, close to the desk, her expression forceful. “Dr. Sinskey, as I told you,

I believe Bertrand’s actions were reckless and extremely dangerous. If I could have

stopped him, I would have done so in a heartbeat. I need you to believe me.”

Elizabeth Sinskey reached across the desk and gently grasped both of Sienna’s hands in

her own. “I do believe you, Sienna. I believe every word you’ve told me.”

CHAPTER 103

THE PREDAWN AIR at Atatürk Airport was cold and laced with mist. A light fog had settled,

hugging the tarmac around the private terminal.

Langdon, Sienna, and Sinskey arrived by town car and were met outside by a WHO

staffer who helped them out of the vehicle.

“We’re ready whenever you are, ma’am,” the man said, ushering the trio into a modest

terminal building.

“And Mr. Langdon’s arrangements?” Sinskey asked.

“Private plane to Florence. His temporary travel documents are already on board.”

Sinskey nodded her appreciation. “And the other matter we discussed?”

“Already in motion. The package will be shipped as soon as possible.”

Sinskey thanked the man, who now headed out across the tarmac toward the plane.

She turned to Langdon. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” She gave him a tired

smile and pulled back her long silver hair, tucking it behind her ears.

“Considering the situation,” Langdon said playfully, “I’m not sure an art professor has

much to offer.”

“You’ve offered plenty,” Sinskey said. “More than you know. Not the least of which

being …” She motioned beside her to Sienna, but the young woman was no longer with

them. Sienna was twenty yards back, having paused at a large window where she was

staring out at the waiting C-130, apparently deep in thought.

“Thanks for trusting her,” Langdon said quietly. “I sense she hasn’t had a lot of that in

her life.”

“I suspect Sienna Brooks and I will find plenty of things to learn from each other.”

Sinskey extended her palm. “Godspeed, Professor.”

“And to you,” Langdon said as they shook hands. “Best of luck in Geneva.”

“We’ll need it,” she said, and then nodded toward Sienna. “I’ll give you two a moment.

Just send her out when you’re ready.”

As Sinskey headed across the terminal, she reached absently into her pocket and pulled

out the two halves of her broken amulet, clutching them tightly in one palm.

“Don’t give up on that rod of Asclepius,” Langdon called out behind her. “It’s fixable.”

“Thanks,” Sinskey replied with a wave. “I’m hoping everything is.”

Sienna Brooks stood alone at the window, gazing out at the lights of the runway, which

looked ghostly in the low-lying fog and gathering clouds. Atop a control tower in the

distance, the Turkish flag fluttered proudly—a field of red emblazoned with the ancient

symbols of the crescent and star—vestiges of the Ottoman Empire, still flying proudly in

the modern world.

“A Turkish lira for your thoughts?” a deep voice said behind her.

Sienna did not turn. “A storm is coming.”

“I know,” Langdon responded quietly.

After a long moment, Sienna turned to him. “And I wish you were coming to Geneva.”

“Nice of you to say so,” he replied. “But you’ll be busy talking about the future. The last

thing you need is some old-fashioned college professor slowing you down.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “You think you’re too old for me, don’t you?”

Langdon laughed out loud. “Sienna, I am definitely too old for you!”

She shifted uncomfortably, feeling embarrassed. “Okay … but at least you’ll know

where to find me.” She managed a girlish shrug. “I mean … if you ever want to see me

again.”

He smiled at her. “I’d enjoy that.”

She felt her spirits lift a bit, and yet a long silence grew between them, neither of them

quite certain how to say good-bye.

As Sienna stared up at the American professor, she felt a surge of emotion she wasn’t

accustomed to feeling. Without warning, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him full on

the lips. When she pulled away, her eyes were moist with tears. “I’ll miss you,” she

whispered.

Langdon smiled affectionately and wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll miss you, too.”

They stood for a long while, locked in an embrace that neither seemed willing to end.

Finally, Langdon spoke. “There’s an ancient saying … often attributed to Dante himself …”

He paused. “‘Remember tonight … for it’s the beginning of forever.’ ”

“Thank you, Robert,” she said, as the tears began to flow. “I finally feel like I have a

purpose.”

Langdon pulled her closer. “You always said you wanted to save the world, Sienna.

This might just be your chance.”

Sienna smiled softly and turned away. As she walked alone toward the waiting C-130,

Sienna considered everything that had happened … everything that might still happen …

and all the possible futures.

Remember tonight, she repeated to herself, for it’s the beginning of forever.

As Sienna climbed into the plane, she prayed that Dante was right.

CHAPTER 104

THE PALE AFTERNOON sun dipped low over the Piazza del Duomo, glinting off the white tiles

of Giotto’s bell tower and casting long shadows across Florence’s magnificent Cathedral of

Santa Maria del Fiore.

The funeral for Ignazio Busoni was just getting under way as Robert Langdon slipped

into the cathedral and found a seat, pleased that Ignazio’s life was to be memorialized

here, in the timeless basilica that he had looked after for so many years.

Despite its vibrant facade, the interior of Florence’s cathedral was stark, empty, and

austere. Nonetheless, the ascetic sanctuary seemed to radiate an air of celebration

today. From all over Italy, government officials, friends, and art-world colleagues had

flooded into the church to remember the jovial mountain of a man they had lovingly

called il Duomino.

The media had reported that Busoni passed away while doing what he loved most—

taking a late-night stroll around the Duomo.

The tone of the funeral was surprisingly upbeat, with humorous commentary from

friends and family, one colleague noting that Busoni’s love of Renaissance art, by his own

admission, had been matched only by his love of spaghetti Bolognese and caramel

budino.

After the service, as the mourners mingled and fondly recounted incidents from

Ignazio’s life, Langdon wandered around the interior of the Duomo, admiring the artwork

that Ignazio had so deeply loved … Vasari’s Last Judgment beneath the dome, Donatello

and Ghiberti’s stained-glass windows, Uccello’s clock, and the often-overlooked mosaic

pavements that adorned the floor.

At some point Langdon found himself standing before a familiar face—that of Dante

Alighieri. Depicted in the legendary fresco by Michelino, the great poet stood before

Mount Purgatory and held forth in his hands, as if in humble offering, his masterpiece The

Divine Comedy.

Langdon couldn’t help but wonder what Dante would have thought if he had known the

effect his epic poem would have on the world, centuries later, in a future even the

Florentine poet himself could never have envisioned.

He found eternal life, Langdon thought, recalling the early Greek philosophers’ views on

fame. So long as they speak your name, you shall never die.

It was early evening when Langdon made his way across Piazza Sant’Elisabetta and

returned to Florence’s elegant Hotel Brunelleschi. Upstairs in his room, he was relieved to

find an oversize package waiting for him.

At last, the delivery had arrived.

The package I requested from Sinskey.

Hurriedly, Langdon cut the tape sealing the box and lifted out the precious contents,

reassured to see that it had been meticulously packed and was cushioned in bubble

wrapping.

To Langdon’s surprise, however, the box contained some additional items. Elizabeth

Sinskey, it seemed, had used her substantial influence to recover a bit more than he had

requested. The box contained Langdon’s own clothing—button-down shirt, khaki pants,

and his frayed Harris Tweed jacket—all carefully cleaned and pressed. Even his cordovan

loafers were here, newly polished. Inside the box, he was also pleased to find his wallet.

It was the discovery of one final item, however, that made Langdon chuckle. His

reaction was part relief that the item had been returned … and part sheepishness that he

cared so deeply about it.

My Mickey Mouse watch.

Langdon immediately fastened the collector’s edition timepiece on his wrist. The feel of

the worn leather band against his skin made him feel strangely secure. By the time he

had gotten dressed in his own clothes and slipped his feet back into his own loafers,

Robert Langdon was feeling almost like himself again.

Langdon exited the hotel, carrying the delicate package with him in a Hotel

Brunelleschi tote bag, which he had borrowed from the concierge. The evening was

unusually warm, adding to the dreamlike quality of his walk along the Via dei Calzaiuoli

toward the lone spire of the Palazzo Vecchio.

When he arrived, Langdon checked in at the security office, where his name was on a

list to see Marta Alvarez. He was directed to the Hall of the Five Hundred, which was still

bustling with tourists. Langdon had arrived right on time, expecting Marta to meet him

here in the entryway, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He flagged down a passing docent.

“Scusi?” Langdon called. “Dove passo trovare Marta Alvarez?”

The docent broke into a broad grin. “Signora Alvarez?! She no here! She have baby!

Catalina! Molto bella!”

Langdon was pleased to hear Marta’s good news. “Ahh … che bello,” he replied.

“Stupendo!”

As the docent hurried off, Langdon wondered what he was supposed to do with the

package he was carrying.

Quickly making up his mind, he crossed the crowded Hall of the Five Hundred, passing

beneath Vasari’s mural and heading up into the palazzo museum, staying out of sight of

any security guards.

Finally, he arrived outside the museum’s narrow andito. The passage was dark, sealed

off with stanchions, a swag, and a sign: CHIUSO/CLOSED.

Langdon took a careful glance around and then slipped under the swag and into the

darkened space. He reached into his tote bag and carefully extracted the delicate

package, peeling away the bubble wrapping.

When the plastic fell away, Dante’s death mask stared up at him once again. The

fragile plaster was still in its original Ziploc bag, having been retrieved as Langdon had

requested from the lockers at the Venice train station. The mask appeared to be in

flawless condition with one small exception—the addition of a poem, inscribed in an

elegant spiral shape, on its reverse side.

Langdon glanced at the antique display case. The Dante death mask is displayed face

front … nobody will notice.

He carefully removed the mask from the Ziploc bag. Then, very gently, he lifted it back

onto the peg inside the display case. The mask sank into place, nestling against its

familiar red velvet setting.

Langdon closed the case and stood a moment, gazing at Dante’s pale visage, a ghostly

presence in the darkened room. Home at last.

Before exiting the room, Langdon discreetly removed the stanchions, swag, and sign

from the doorway. As he crossed the gallery, he paused to speak to a young female

docent.

“Signorina?” Langdon said. “The lights above the Dante death mask need to be turned

on. It’s very hard to see in the dark.”

“I’m sorry,” the young woman said, “but that exhibit is closed. The Dante death mask is

no longer here.”

“That’s odd.” Langdon feigned a look of surprise. “I was just admiring it.”

The woman’s face registered confusion.

As she rushed off toward the andito, Langdon quietly slipped out of the museum.

EPILOGUE

THIRTY-FOUR THOUSAND FEET above the dark expanse of the Bay of Biscay, Alitalia’s red-eye

to Boston cruised westward through a moonlit night.

On board, Robert Langdon sat engrossed in a paperback copy of The Divine Comedy.

The rhythm of the poem’s lilting terza rima rhyme scheme, along with the hum of the jet

engines, had lulled him into a near-hypnotic state. Dante’s words seemed to flow off the

page, resonating in his heart as if they had been written specifically for him in this very

moment.

Dante’s poem, Langdon was now reminded, was not so much about the misery of hell

as it was about the power of the human spirit to endure any challenge, no matter how

daunting.

Outside the window, a full moon had risen, dazzling and bright, blotting out all other

heavenly bodies. Langdon gazed out at the expanse, lost in his thoughts of all that had

transpired in the last few days.

The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times

of moral crisis. For Langdon, the meaning of these words had never felt so clear: In

dangerous times, there is no sin greater than inaction.

Langdon knew that he himself, like millions, was guilty of this. When it came to the

circumstances of the world, denial had become a global pandemic. Langdon promised

himself that he would never forget this.

As the plane streaked west, Langdon thought of the two courageous women who were

now in Geneva, meeting the future head-on and navigating the complexities of a changed

world.

Outside the window, a bank of clouds appeared on the horizon, inching slowly across

the sky, finally slipping across the moon and blocking out its radiant light.

Robert Langdon eased back in his seat, sensing that it was time to sleep.

As he clicked off his overhead light, he turned his eyes one last time to the heavens.

Outside, in the newly fallen darkness, the world had been transformed. The sky had

become a glistening tapestry of stars.

About the Author

Dan Brown is the author of The Da Vinci Code, one of the most widely read novels of all

time, as well as two other international bestsellers featuring Harvard symbologist Robert

Langdon, The Lost Symbol and Angels & Demons. He has also written two stand alone

thrillers, Deception Point and Digital Fortress. He lives in New England with his wife.

ALSO BY DAN BROWN

Featuring Robert Langdon

The Lost Symbol

The Da Vinci Code

Angels & Demons

Deception Point

Digital Fortress

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