Inferno

Sie

“I need your jacket,” Sie

What is she doing? She’s in plain sight!

The soldiers appeared on the staircase, rushing upward but stopping short when they saw Sie

“Per l’amore di Dio!” Sie

The two men squinted, clearly uncertain what they were looking at.

Sie

Langdon now saw that Sie

One of the soldiers held up his hand, motioning for her to return to her apartment. “Signora! Rientri subito in casa!”

Sie

Langdon listened in bewilderment. They woke up your ailing husband?

The other soldier now raised his machine gun and aimed directly at her. “Ferma o sparo!”

Sie

The men hurried on, disappearing up the stairs.

Not quite Shakespearean acting, Langdon thought, but impressive. Apparently a background in drama could be a versatile weapon.

Sie

This time Langdon followed without hesitation.

They descended to the landing above the lobby, where two more soldiers were just entering the elevator to go upstairs. On the street outside, another soldier stood watch beside the van, his black uniform stretched taut across his muscular body. In silence, Sie

The underground carport was dark and smelled of urine. Sie

Seconds later, Langdon was seated behind her on the bike. Precariously perched on the small seat, Langdon groped at his sides, looking for handgrips or something to steady himself.

“Not the moment for modesty,” Sie

Langdon did exactly that as Sie

Perched on the back, Langdon peered back over his shoulder toward the soldier, who now raised his weapon and took careful aim. Langdon braced himself. A single shot rang out, ricocheting off the Trike’s back fender, barely missing the base of Langdon’s spine.

Jesus!

Sie

“Lean toward me!” she shouted.

Langdon leaned forward, centering himself again as Sie

Who the hell were those men?!

Sie

Langdon and Sie

Sie

Did they see us!?

She and Langdon huddled low and waited … breathless.

The van roared past without hesitation, apparently never having seen them. As the vehicle sped by, however, Langdon caught a fleeting glimpse of someone inside.

In the backseat, an attractive older woman was wedged between two soldiers like a captive. Her eyes sagged and her head bobbed as if she were delirious or maybe drugged. She wore an amulet and had long silver hair that fell in ringlets.

For a moment Langdon’s throat clenched, and he thought he’d seen a ghost.

It was the woman from his visions.

CHAPTER 17

The provost stormed out of the control room and marched along the long starboard deck of The Mendacium, trying to gather his thoughts. What had just transpired at the Florence apartment building was unthinkable.

He circled the entire ship twice before stalking into his office and taking out a bottle of fifty-year-old Highland Park single malt. Without pouring a glass, he set down the bottle and turned his back on it — a personal reminder that he was still very much in control.

His eyes moved instinctively to a heavy, weathered tome on his bookshelf — a gift from a client … the client whom he now wished he’d never met.

A year ago … how could I have known?

The provost did not normally interview prospective clients personally, but this one had come to him through a trusted source, and so he had made an exception.

It had been a dead calm day at sea when the client arrived aboard The Mendacium via his own private helicopter. The visitor, a notable figure in his field, was forty-six, clean-cut, and exceptionally tall, with piercing green eyes.

“As you know,” the man had begun, “your services were recommended to me by a mutual friend.” The visitor stretched out his long legs and made himself at home in the provost’s lushly appointed office. “So, let me tell you what I need.”

“Actually, no,” the provost interrupted, showing the man who was in charge. “My protocol requires that you tell me nothing. I will explain the services I provide, and you will decide which, if any, are of interest to you.”

The visitor looked taken aback but acquiesced and listened intently. In the end, what the lanky newcomer desired had turned out to be very standard fare for the Consortium — essentially a chance to become “invisible” for a while so he could pursue an endeavor far from prying eyes.

Child’s play.

The Consortium would accomplish this by providing him a fake identity and a secure location, entirely off the grid, where he could do his work in total secrecy — whatever his work might be. The Consortium never inquired for what purpose a client required a service, preferring to know as little as possible about those for whom they worked.