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Sie
Langdon’s heart went out to the little girl. He couldn’t imagine how lonely it must be for a child to be so profoundly different. He refolded the articles, pausing for one last look at the photo of the five-year-old Sie
Langdon carefully replaced all the clippings on the proper page and closed the playbill, feeling an unexpected melancholy as he again saw the note on the cover: Sweetheart, never forget you’re a miracle.
His eyes moved down to the familiar symbol adorning the cover of the playbill. It was the same early Greek pictogram that adorned most playbills around the world — a 2,500-year-old symbol that had become synonymous with dramatic theater.
Le maschere.
Langdon looked at the iconic faces of Comedy and Tragedy gazing up at him, and suddenly he heard a strange humming in his ears — as if a wire were slowly being pulled taut inside his mind. A stab of pain erupted inside his skull. Visions of a mask floated before his eyes. Langdon gasped and raised his hands, sitting down in the desk chair and closing his eyes tightly, clutching at his scalp.
In his darkness, the bizarre visions returned with a fury … stark and vivid.
The silver-haired woman with the amulet was calling to him again from across a bloodred river. Her shouts of desperation pierced the putrid air, clearly audible over the sounds of the tortured and dying, who thrashed in agony as far as the eye could see. Langdon again saw the upside-down legs adorned with the letter R, the half-buried body pedaling its legs in wild desperation in the air.
Seek and find! the woman called to Langdon. Time is ru
Langdon again felt the overwhelming need to help her … to help everyone. Frantic, he shouted back to her across the bloodred river. Who are you?!
Once again, the woman reached up and lifted her veil to reveal the same striking visage that Langdon had seen earlier.
I am life, she said.
Without warning, a colossal image materialized in the sky above her — a fearsome mask with a long, beaklike nose and two fiery green eyes, which stared blankly out at Langdon.
And … I am death, the voice boomed.
CHAPTER 8
Langdon’s eyes shot open, and he drew a startled breath. He was still seated at Sie
What the hell is happening to me?
The images of the silver-haired woman and the beaked mask lingered in his mind. I am life. I am death. He tried to shake the vision, but it felt seared permanently into his mind. On the desk before him, the playbill’s two masks stared up at him.
Your memories will be muddled and uncataloged, Sie
Langdon felt dizzy.
Somewhere in the apartment, a phone was ringing. It was a piercing, old-fashioned ring, coming from the kitchen.
“Sie
No response. She had not yet returned. After only two rings, an answering machine picked up.
“Ciao, sono io,” Sie
There was a beep, and a panicked woman began leaving a message in a thick Eastern European accent. Her voice echoed down the hall.
“Sie
The call ended.
Langdon felt a fresh wave of remorse engulfing him. From the sounds of the message, Dr. Marconi had been permitting Sie
Just then a door closed loudly at the far end of the apartment.
She’s back.
A moment later, the answering machine blared. “Sie
Langdon winced, knowing what Sie
Ten seconds later, there was a soft knock on the bathroom door.
“I’ll leave your clothes on the doorknob,” Sie
“Thank you so much,” Langdon replied.
“When you’re done, please come out to the kitchen,” she added. “There’s something important I need to show you before we call anyone.”
Sie
Locking her eyes with her own reflection in the mirror, she reached up, grabbed a clutch of her thick blond ponytail, and pulled down hard, sliding the wig from her bald scalp.
A hairless thirty-two-year-old woman stared back at her from the mirror.
Sie
She set the wig aside and washed her face and hands. After drying off, she changed her clothes and put the wig back on, straightening it carefully. Self-pity was an impulse Sie
And so she did.
She cried for the life she could not control.
She cried for the mentor who had died before her eyes.
She cried for the profound loneliness that filled her heart.
But, above all, she cried for the future … which suddenly felt so uncertain.
CHAPTER 9
Belowdecks on the luxury vessel The Mendacium, facilitator Laurence Knowlton sat in his sealed glass cubicle and stared in disbelief at his computer monitor, having just previewed the video their client had left behind.
I’m supposed to upload this to the media tomorrow morning?
In his ten years with the Consortium, Knowlton had performed all kinds of strange tasks that he knew fell somewhere between dishonest and illegal. Working within a moral gray area was commonplace at the Consortium — an organization whose lone ethical high ground was that they would do whatever it took to keep a promise to a client.
We follow through. No questions asked. No matter what.