by Dan Brown
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.”
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.
TURKISH FLAG
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.
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 hi
mself 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.
THE DEATH MASK OF DANTE ALIGHIERI, PALAZZO VECCHIO
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.
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.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My most humble and sincere thanks to:
As always, first and foremost, my editor and close friend, Jason Kaufman, for his dedication and talent … but mainly for his endless good humor.
My extraordinary wife, Blythe, for her love and patience with the writing process, and also for her superb instincts and candor as a frontline editor.
My tireless agent and trusted friend, Heide Lange, for expertly navigating more conversations, in more countries, on more topics than I will ever know. For her skills and energy, I am eternally grateful.
The entire team at Doubleday for its enthusiasm, creativity, and efforts on behalf of my books, with very special thanks to Suzanne Herz (for wearing so many hats … and wearing them so well), Bill Thomas, Michael Windsor, Judy Jacoby, Joe Gallagher, Rob Bloom, Nora Reichard, Beth Meister, Maria Carella, Lorraine Hyland, and also to the unending support of Sonny Mehta, Tony Chirico, Kathy Trager, Anne Messitte, and Markus Dohle. To the inc
redible people of the Random House sales department … you are unrivaled.
My sage counsel Michael Rudell, for his pitch-perfect instincts on all matters, large and small, as well as for his friendship.
My irreplaceable assistant Susan Morehouse, for her grace and vitality, and without whom all things descend into chaos.
All of my friends at Transworld, in particular Bill Scott-Kerr for his creativity, support, and good cheer, and also to Gail Rebuck for her superb leadership.
My Italian publisher Mondadori, especially Ricky Cavallero, Piera Cusani, Giovanni Dutto, Antonio Franchini, and Claudia Scheu; and my Turkish publisher Altin Kitaplar, particularly Oya Alpar, Erden Heper, and Batu Bozkurt, for the special services provided in connection with the locations in this book.
My exceptional publishers around the world for their passion, hard work, and commitment.
For their impressive management of the London and Milan translation sites, Leon Romero-Montalvo and Luciano Guglielmi.
The bright Dr. Marta Alvarez González for spending so much time with us in Florence and for bringing to life the city’s art and architecture.
The peerless Maurizio Pimponi for all he did to enhance our visit to Italy.
All the historians, guides, and specialists who generously spent time with me in Florence and Venice, sharing their expertise: Giovanna Rao and Eugenia Antonucci at the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana; Serena Pini and staff at the Palazzo Vecchio; Giovanna Giusti at the Uffizi Gallery; Barbara Fedeli at the Baptistry and Il Duomo; Ettore Vio and Massimo Bisson at St. Mark’s Basilica; Giorgio Tagliaferro at the Doge’s Palace; Isabella di Lenardo, Elizabeth Carroll Consavari, and Elena Svalduz throughout all of Venice; Annalisa Bruni and staff at the Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana; and to the many others whom I’ve failed to mention in this abbreviated list, my sincere thanks.
