Inferno

The Rape of the Sabines.



The Rape of Polyxena.



Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa.



Lovely, Vayentha thought, pulling her cap low over her eyes and edging her way through the morning crowd toward the entrance of the palace, which was just admitting the first tourists of the day. From all appearances, it was business as usual here at the Palazzo Vecchio.



No police, Vayentha thought. At least not yet.



She zipped her jacket high around her neck, making certain that her weapon was concealed, and headed through the entrance. Following signs for Il Museo di Palazzo, she passed through two ornate atriums and then up a massive staircase toward the second floor.



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



Il Museo di Palazzo Vecchio … Dante Alighieri.



Langdon has to be here.



The signs for the museum led Vayentha into a massive, spectacularly adorned gallery—the Hall of the Five Hundred—where a scattering of tourists mingled, admiring the colossal murals on the walls. Vayentha had no interest in observing the art here and quickly located another museum sign in the far right-hand corner of the room, pointing up a staircase.



As she made her way across the hall, she noticed a group of university kids all gathered around a single sculpture, laughing and taking pictures.



The plaque read: Hercules and Diomedes.



Vayentha eyed the statues and groaned.



The sculpture depicted the two heroes of Greek mythology—both stark naked—locked in a wrestling match. Hercules was holding Diomedes upside down, preparing to throw him, while Diomedes was tightly gripping Hercules’ penis, as if to say, “Are you sure you want to throw me?”



Vayentha winced. Talk about having someone by the balls.



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



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



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



“Any idea why?” she asked.



“Nope, but what a great view while we wait!” The man swung his arm out over the expanse of the Hall of the Five Hundred below.



Vayentha walked to the edge and peered at the expansive room beneath them. Downstairs, a lone police officer was just arriving, drawing very little attention as he moved, without any sense of urgency, across the room toward the staircase.



He’s coming up to take a statement, Vayentha imagined. The man’s lugubrious trudge up the stairs indicated this was a routine response call—nothing like the chaotic search for Langdon at the Porta Romana.



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



Either Vayentha had assumed incorrectly that Langdon was here, or the local police and Brüder had not yet put two and two together.



As the officer reached the top of the stairs and ambled toward the museum entrance, Vayentha casually turned away and pretended to gaze out a window. Considering her disavowal and the long reach of the provost, she was not taking any chances of being recognized.



“Aspetta!” a voice shouted somewhere.



Vayentha’s heart skipped a beat as the officer stopped directly behind her. The voice, she realized, was coming from his walkie-talkie.



“Attendi i rinforzi!” the voice repeated.



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



Just then, outside the window, Vayentha noticed a black object growing larger in the distant sky. It was flying toward the Palazzo Vecchio from the direction of the Boboli Gardens.



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



Consortium facilitator Laurence Knowlton was still kicking himself for phoning the provost. He knew better than to suggest that the provost preview the client’s video before it was uploaded to the media tomorrow.



The content was irrelevant.



Protocol is king.



Knowlton still recalled the mantra taught to young facilitators when they started handling tasks for the organization. Don’t ask. Just task.



Reluctantly, he placed the little red memory stick in the queue for tomorrow morning, wondering what the media would make of the bizarre message. Would they even play it?



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



Not only was Zobrist a staggeringly successful figure in the biomedical world, but he was already in the news as a result of his suicide last week. This nine-minute video would play like a message from the grave, and its ominously macabre quality would make it nearly impossible for people to turn it off.



This video will go viral within minutes of its release.



CHAPTER 43



Marta Alvarez was seething as she stepped out of the cramped video room, having left Langdon and his rude little sister at gunpoint with the guards. She marched over to a window and peered down at the Piazza della Signoria, relieved to see a police car parked out front.



It’s about time.



Marta still could not fathom why a man as respected in his profession as Robert Langdon would so blatantly deceive her, take advantage of the professional courtesy she had offered, and steal a priceless artifact.



And Ignazio Busoni assisted him!? Unthinkable!



Intent on giving Ignazio a piece of her mind, Marta pulled out her cell phone and dialed il Duomino’s office, which was several blocks away at the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.



The line rang only once.



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



Marta was friendly with Ignazio’s secretary but was in no mood for small talk. “Eugenia, sono Marta. Devo parlare con Ignazio.”



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



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



Eugenia tearfully told Marta that she had just arrived at the office to learn that Ignazio had suffered a massive heart attack last night in an alleyway near the Duomo. It was around midnight when he had called for an ambulance, but the medics hadn’t arrived in time. Busoni was dead.



Marta’s legs nearly buckled beneath her. This morning she’d heard on the news that an unnamed city official had died the previous night, but she never imagined it was Ignazio.



“Eugenia, ascoltami,” Marta urged, trying to remain calm as she quickly explained what she had just witnessed on the palazzo video cameras—the Dante death mask stolen by Ignazio and Robert Langdon, who was now being held at gunpoint.



Marta had no idea what response she expected Eugenia to make, but it most certainly was not what she heard.



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



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



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



Inside the security room, Langdon’s head continued to throb as the guards aimed their weapons directly at him. Abruptly, the door opened, and Marta Alvarez appeared.



Through the open door Langdon heard the distant whine of the drone somewhere outside, its ominous buzz accompanied by the wail of approaching sirens. They found out where we are.



“È arrivata la polizia,” Marta told the guards, sending one of them out to usher the authorities into the museum. The other remained behind, gun barrel still aimed at Langdon.



To Langdon’s surprise, Marta held out a cell phone to him. “Someone wants to speak to you,” she said, sounding mystified. “You’ll need to take it out here to have a connection.”



The group migrated from the stuffy control room into the gallery space just outside, where sunlight poured through large windows offering a spectacular view of Piazza della Signoria below. Although he was still at gunpoint, Langdon felt relieved to be out of the enclosed space.



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



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



“Signore,” the woman said in tentative, accented English. “I am Eugenia Antonucci, the secretary of Ignazio Busoni. You and I, we meet yesterday night when you arrive his office.”



Langdon recalled nothing. “Yes?”



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



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



The woman was weeping now, her voice full of sadness. “Ignazio call me before he die. He leave me a message and tell me to be sure you hear it. I will play it for you.”



Langdon heard some rustling, and moments later, a faint breathless recording of the voice of Ignazio Busoni reached his ears.



“Eugenia,” the man panted, clearly in pain. “Please be sure Robert Langdon hears this message. I’m in trouble. I don’t think I’ll make it back to the office.” Ignazio groaned and there was a long silence. When he began speaking again, his voice was weaker. “Robert, I hope you escaped. They’re still after me … and I’m … I’m not well. I’m trying to reach a doctor, but …” There was another long pause, as if il Duomino were mustering his last bit of energy, and then … “Robert, listen carefully. What you seek is safely hidden. The gates are open to you, but you must hurry. Paradise Twenty-five.” He paused a long moment and then whispered, “Godspeed.”



Then the message ended.



Langdon’s heart raced, and he knew he had just witnessed the final words of a dying man. That these words had been directed at him did nothing to relieve his anxiety. Paradise 25? The gates are open to me? Langdon considered it. What gates does he mean?! The only thing that made any sense at all was that Ignazio had said that the mask was safely hidden.



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



“Some of it, yes.”



“Is there something I can do?”



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



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



Langdon stiffened. He looked at the guard who was aiming a gun at him. Quickly, Langdon turned toward the window and lowered his voice, hurriedly whispering, “Eugenia … this will sound strange, but for Ignazio’s sake, I need you to delete that message and do not mention to the police that you spoke to me. Is that clear? The situation is very complicated and—”



Langdon felt a gun barrel press into his side and turned to see the armed guard, inches away, holding out his free hand and demanding Marta’s phone.



On the line, there was a long pause, and Eugenia finally said, “Mr. Langdon, my boss trusted you … so I will, too.”



Then she was gone.



Langdon handed the phone back to the guard. “Ignazio Busoni is dead,” he said to Sienna. “He died of a heart attack last night after leaving this museum.” Langdon paused. “The mask is safe. Ignazio hid it before he died. And I think he left me a clue about where to find it.” Paradise 25.



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



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



Marta laughed out loud. “I will do no such thing! You’re the one who stole the mask! The police are arriving—”



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



Langdon did a double take. What is Sienna doing?! He had understood her words. Mrs. Alvarez, I’m sorry, but we have not been honest with you.



Marta looked equally startled by Sienna’s words, although much of her shock seemed to be over the fact that Sienna was suddenly speaking fluent, unaccented Italian.



“Innanzitutto, non sono la sorella di Robert Langdon,” Sienna declared in an apologetic tone. First off, I am not Robert Langdon’s sister.



CHAPTER 44



Marta Alvarez took an unsteady step backward and folded her arms, studying the young blond woman before her.



“Mi dispiace,” Sienna continued, still speaking fluent Italian. “Le abbiamo mentito su molte cose.” We have lied to you about many things.



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



Sienna spoke rapidly now, still in Italian, telling Marta that she worked at a Florence hospital where Langdon had arrived the previous night with a bullet wound to the head. She explained that Langdon recalled nothing of the events that had brought him there, and that he was as surprised by the security video as Marta had been.



“Show her your wound,” Sienna ordered Langdon.



When Marta saw the stitches beneath Langdon’s matted hair, she sat down on the windowsill and held her face in her hands for several seconds.



In the past ten minutes, Marta had learned not only that the Dante death mask had been stolen during her watch, but that the two thieves had been a respected American professor and her trusted Florentine colleague, who was now dead. Furthermore, the young Sienna Brooks, whom Marta had imagined to be the wide-eyed American sister of Robert Langdon, turned out to be a doctor, admitting to a lie … and doing so in fluent Italian.



“Marta,” Langdon said, his voice deep and understanding. “I know it must be hard to believe, but I truly don’t remember last night at all. I have no idea why Ignazio and I took the mask.”



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



“I’ll return the mask to you,” Langdon said. “You have my word. But I can’t retrieve it unless you let us go. The situation is complicated. You need to let us go, right away.”



Despite wanting the priceless mask returned, Marta had no intention of letting anyone go. Where are the police?! She looked down at the lone police car in the Piazza della Signoria. It seemed strange that the officers had not yet reached the museum. Marta also heard a strange buzzing noise in the distance—it sounded like someone was using a power saw. And it was getting louder.