The next hour will be critical, he thought. A delicate series of maneuvers.
He closed his eyes and gathered himself, working through what needed to happen. My friends have become my enemies, he thought again.
He took several deep, painful breaths, hoping it might calm his nerves. He knew he needed to stay serene if he was going to keep his intentions hidden.
Inner calm is critical to persuasive acting.
The man was no stranger to deception, and yet his heart was pounding wildly now. He took another deep, throbbing breath. You’ve been deceiving people for years, he reminded himself. It’s what you do.
Steeling himself, he prepared to return to Langdon and Sienna.
My final performance, he thought.
As a final precaution before exiting the restroom, he removed the battery from his cell phone, making sure the device was now inoperative.
He looks pale, Sienna thought as the man with the rash reentered the cabin and settled into his seat with a pained sigh.
Apparently having received all the information the man intended to share, Sienna changed tacks. “I need your phone again,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I want to keep searching for more on the doge. Maybe we can get some answers before we visit St. Mark’s.”
“No problem,” he said, taking his phone from his pocket and checking the display. “Oh, damn. My battery was dying during that call. Looks like it’s dead now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be in Venice soon. We’ll just have to wait.”
Five miles off the coast of Italy, aboard The Mendacium, facilitator Knowlton watched in silence as the provost stalked around the perimeter of the cubicle like a caged animal. Following the phone call, the provost’s wheels were clearly turning, and Knowlton knew better than to utter a sound while the provost was thinking.
Finally, the deeply tanned man spoke, his voice as tight as Knowlton could remember. “We have no choice. We need to share this video with Dr. Elizabeth Sinskey.”
Knowlton sat stock-still, not wanting to show his surprise. The silver-haired devil? The one we’ve helped Zobrist evade all year? “Okay, sir. Should I find a way to e-mail the video to her?”
“God, no! And risk leaking the video to the public? It would be mass hysteria. I want Dr. Sinskey aboard this ship as soon as you can get her here.”
Knowlton stared in disbelief. He wants to bring the director of the WHO on board The Mendacium? “Sir, this breach of our secrecy protocol obviously risks—”
“Just do it, Knowlton! NOW!”
CHAPTER 66
FS-2080 gazed out the window of the speeding Frecciargento, watching Robert Langdon’s reflection in the glass. The professor was still brainstorming possible solutions to the death-mask riddle that Bertrand Zobrist had composed.
Bertrand, thought FS-2080. God, I miss him.
The pangs of loss felt fresh. The night the two had met still felt like a magical dream.
Chicago. The blizzard.
January, six years ago … but it still feels like yesterday. I am trudging through snowbanks along the windswept Magnificent Mile, collar upturned against the blinding whiteout. Despite the cold, I tell myself that nothing will keep me from my destination. Tonight is my chance to hear the great Bertrand Zobrist speak … in person.
I have read everything the man has ever written, and I know I am lucky to have one of the five hundred tickets that were printed for the event.
When I arrive at the hall, half numb from the wind, I feel a surge of panic to discover the room nearly empty. Has the speech been canceled?! The city is in near shutdown due to the weather … has it kept Zobrist from coming tonight?!
Then he is there.
A towering, elegant form takes the stage.
He is tall … so very tall … with vibrant green eyes that seem to hold all the mysteries of the world in their depths. He looks out over the empty hall—only a dozen or so stalwart fans—and I feel ashamed that the hall is nearly empty.
This is Bertrand Zobrist!
There is a terrible moment of silence as he stares at us, his face stern.
Then, without warning, he bursts out laughing, his green eyes glimmering. “To hell with this empty auditorium,” he declares. “My hotel is next door. Let’s go to the bar!”
A cheer goes up, and a small group migrates next door to a hotel bar, where we crowd into a big booth and order drinks. Zobrist regales us with tales of his research, his rise to celebrity,