“If this is an emergency,” the automated recording said, “you may dial seven-seven to speak to the night duty officer.”
Langdon immediately dialed the extension.
The line was ringing again.
“Consolato americano,” a tired voice answered. “Sono il funzionario di turno.”
“Lei parla inglese?” Langdon asked.
“Of course,” the man said in American English. He sounded vaguely annoyed to have been awoken. “How can I help you?”
“I’m an American visiting Florence and I was attacked. My name is Robert Langdon.”
“Passport number, please.” The man yawned audibly.
“My passport is missing. I think it was stolen. I was shot in the head. I’ve been in the hospital. I need help.”
The attendant suddenly woke up. “Sir!? Did you say you were shot? What was your full name again, please?”
“Robert Langdon.”
There was a rustling on the line and then Langdon could hear the man’s fingers typing on a keyboard. The computer pinged. A pause. Then more fingers on the keyboard. Another ping. Then three high-pitched pings.
A longer pause.
“Sir?” the man said. “Your name is Robert Langdon?”
“Yes, that’s right. And I’m in trouble.”
“Okay, sir, your name has an action flag on it, which is directing me to transfer you immediately to the consul general’s chief administrator.” The man paused, as if he himself couldn’t believe it. “Just hold the line.”
“Wait! Can you tell me—”
The line was already ringing.
It rang four times and connected.
“This is Collins,” a hoarse voice answered.
Langdon took a deep breath and spoke as calmly and clearly as possible. “Mr. Collins, my name is Robert Langdon. I’m an American visiting Florence. I’ve been shot. I need help. I want to come to the U.S. Consulate immediately. Can you help me?”
Without hesitation, the deep voice replied, “Thank heavens you’re alive, Mr. Langdon. We’ve been looking for you.”
CHAPTER 12
The consulate knows I’m here?
For Langdon, the news brought an instantaneous flood of relief.
Mr. Collins—who had introduced himself as the consul general’s chief administrator—spoke with a firm, professional cadence, and yet there was urgency in his voice. “Mr. Langdon, you and I need to speak immediately. And obviously not on the phone.”
Nothing was obvious to Langdon at this point, but he wasn’t about to interrupt.
“I’ll have someone pick you up right away,” Collins said. “What is your location?”
Sienna shifted nervously, listening to the interchange on speakerphone. Langdon gave her a reassuring nod, fully intending to follow her plan exactly.
“I’m in a small hotel called Pensione la Fiorentina,” Langdon said, glancing across the street at the drab hotel that Sienna had pointed out moments ago. He gave Collins the street address.
“Got it,” the man replied. “Don’t move. Stay in your room. Someone will be there right away. Room number?”
Langdon made one up. “Thirty-nine.”
“Okay. Twenty minutes.” Collins lowered his voice. “And, Mr. Langdon, it sounds like you may be injured and confused, but I need to know … are you still in possession?”
In possession. Langdon sensed the question, while cryptic, could have only one meaning. His eyes moved to the biotube on the kitchen table. “Yes, sir. I’m still in possession.”
Collins exhaled audibly. “When we didn’t hear from you, we assumed … well, frankly, we assumed the worst. I’m relieved. Stay where you are. Don’t move. Twenty minutes. Someone will knock on your door.”
Collins hung up.
Langdon could feel his shoulders relaxing for the first time since he’d woken up in the hospital. The consulate knows what’s going on, and soon I’ll have answers. Langdon closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, feeling almost human now. His headache had all but passed.
“Well, that was all very MI6,” Sienna said in a half-joking tone. “Are you a spy?”
At the moment Langdon had no idea what he was. The notion that he could lose two days of memory and find himself in an unrecognizable situation felt incomprehensible, and yet here he was … twenty minutes away from a rendezvous with a U.S. Consulate official in a run-down hotel.
What’s happening here?
He glanced over at Sienna, realizing they were about to part ways and yet feeling as if they had unfinished business. He pictured the bearded doctor at the hospital, dying on the floor before her eyes. “Sienna,” he whispered, “your friend … Dr. Marconi … I feel terrible.”
She nodded blankly.
“And I’m sorry to have dragged you into this. I know your situation at the hospital is unusual, and if there’s an investigation …” He trailed off.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m no stranger to moving around.”
Langdon sensed in Sienna’s distant eyes that everything had changed for her this morning. Langdon’s own life