Oh, God … he thought. The sea of blinking red detection lights painted an unmistakable picture.
The radius of contamination was enormous.
The entire cistern was teeming with virus.
CHAPTER 97
Robert Langdon stared down at Sienna Brooks, huddled at the wheel of the stolen powerboat, and struggled to make sense of what he had just witnessed.
“I’m sure you despise me,” she sobbed, looking up at him through tearful eyes.
“Despise you?!” Langdon exclaimed. “I don’t have the slightest idea who you are! All you’ve done is lie to me!”
“I know,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to do the right thing.”
“By releasing a plague?”
“No, Robert, you don’t understand.”
“I do understand!” Langdon replied. “I understand you waded out into the water to break that Solublon bag! You wanted to release Zobrist’s virus before anyone could contain it!”
“Solublon bag?” Sienna’s eyes flashed confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Robert, I went to the cistern to stop Bertrand’s virus … to steal it and make it disappear forever … so nobody could ever study it, including Dr. Sinskey and the WHO.”
“Steal it? Why keep it from the WHO?”
Sienna took a long breath. “There’s so much you don’t know, but it’s all moot now. We arrived much too late, Robert. We never had a chance.”
“Of course we had a chance! The virus was not going to be released until tomorrow! That’s the date Zobrist chose, and if you hadn’t gone into the water—”
“Robert, I didn’t release the virus!” Sienna yelled. “When I went into the water, I was trying to find it, but it was too late. There was nothing there.”
“I don’t believe you,” Langdon said.
“I know you don’t. And I don’t blame you.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a soggy pamphlet. “But maybe this will help.” She tossed the paper to Langdon. “I found this just before I waded into the lagoon.”
He caught it and opened it up. It was a concert program for the cistern’s seven performances of the Dante Symphony.
“Look at the dates,” she said.
Langdon read the dates and then reread them, puzzled by what he saw. For some reason, he had been under the impression that this evening’s performance was opening night—the first of seven performances to be given during the week, designed to lure people into a plague-infested cistern. This program, however, told a different story.
“Tonight was closing night?” Langdon asked, glancing up from the paper. “The orchestra has been playing all week?”
Sienna nodded. “I was as surprised as you are.” She paused, her eyes somber. “The virus is already out, Robert. It has been for a week.”
“That can’t be true,” Langdon argued. “Tomorrow is the date. Zobrist even made a plaque with tomorrow’s date on it.”
“Yes, I saw the plaque in the water.”
“Then you know he was fixated on tomorrow.”
Sienna sighed. “Robert, I knew Bertrand well, better than I ever admitted to you. He was a scientist, a results-oriented person. I now realize that the date on the plaque is not the virus’s release date. It’s something else, something more important to his goal.”
“And that would be …?”
Sienna gazed up solemnly from the boat. “It’s a global-saturation date—a mathematical projection of the date after which his virus will have propagated across the world … and infected every individual.”
The prospect sent a visceral tremor through Langdon, and yet he couldn’t help but suspect that she was lying. Her story contained a fatal flaw, and Sienna Brooks had already proven she’d lie about anything.
“One problem, Sienna,” he said, staring down at her. “If this plague has already spread all over the world, then why aren’t people getting sick?”
Sienna glanced away, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.
“If this plague has been out a week,” Langdon repeated, “why aren’t people dying?”
She turned slowly back to him. “Because …” she began, the words catching in her throat. “Bertrand didn’t create a plague.” Her eyes welled up again with tears. “He created something far more dangerous.”
CHAPTER 98
Despite the flow of oxygen that passed through her respirator, Elizabeth Sinskey felt light-headed. Five minutes had passed since Brüder’s PCR devices had revealed the horrifying truth.
Our window for containment closed long ago.
The Solublon bag had apparently dissolved sometime last week, most likely on the opening night of the concert, which Sinskey now knew had been playing for seven nights straight. The few remaining shreds of Solublon attached to the tether had not disappered, only because they had been coated with an adhesive to help secure them to the