pass. Once through the perimeter fence, the car bounced across a dusty wasteland of broken airport machinery and came to a halt near an old service building.
The two uniformed men got out of the sedan and scanned the area. Apparently satisfied that they had not been followed, they stripped off their police uniforms and tossed them aside. Then they helped Ferris and the provost out of the car and removed their handcuffs.
The provost rubbed his wrists, realizing that he would not do well in captivity.
“The car keys are under the mat,” one of the agents said, motioning to a white van parked nearby. “There’s a duffel in the backseat with everything you requested—travel documents, cash, prepaid phones, clothing, as well as a few other items we thought you might appreciate.”
“Thank you,” the provost said. “You guys are good.”
“Just well trained, sir.”
With that, the two Turkish men got back into the black sedan and drove off.
Sinskey was never going to let me walk away, the provost reminded himself. Having sensed as much while flying to Istanbul, the provost had e-mailed an alert to the Consortium’s local branch, indicating that he and Ferris might need an extraction.
“You think she’ll come after us?” Ferris asked.
“Sinskey?” The provost nodded. “Absolutely. Although I suspect she has other concerns at the moment.”
The two men climbed into the white van, and the provost rummaged through the contents of the duffel, getting their documentation in order. He pulled out a baseball cap and slipped it on. Wrapped inside the cap, he found a small bottle of Highland Park single malt.
These guys are good.
The provost eyed the amber liquid, telling himself he should wait until tomorrow. Then again, he pictured Zobrist’s Solublon bag and wondered what tomorrow would even look like.
I broke my cardinal rule, he thought. I gave up my client.
The provost felt strangely adrift, knowing that in the coming days the world would be blanketed with news of a catastrophe in which he had played a very significant role. This would not have happened without me.
For the first time in his life, ignorance no longer felt like the moral high ground. His fingers broke the seal on the bottle of Scotch.
Enjoy it, he told himself. One way or another, your days are numbered.
The provost took a deep pull on the bottle, relishing the warmth in his throat.
Suddenly the darkness lit up with spotlights and the blue flashing strobes of police cars, which surrounded them on all sides.
The provost looked frantically in every direction … and then sat as still as stone.
No escape.
As armed Turkish police officers approached the van, rifles extended, the provost took a final sip of Highland Park and quietly raised his hands over his head.
This time, he knew, the officers were not his own.
CHAPTER 101
The Swiss Consulate in Istanbul is located at One Levent Plaza in a sleek, ultramodern skyscraper. The building’s concave, blue-glass facade resembles a futuristic monolith along the skyline of the ancient metropolis.
Nearly an hour had passed since Sinskey had left the cistern to set up a temporary command post in the consulate offices. The local news stations hummed with reports of the panicked stampede at the cistern’s final performance of Liszt’s Dante Symphony. No specifics had been reported yet, but the presence of an international medical team wearing hazmat suits had sparked wild speculation.
Sinskey stared out the window at the lights of the city and felt utterly alone. Reflexively, she reached to her neck for her amulet necklace, but there was nothing to grasp. The broken talisman now lay on her desk in two fractured halves.
The WHO director had just finished coordinating an array of emergency meetings to be held in Geneva in several hours. Specialists from various agencies were already en route, and Sinskey herself planned to fly there shortly to brief them. Mercifully, someone on the night staff had delivered a piping-hot mug of authentic Turkish coffee, which Sinskey had quickly drained.
A young man on the consulate staff peered in her open door. “Ma’am? Robert Langdon is here to see you.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “You can send him in.”
Twenty minutes earlier, Langdon had contacted Sinskey by phone and explained that Sienna Brooks had eluded him, having stolen a boat and fled out to sea. Sinskey had already heard this news from the authorities, who were still searching the area, but so far had come up empty-handed.
Now, as Langdon’s tall frame materialized in the doorway, she barely recognized him. His suit was dirty, his dark hair tousled, and his