“Primum non nocere,” Sinskey whispered with a nod, repeating the fundamental precept of medical ethics: First, do no harm.
“Lastly,” Brüder said, “we still have no word on Sienna Brooks.” He eyed the provost. “Do you know if Sienna has contacts in Venice who might assist her?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he replied. “Zobrist had disciples everywhere, and if I know Sienna, she’ll be using all available resources to carry out her directive.”
“You can’t let her get out of Venice,” Sinskey said. “We have no idea what condition that Solublon bag is currently in. If anyone discovers it, all that would be needed at this point is a slight touch to burst the plastic and release the contagion into the water.”
There was a moment of silence as the gravity of the situation settled in.
“I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news,” Langdon said. “The gilded mouseion of holy wisdom.” He paused. “Sienna knows where it is. She knows where we’re going.”
“What?!” Sinskey’s voice rose in alarm. “I thought you said you didn’t have a chance to tell Sienna what you’d figured out! You said all you told her is that you were in the wrong country!”
“That’s true,” Langdon said, “but she knew we were looking for the tomb of Enrico Dandolo. A quick Web search can tell her where that is. And once she finds Dandolo’s tomb … the dissolving canister can’t be far away. The poem said to follow the sounds of trickling water to the sunken palace.”
“Damn it!” Brüder erupted, and stormed off.
“She’ll never beat us there,” the provost said. “We have a head start.”
Sinskey sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Our transport is slow, and it appears Sienna Brooks is extremely resourceful.”
As The Mendacium docked, Langdon found himself staring uneasily at the cumbersome C-130 on the runway. It barely looked airworthy and had no windows. I’ve been on this thing already? Langdon didn’t remember a thing.
Whether it was because of the movement of the docking boat, or growing reservations about the claustrophobic aircraft, Langdon didn’t know, but he was suddenly hit by an upsurge of nausea.
He turned to Sinskey. “I’m not sure I feel well enough to fly.”
“You’re fine,” she said. “You’ve been through the wringer today, and of course, you’ve got the toxins in your body.”
“Toxins?” Langdon took a wavering step backward. “What are you talking about?”
Sinskey glanced away, clearly having said more than she intended.
“Professor, I’m sorry. Unfortunately, I’ve just learned that your medical condition is a bit more complicated than a simple head wound.”
Langdon felt a spike of fear as he pictured the black flesh on Ferris’s chest when the man collapsed in the basilica.
“What’s wrong with me?” Langdon demanded.
Sinskey hesitated, as if uncertain how to proceed. “Let’s get you onto the plane first.”
CHAPTER 81
Located just east of the spectacular Frari church, the Atelier Pietro Longhi has always been one of Venice’s premier providers of historical costumes, wigs, and accessories. Its client list includes film companies and theatrical troupes, as well as influential members of the public who rely on the staff’s expertise to dress them for Carnevale’s most extravagant balls.
The clerk was just about to lock up for the evening when the door jingled loudly. He glanced up to see an attractive woman with a blond ponytail come bursting in. She was breathless, as if she’d been running for miles. She hurried to the counter, her brown eyes wild and desperate.
“I want to speak to Giorgio Venci,” she had said, panting.
Don’t we all, the clerk thought. But nobody gets to see the wizard.
Giorgio Venci—the atelier’s chief designer—worked his magic from behind the curtain, speaking to clients very rarely and never without an appointment. As a man of great wealth and influence, Giorgio was allowed certain eccentricities, including his passion for solitude. He dined privately, flew privately, and constantly complained about the rising number of tourists in Venice. He was not one who liked company.
“I’m sorry,” the clerk said with a practiced smile. “I’m afraid Signor Venci is not here. Perhaps I can help you?”
“Giorgio’s here,” she declared. “His flat is upstairs. I saw his light on. I’m a friend. It’s an emergency.”
There was a burning intensity about the woman. A friend? she claims. “Might I tell Giorgio your name?”
The woman took a scrap of paper off the counter and jotted down a series of letters and numbers.
“Just give him this,” she said, handing the clerk the paper. “And please hurry. I don’t have much time.”
The clerk hesitantly carried the paper upstairs and laid it on the long altering table, where Giorgio was hunched intently at his sewing machine.
“Signore,” he whispered. “Someone is here to see you. She says it’s an emergency.”
Without breaking off from his work or looking up, the man reached out with one hand and took the paper, reading the text.
His sewing machine rattled to a stop.
“Send her up immediately,” Giorgio commanded as he tore the paper into tiny shreds.
CHAPTER 82
The massive C-130 transport plane was still ascending as it banked southeast, thundering out across the Adriatic. On board, Robert Langdon was feeling simultaneously cramped and adrift—oppressed by the absence of windows in the aircraft and bewildered by all of the unanswered questions swirling around in his brain.