Inferno: (Robert Langdon Book 4)

single sculpture, laughing and taking pictures.
    The plaque read: Hercules and Diomedes.
    Vayentha eyed the statues and groaned.
    The sculpture depicted the two heroes of Greek mythology—both stark naked—locked in a wrestling match. Hercules was holding Diomedes upside down, preparing to throw him, while Diomedes was tightly gripping Hercules’ penis, as if to say, “Are you sure you want to throw me?”
    Vayentha winced. Talk about having someone by the balls.
    She removed her eyes from the peculiar statue and quickly climbed the stairs toward the museum.
    She arrived on a high balcony that overlooked the hall. A dozen or so tourists were waiting outside the museum entrance.
    “Delayed opening,” one cheerful tourist offered, peeking out from behind his camcorder.
    “Any idea why?” she asked.
    “Nope, but what a great view while we wait!” The man swung his arm out over the expanse of the Hall of the Five Hundred below.
    Vayentha walked to the edge and peered at the expansive room beneath them. Downstairs, a lone police officer was just arriving, drawing very little attention as he moved, without any sense of urgency, across the room toward the staircase.
    He’s coming up to take a statement , Vayentha imagined. The man’s lugubrious trudge up the stairs indicated this was a routine response call—nothing like the chaotic search for Langdon at the Porta Romana.
    If Langdon is here, why aren’t they swarming the building?
    Either Vayentha had assumed incorrectly that Langdon was here, or the local police and Brüder had not yet put two and two together.
    As the officer reached the top of the stairs and ambled toward the museum entrance, Vayentha casually turned away and pretended to gaze out a window. Considering her disavowal and the long reach of the provost, she was not taking any chances of being recognized.
    “Aspetta!” a voice shouted somewhere.
    Vayentha’s heart skipped a beat as the officer stopped directly behind her. The voice, she realized, was coming from his walkie-talkie.
    “Attendi i rinforzi!” the voice repeated.
    Wait for support? Vayentha sensed that something had just changed.
    Just then, outside the window, Vayentha noticed a black object growing larger in the distant sky. It was flying toward the Palazzo Vecchio from the direction of the Boboli Gardens.
    The drone , Vayentha realized. Brüder knows. And he’s headed this way.

    Consortium facilitator Laurence Knowlton was still kicking himself for phoning the provost. He knew better than to suggest that the provost preview the client’s video before it was uploaded to the media tomorrow.
    The content was irrelevant.
    Protocol is king.
    Knowlton still recalled the mantra taught to young facilitators when they started handling tasks for the organization. Don’t ask. Just task.
    Reluctantly, he placed the little red memory stick in the queue for tomorrow morning, wondering what the media would make of the bizarre message. Would they even play it?
    Of course they will. It’s from Bertrand Zobrist.
    Not only was Zobrist a staggeringly successful figure in the biomedical world, but he was already in the news as a result of his suicide last week. This nine-minute video would play like a message from the grave, and its ominously macabre quality would make it nearly impossible for people to turn it off.
    This video will go viral within minutes of its release.

CHAPTER 43
    MARTA ALVAREZ WAS seething as she stepped out of the cramped video room, having left Langdon and his rude little sister at gunpoint with the guards. She marched over to a window and peered down at the Piazza della Signoria, relieved to see a police car parked out front.
    It’s about time.
    Marta still could not fathom why a man as respected in his profession as Robert Langdon would so blatantly deceive her, take advantage of the professional courtesy she had offered, and steal a priceless artifact.
    And Ignazio Busoni assisted him!? Unthinkable!
    Intent on giving Ignazio a piece of her mind, Marta pulled out her cell phone and dialed il Duomino ’s office, which was several blocks away at the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.
    The line rang only once.
    “Ufficio di Ignazio Busoni,” a familiar woman’s voice answered.
    Marta was friendly with Ignazio’s secretary but was in no mood for small talk. “Eugenia, sono Marta. Devo parlare con Ignazio.”
    There was an odd pause on the line and then suddenly the secretary burst into hysterical sobbing.
    “Cosa