“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 eyes looked weary and sunken.
“Professor, are you okay?” Sinskey stood up.
Langdon gave her a tired smile. “I’ve had easier nights.”
“Please,” she said, motioning to a chair. “Have a seat.”
“Zobrist’s contagion,” Langdon began without preamble as he sat down. “I think it may have been released a week ago.”
Sinskey gave a patient nod. “Yes, we’ve come to the same conclusion. No symptoms have been reported yet, but we’ve isolated samples and are already gearing up for intensive testing. Unfortunately, it could take days or weeks to get a real grip on what this virus is … and what it might do.”
“It’s a vector virus,” Langdon said.
Sinskey cocked her head in surprise, startled to hear that he even knew the term. “I beg your pardon?”
“Zobrist created an airborne vector virus capable of modifying human DNA.”
Sinskey rose abruptly, knocking her chair over in the process. That’s not even possible! “What would ever make you claim such a thing?”
“Sienna,” Langdon replied quietly. “She told me. Half an hour ago.”
Sinskey leaned her hands on her desk and stared across at Langdon with sudden distrust. “She didn’t escape?”
“She certainly did,” he replied. “She was free, in a boat speeding out to sea, and she easily could have disappeared forever. But she thought better of it. She came back of her own volition. Sienna wants to help with this crisis.”
A harsh laugh escaped Sinskey’s lips. “Forgive me if I’m not inclined to trust Ms. Brooks, especially when she’s making such a far-fetched claim.”
“I believe her,” Langdon said, his tone unwavering. “And if she claims that this is a vector virus, I think you’d better take her seriously.”
Sinskey felt suddenly exhausted, her mind struggling to analyze Langdon’s words. She moved to the window and stared out. A DNA-altering viral vector? As improbable and horrifying as the prospect sounded, she had to admit there was an eerie logic to it. After all, Zobrist was a genetic engineer and knew firsthand that the smallest mutation in a single gene could have catastrophic effects on the body—cancers, organ failure, and blood disorders. Even a disease as abhorrent as cystic fibrosis—which drowns its victim in mucus—was caused by nothing more than a minuscule hiccup in a regulator gene on chromosome seven.