Dr. Sinskey imagined he might end up studying the image for hours with no breakthrough, and so she settled in to get some work of her own done. From time to time she could hear him shaking the projector and scribbling on his notepad. Barely ten minutes had passed when Langdon set down his pencil and announced, “Cerca trova.”
Sinskey glanced over. “What?”
“Cerca trova,” he repeated. “Seek and ye shall find. That’s what this code says.”
Sinskey hurried over and sat down close beside him, listening with fascination as Langdon explained how the levels of Dante’s inferno had been scrambled, and that, when they were replaced in their proper sequence, they spelled the Italian phrase cerca trova.
Seek and find? Sinskey wondered. That’s this lunatic’s message to me? The phrase sounded like a direct challenge. The disturbing memory of the madman’s final words to her during their meeting at the Council on Foreign Relations replayed in her mind: Then it appears our dance has begun.
“You just went white,” Langdon said, studying her thoughtfully. “I take it this is not the message you were hoping for?”
Sinskey gathered herself, straightening the amulet on her neck. “Not exactly. Tell me … do you believe this map of hell is suggesting I seek something?”
“Yes. Cerca trova.”
“And does it suggest where I seek?”
Langdon stroked his chin as other WHO staff began gathering around, looking eager for information. “Not overtly … no, although I’ve got a pretty good idea where you’ll want to start.”
“Tell me,” Sinskey demanded, more forcefully than Langdon would have expected.
“Well, how do you feel about Florence, Italy?”
Sinskey set her jaw, doing her best not to react. Her staff members, however, were less controlled. All of them exchanged startled glances. One grabbed a phone and placed a call. Another hurried through a door toward the front of the plane.
Langdon looked bewildered. “Was it something I said?”
Absolutely, Sinskey thought. “What makes you say Florence?”
“Cerca trova,” he replied, quickly recounting a long-standing mystery involving a Vasari fresco at the Palazzo Vecchio.
Florence it is, Sinskey thought, having heard enough. Obviously, it could not be mere coincidence that her nemesis had jumped to his death not more than three blocks from the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence.
“Professor,” she said, “when I showed you my amulet earlier and called it a caduceus, you paused, as if you wanted to say something, but then you hesitated and seemed to change your mind. What were you going to say?”
Langdon shook his head. “Nothing. It’s foolish. Sometimes the professor in me can be a little overbearing.”
Sinskey stared into his eyes. “I ask because I need to know I can trust you. What were you going to say?”
Langdon swallowed and cleared his throat. “Not that it matters, but you said your amulet is the ancient symbol of medicine, which is correct. But when you called it a caduceus, you made a very common mistake. The caduceus has two snakes on the staff and wings at the top. Your amulet has a single snake and no wings. Your symbol is called—”
“The Rod of Asclepius.”
Langdon cocked his head in surprise. “Yes. Exactly.”
“I know. I was testing your truthfulness.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was curious to know if you would tell me the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might make me.”
“Sounds like I failed.”
“Don’t do it again. Total honesty is the only way you and I will be able to work together on this.”
“Work together? Aren’t we done here?”
“No, Professor, we’re not done. I need you to come to Florence to help me find something.”
Langdon stared in disbelief. “Tonight?”
“I’m afraid so. I have yet to tell you about the truly critical nature of this situation.”
Langdon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what you tell me. I don’t want to fly to Florence.”
“Neither do I,” she said grimly. “But unfortunately our time is running out.”
CHAPTER 62
The noon sun glinted off the sleek roof of Italy’s high-velocity Frecciargento train as it raced northward, cutting a graceful arc across the Tuscan countryside. Despite traveling away from Florence at 174 miles per hour, the “silver arrow” train made almost no noise, its soft repetitive clicking and gently swaying motion having an almost soothing effect on those who rode it.
For Robert Langdon, the last hour had been a blur.
Now, aboard the high-speed train, Langdon, Sienna, and Dr. Ferris were seated in one of the Frecciargento’s private salottini—a small, executive-class berth with four leather seats and a foldout table. Ferris had rented the entire cabin using his credit card, along with an assortment of sandwiches and mineral water, which Langdon and Sienna had ravenously consumed after cleaning up in the restroom next to their private berth.
As the three of them settled in for the two-hour train ride to Venice, Dr. Ferris immediately turned his gaze to the Dante death mask, which sat on the table between them in its Ziploc bag. “We need to figure out precisely where in Venice this mask is leading us.”
“And quickly,” Sienna added, urgency in her voice. “It’s probably our only hope of preventing Zobrist’s plague.”
“Hold on,” Langdon said, placing a defensive hand atop the mask. “You promised that once we were safely aboard this train you would give me some answers about the last few days. So far, all I know is that the WHO recruited me in Cambridge to help decipher Zobrist’s version of La Mappa. Other than that, you’ve told me nothing.”