• CHAPTER 19

Agent Bruder stood in the humble apartment and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Who the hell lives here? The decor was sparse and jumbled, like a college dorm room furnished on a budget.

“Agent Bruder?” one of his men called from down the hall. “You’ll want to see this.”

As Bruder made his way down the hall, he wondered if the local police had detained Langdon yet. Bruder would have preferred to solve this crisis “in-house,” but Langdon’s escape had left little choice but to enlist local police support and set up roadblocks. An agile motorbike on the labyrinthine streets of Florence would easily elude Bruder’s vans, whose heavy polycarbonate windows and solid, puncture-proof tires made them impenetrable but lumbering. The Italian police had a reputation for being uncooperative with outsiders, but Bruder’s organization had significant influence—police, consulates, embassies. When we make demands, nobody dares question.

Bruder entered the small office where his man stood over an open laptop and typed in latex gloves. “This is the machine he used,” the man said. “Langdon used it to access his e-mail and run some searches. The files are still cached.”

Bruder moved toward the desk.

“It doesn’t appear to be Langdon’s computer,” the tech said. “It’s registered to someone initialed S.C.—I should have a full name shortly.”

As Bruder waited, his eyes were drawn to a stack of papers on the desk. He picked them up, thumbing through the unusual array—an old playbill from the London Globe Theatre and a series of newspaper articles. The more Bruder read, the wider his eyes became.

Taking the documents, Bruder slipped back into the hall and placed a call to his boss. “It’s Bruder,” he said. “I think I’ve got an ID on the person helping Langdon.”

“Who is it?” his boss replied.

Bruder exhaled slowly. “You’re not going to believe this.”

Two miles away, Vayentha hunkered low on her BMW as it fled the area. Police cars raced past her in the opposite direction, sirens blaring.

I’ve been disavowed, she thought.

Normally, the soft vibration of the motorcycle’s four-stroke engine helped calm her nerves. Not today.

Vayentha had worked for the Consortium for twelve years, climbing the ranks from ground support, to strategy coordination, all the way to a high-ranked field agent. My career is all I have. Field agents endured a life of secrecy, travel, and long missions, all of which precluded any real outside life or relationships.

I’ve been on this same mission for a year, she thought, still unable to believe the provost had pulled the trigger and disavowed her so abruptly.

For twelve months Vayentha had been overseeing support services for the same client of the Consortium—an eccentric, green-eyed genius who wanted only to “disappear” for a while so he could work unmolested by his rivals and enemies. He traveled very rarely, and always invisibly, but mostly he worked. The nature of this man’s work was not known to Vayentha, whose contract had simply been to keep the client hidden from the powerful people trying to find him.

Vayentha had performed the service with consummate professionalism, and everything had gone perfectly.

Perfectly, that was … until last night.

Vayentha’s emotional state and career had been in a downward spiral ever since.

I’m on the outside now.

The disavowal protocol, if invoked, required that the agent instantly abandon her current mission and exit “the arena” at once. If the agent were captured, the Consortium would disavow all knowledge of the agent. Agents knew better than to press their luck with the organization, having witnessed firsthand its disturbing ability to manipulate reality into whatever suited its needs.

Vayentha knew of only two agents who had been disavowed. Strangely, she had never seen either of them again. She had always assumed they had been called in for their formal review and fired, required never to make contact again with Consortium employees.

Now, however, Vayentha was not so sure.

You’re overreacting, she tried to tell herself. The Consortium’s methods are far more elegant than cold-blooded murder.

Even so, she felt a fresh chill sweep through her body.

It had been instinct that urged her to flee the hotel rooftop unseen the moment she saw Bruder’s team arrive, and she wondered if that instinct had saved her.

Nobody knows where I am now.

As Vayentha sped northward on the sleek straightaway of the Viale del Poggio Imperiale, she realized what a difference a few hours had made for her. Last night she had been worried about protecting her job. Now she was worried about protecting her life.