Inferno (Page 88)

Sienna shrugged. “It’s exactly what he says—severe contact dermatitis.”

“And if it’s not what he says?” Langdon whispered. “If it’s … something else?”

“Something else?” She gave him an incredulous look. “Robert, it’s not the plague, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s a doctor, for heaven’s sake. If he had a deadly disease and knew he was contagious, he wouldn’t be reckless enough to be out infecting the world.”

“What if he didn’t realize he had the plague?”

Sienna pursed her lips, thinking a moment. “Then I’m afraid you and I are already screwed … along with everyone in the general area.”

“You know, your bedside manner could use some work.”

“Just being honest.” Sienna handed Langdon the Ziploc bag containing the death mask. “You can carry our little friend.”

As the two returned to Dr. Ferris, they could see that he was just ending a quiet phone call.

“I just called my driver,” the man said. “He’ll meet us out in front by the—” Dr. Ferris stopped short, staring down at Langdon’s hand and seeing, for the first time, the dead face of Dante Alighieri.

“Christ!” Ferris said, recoiling. “What the hell is that?!”

“Long story,” Langdon replied. “I’ll explain on the way.”

CHAPTER 60

New York editor Jonas Faukman awoke to the sound of his home-office line ringing. He rolled over and checked the clock: 4:28 A.M.

In the world of book publishing, late-night emergencies were as rare as overnight success. Unnerved, Faukman slipped out of bed and hurried down the hall into his office.

“Hello?” The voice on the line was a familiar deep baritone. “Jonas, thank heaven you’re home. It’s Robert. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Of course you woke me! It’s four o’clock in the morning!”

“Sorry, I’m overseas.”

They don’t teach time zones at Harvard?

“I’m in some trouble, Jonas, and I need a favor.” Langdon’s voice sounded tense. “It involves your corporate NetJets card.”

“NetJets?” Faukman gave an incredulous laugh. “Robert, we’re in book publishing. We don’t have access to private jets.”

“We both know you’re lying, my friend.”

Faukman sighed. “Okay, let me rephrase that. We don’t have access to private jets for authors of tomes about religious history. If you want to write Fifty Shades of Iconography, we can talk.”

“Jonas, whatever the flight costs, I’ll pay you back. You have my word. Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

Other than missing your last deadline by three years? Nevertheless Faukman sensed the urgency in Langdon’s tone. “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll try to help.”

“I don’t have time to explain, but I really need you to do this for me. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Faukman had worked with Langdon long enough to be familiar with his wry sense of humor, but he heard no trace of joking in Langdon’s anxious tone at that moment. The man is dead serious. Faukman exhaled, and made up his mind. My finance manager is going to crucify me. Thirty seconds later, Faukman had written down the details of Langdon’s specific flight request.

“Is everything okay?” Langdon asked, apparently sensing his editor’s hesitation and surprise over the details of the flight request.

“Yeah, I just thought you were in the States,” Faukman said. “I’m surprised to learn you’re in Italy.”

“You and me both,” Langdon said. “Thanks again, Jonas. I’m heading for the airport now.”

NetJets’ U.S. operations center is located in Columbus, Ohio, with a flight support team on call around the clock.

Owner services representative Deb Kier had just received a call from a corporate fractional owner in New York. “One moment, sir,” she said, adjusting her headset and typing at her terminal. “Technically that would be a NetJets Europe flight, but I can help you with it.” She quickly patched into the NetJets Europe system, centered in Paço de Arcos, Portugal, and checked the current positioning of their jets in and around Italy.

“Okay, sir,” she said, “it looks like we have a Citation Excel positioned in Monaco, which we could have routed to Florence in just under an hour. Would that be adequate for Mr. Langdon?”

“Let’s hope so,” the man from the publishing company replied, sounding exhausted and a bit annoyed. “We do appreciate it.”

“Entirely our pleasure,” Deb said. “And Mr. Langdon would like to fly to Geneva?”

“Apparently.”

Deb kept typing. “All set,” she finally said. “Mr. Langdon is confirmed out of Tassignano FBO in Lucca, which is about fifty miles west of Florence. He will be departing at eleven-twenty A.M. local time. Mr. Langdon needs to be at the FBO ten minutes before wheels up. You’ve requested no ground transportation, no catering, and you’ve given me his passport information, so we’re all set. Will there be anything else?”

“A new job?” he said with a laugh. “Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Our pleasure. Have a nice night.” Deb ended the call and turned back to her screen to complete the reservation. She entered Robert Langdon’s passport information and was about to continue when her screen began flashing a red alert box. Deb read the message, her eyes widening.