“I’m handing this thing over to the authorities. Now.”
Sienna pursed her lips, mulling over options. “Okay, but as soon as you make that call, you’re on your own. I can’t be involved. You definitely can’t meet them here. My immigration situation in Italy is … complicated.”
Langdon looked Sienna in the eye. “All I know, Sienna, is that you saved my life. I’ll handle this situation however you want me to handle it.”
She gave a grateful nod and walked over to the window, gazing down at the street below. “Okay, this is how we should do it.”
Sienna quickly outlined a plan. It was simple, clever, and safe.
Langdon waited as she turned on her cell phone’s caller-ID blocking and dialed. Her fingers were delicate and yet moved purposefully.
“Informazioni abbonati?” Sienna said, speaking in a flawless Italian accent. “Per favore, può darmi il numero del Consolato americano di Firenze?”
She waited and then quickly wrote down a phone number.
“Grazie mille,” she said, and hung up.
Sienna slid the phone number over to Langdon along with her cell phone. “You’re on. Do you remember what to say?”
“My memory is fine,” he said with a smile as he dialed the number on the slip of paper. The line began to ring.
Here goes nothing.
He switched the call to speaker and set the phone on the table so Sienna could hear. A recorded message answered, offering general information about consulate services and hours of operation, which did not begin until 8:30 A.M .
Langdon checked the clock on the cell. It was only 6 A.M .
“If this is an emergency,” the automated recording said, “you may dial seven-seven to speak to the night duty officer.”
Langdon immediately dialed the extension.
The line was ringing again.
“Consolato americano,” a tired voice answered. “Sono il funzionario di turno.”
“Lei parla inglese?” Langdon asked.
“Of course,” the man said in American English. He sounded vaguely annoyed to have been awoken. “How can I help you?”
“I’m an American visiting Florence and I was attacked. My name is Robert Langdon.”
“Passport number, please.” The man yawned audibly.
“My passport is missing. I think it was stolen. I was shot in the head. I’ve been in the hospital. I need help.”
The attendant suddenly woke up. “Sir!? Did you say you were shot ? What was your full name again, please?”
“Robert Langdon.”
There was a rustling on the line and then Langdon could hear the man’s fingers typing on a keyboard. The computer pinged. A pause. Then more fingers on the keyboard. Another ping. Then three high-pitched pings.
A longer pause.
“Sir?” the man said. “Your name is Robert Langdon?”
“Yes, that’s right. And I’m in trouble.”
“Okay, sir, your name has an action flag on it, which is directing me to transfer you immediately to the consul general’s chief administrator.” The man paused, as if he himself couldn’t believe it. “Just hold the line.”
“Wait! Can you tell me—”
The line was already ringing.
It rang four times and connected.
“This is Collins,” a hoarse voice answered.
Langdon took a deep breath and spoke as calmly and clearly as possible. “Mr. Collins, my name is Robert Langdon. I’m an American visiting Florence. I’ve been shot. I need help. I want to come to the U.S. Consulate immediately. Can you help me?”
Without hesitation, the deep voice replied, “Thank heavens you’re alive, Mr. Langdon. We’ve been looking for you.”
CHAPTER 12
THE CONSULATE KNOWS I’m here?
For Langdon, the news brought an instantaneous flood of relief. Mr. Collins—who had introduced himself as the consul general’s chief administrator—spoke with a firm, professional cadence, and yet there was urgency in his voice. “Mr. Langdon, you and I need to speak immediately. And obviously not on the phone.”
Nothing was obvious to Langdon at this point, but he wasn’t about to interrupt.
“I’ll
Sienna pursed her lips, mulling over options. “Okay, but as soon as you make that call, you’re on your own. I can’t be involved. You definitely can’t meet them here. My immigration situation in Italy is … complicated.”
Langdon looked Sienna in the eye. “All I know, Sienna, is that you saved my life. I’ll handle this situation however you want me to handle it.”
She gave a grateful nod and walked over to the window, gazing down at the street below. “Okay, this is how we should do it.”
Sienna quickly outlined a plan. It was simple, clever, and safe.
Langdon waited as she turned on her cell phone’s caller-ID blocking and dialed. Her fingers were delicate and yet moved purposefully.
“Informazioni abbonati?” Sienna said, speaking in a flawless Italian accent. “Per favore, può darmi il numero del Consolato americano di Firenze?”
She waited and then quickly wrote down a phone number.
“Grazie mille,” she said, and hung up.
Sienna slid the phone number over to Langdon along with her cell phone. “You’re on. Do you remember what to say?”
“My memory is fine,” he said with a smile as he dialed the number on the slip of paper. The line began to ring.
Here goes nothing.
He switched the call to speaker and set the phone on the table so Sienna could hear. A recorded message answered, offering general information about consulate services and hours of operation, which did not begin until 8:30 A.M .
Langdon checked the clock on the cell. It was only 6 A.M .
“If this is an emergency,” the automated recording said, “you may dial seven-seven to speak to the night duty officer.”
Langdon immediately dialed the extension.
The line was ringing again.
“Consolato americano,” a tired voice answered. “Sono il funzionario di turno.”
“Lei parla inglese?” Langdon asked.
“Of course,” the man said in American English. He sounded vaguely annoyed to have been awoken. “How can I help you?”
“I’m an American visiting Florence and I was attacked. My name is Robert Langdon.”
“Passport number, please.” The man yawned audibly.
“My passport is missing. I think it was stolen. I was shot in the head. I’ve been in the hospital. I need help.”
The attendant suddenly woke up. “Sir!? Did you say you were shot ? What was your full name again, please?”
“Robert Langdon.”
There was a rustling on the line and then Langdon could hear the man’s fingers typing on a keyboard. The computer pinged. A pause. Then more fingers on the keyboard. Another ping. Then three high-pitched pings.
A longer pause.
“Sir?” the man said. “Your name is Robert Langdon?”
“Yes, that’s right. And I’m in trouble.”
“Okay, sir, your name has an action flag on it, which is directing me to transfer you immediately to the consul general’s chief administrator.” The man paused, as if he himself couldn’t believe it. “Just hold the line.”
“Wait! Can you tell me—”
The line was already ringing.
It rang four times and connected.
“This is Collins,” a hoarse voice answered.
Langdon took a deep breath and spoke as calmly and clearly as possible. “Mr. Collins, my name is Robert Langdon. I’m an American visiting Florence. I’ve been shot. I need help. I want to come to the U.S. Consulate immediately. Can you help me?”
Without hesitation, the deep voice replied, “Thank heavens you’re alive, Mr. Langdon. We’ve been looking for you.”
CHAPTER 12
THE CONSULATE KNOWS I’m here?
For Langdon, the news brought an instantaneous flood of relief. Mr. Collins—who had introduced himself as the consul general’s chief administrator—spoke with a firm, professional cadence, and yet there was urgency in his voice. “Mr. Langdon, you and I need to speak immediately. And obviously not on the phone.”
Nothing was obvious to Langdon at this point, but he wasn’t about to interrupt.
“I’ll
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