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Elizabeth got Langdon settled and then, with no preamble, she presented the object she and her team had confiscated from a Florence safe-deposit box less than twelve hours earlier.
Langdon studied the small carved cylinder for a long moment before giving her a quick synopsis of what she already knew. The object was an ancient cylinder seal that could be used for printmaking. It bore a particularly gruesome image of a three-headed Satan along with a single word: saligia.
“Saligia,” Langdon said, “is a Latin mnemonic for—”
“The Seven Deadly Sins,” Elizabeth said. “Yes, we looked it up.”
“Okay …” Langdon sounded puzzled. “Is there some reason you wanted me to look at this?”
“Actually, yes.” Sinskey took the cylinder back and began shaking it violently, the agitator ball rattling back and forth.
Langdon looked puzzled by her action, but before he could ask what she was doing, the end of the cylinder began to glow, and she pointed it at a smooth patch of insulation on the wall of the gutted plane.
Langdon let out a low whistle and moved toward the projected image.
“Botticelli’s Map of Hell,” Langdon announced. “Based on Dante’s Inferno. Although I’m guessing you probably already know that.”
Elizabeth nodded. She and her team had used the Internet to identify the painting, which Sinskey had been surprised to learn was a Botticelli, a painter best known for his bright, idealized masterpieces Birth of Venus and Springtime. Sinskey loved both of those works despite the fact that they portrayed fertility and the creation of life, which only served to remind her of her own tragic inability to conceive—the lone significant regret in her otherwise very productive life.
“I was hoping,” Sinskey said, “that you could tell me about the symbolism hidden in this painting.”
Langdon looked irritated for the first time all night. “Is that why you called me in? I thought you said it was an emergency.”
“Humor me.”
Langdon heaved a patient sigh. “Dr. Sinskey, generally speaking, if you want to know about a specific painting, you should contact the museum that contains the original. In this case, that would be the Vatican’s Biblioteca Apostolica. The Vatican has a number of superb iconographers who—”
“The Vatican hates me.”
Langdon gave her a startled look. “You, too? I thought I was the only one.”
She smiled sadly. “The WHO feels strongly that the widespread availability of contraception is one of the keys to global health—both to combat sexually transmitted diseases like AIDS and also for general population control.”
“And the Vatican feels differently.”
“Quite. They have spent enormous amounts of energy and money indoctrinating third-world countries into a belief in the evils of contraception.”
“Ah, yes,” Langdon said with a knowing smile. “Who better than a bunch of celibate male octogenarians to tell the world how to have sex?”
Sinskey was liking the professor more and more every second.
She shook the cylinder to recharge it and then projected the image on the wall again. “Professor, take a closer look.”
Langdon walked toward the image, studying it, still moving closer. Suddenly he stopped short. “That’s strange. It’s been altered.”
That didn’t take him long. “Yes, it has, and I want you to tell me what the alterations mean.”
Langdon fell silent, scanning the entire image, pausing to take in the ten letters that spelled catrovacer … and then the plague mask … and also the strange quote around the border about “the eyes of death.”
“Who did this?” Langdon demanded. “Where did it come from?”
“Actually, the less you know right now the better. What I’m hoping is that you’ll be able to analyze these alterations and tell us what they mean.” She motioned to a desk in the corner.
“Here? Right now?”
She nodded. “I know it’s an imposition, but I can’t stress enough how important this is to us.” She paused. “It could well be a matter of life and death.”
Langdon studied her with concern. “Deciphering this may take a while, but I suppose if it’s that important to you—”
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