Robert Langdon lay on a bed of coins at the bottom of the Fountain of the Four
Rivers. His mouth was still wrapped around the plastic hose. The air being
pumped through the spumanti tube to froth the fountain had been polluted by
the pump, and his throat burned. He was not complaining, though. He was
alive.
He was not sure how accurate his imitation of a drowning man had been,
but having been around water his entire life, Langdon had certainly heard
accounts. He had done his best. Near the end, he had even blown all the air
from his lungs and stopped breathing so that his muscle mass would carry his
body to the floor.
Thankfully, the Hassassin had bought it and let go.
Now, resting on the bottom of the fountain, Langdon had waited as long as
he could wait. He was about to start choking. He wondered if the Hassassin
was still out there. Taking an acrid breath from the tube, Langdon let go and
swam across the bottom of the fountain until he found the smooth swell of the
central core. Silently, he followed it upward, surfacing out of sight, in the
shadows beneath the huge marble figures.
The van was gone.
That was all Langdon needed to see. Pulling a long breath of fresh air back
into his lungs, he scrambled back toward where Cardinal Baggia had gone
down. Langdon knew the man would be unconscious now, and chances of
revival were slim, but he had to try. When Langdon found the body, he planted
his feet on either side, reached down, and grabbed the chains wrapped around
the cardinal. Then Langdon pulled. When the cardinal broke water, Langdon
could see the eyes were already rolled upward, bulging. Not a good sign.
There was no breath or pulse.
Knowing he could never get the body up and over the fountain rim,
Langdon lugged Cardinal Baggia through the water and into the hollow
beneath the central mound of marble. Here the water became shallow, and
there was an inclined ledge. Langdon dragged the naked body up onto the
ledge as far as he could. Not far.
Then he went to work. Compressing the cardinal’s chain-clad chest,
Langdon pumped the water from his lungs. Then he began CPR. Counting
carefully. Deliberately. Resisting the instinct to blow too hard and too fast. For
three minutes Langdon tried to revive the old man. After five minutes,
Langdon knew it was over.
Il preferito. The man who would be Pope. Lying dead before him.
Somehow, even now, prostrate in the shadows on the semisubmerged ledge,
Cardinal Baggia retained an air of quiet dignity. The water lapped softly across
his chest, seeming almost remorseful . . . as if asking forgiveness for being the
man’s ultimate killer . . . as if trying to cleanse the scalded wound that bore its
name.
Gently, Langdon ran a hand across the man’s face and closed his upturned
eyes. As he did, he felt an exhausted shudder of tears well from within. It
startled him. Then, for the first time in years, Langdon cried.
