eerie smile. “It will help you understand all I have done.”
With that, the unkempt visitor had stood up, said good-bye, and abruptly departed. The provost watched through his office window as the man’s helicopter lifted off the deck and headed back toward the coast of Italy.
Then the provost returned his attention to the large book before him. With uncertain fingers, he lifted the leather cover and thumbed to thebeginning. The opening stanza of the work was written in large calligraphy, taking up the entire first page.
INFERNO
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
for the straightforward pathway had been lost.
On the opposing page, his client had signed the book with a handwritten message:
My dear friend, thank you for helping me find the path
.
The world thanks you, too
.
The provost had no idea what this meant, but he’d read enough. He closed the book and placed it on his bookshelf. Thankfully, his professional relationship with this strange individual would be over soon.
Fourteen more days
, the provost thought, turning his gaze to the wildly scrawled red circle on his personal calendar.
In the days that followed, the provost felt uncharacteristically on edge about this client. The man seemed to have come unhinged. Nonetheless, despite the provost’s intuition, the time passed without incident.
Then, just before the circled date, there occurred a rapid series of calamitous events in Florence. The provost tried to handle the crisis, but it quickly accelerated out of control. The crisis climaxed with his client’s breathless ascent up the Badia tower.
He jumped off … to his death
.
Despite his horror at losing a client, especially in this manner, the provost remained a man of his word. He quickly began preparing to make good on his final promise to the deceased—the delivery to the silver-haired woman of the contents of a safe-deposit box in Florence—the timing of which, he had been admonished, was critical.
Not before the date circled in your calendar
.
The provost gave the envelope containing the safe-deposit-box codes to Vayentha, who had traveled to Florence to recover the object inside—this “clever little barb.” When Vayentha called in, however, her news was both startling and deeply alarming. The contents of the safe-deposit box had already been removed, and Vayentha had barely escaped being detained. Somehow, the silver-haired woman had learned of the accountand had used her influence to gain access to the safe-deposit box and also to place an arrest warrant on anyone else who showed up looking to open it.
That was three days ago.
The client had clearly intended the purloined object to be his final insult to the silver-haired woman—a taunting voice from the grave.
And yet now it speaks too soon
.
The Consortium had been in a desperate scramble ever since—using all its resources to protect its client’s final wishes, as well as itself. In the process, the Consortium had crossed a series of lines from which the provost knew it would be hard to return. Now, with everything unraveling in Florence, the provost stared down at his desk and wondered what the future held.
On his calendar, the client’s wildly scrawled circle stared up at him—a crazed ring of red ink around an apparently special day.
Tomorrow
.
Reluctantly, the provost eyed the bottle of Scotch on the table before him. Then, for the first time in fourteen years, he poured a glass and drained it in a single gulp.
Belowdecks, facilitator Laurence Knowlton pulled the little red memory stick from his computer and set it on the desk in front of him. The video was one of the strangest things he had ever seen.
And it was precisely nine minutes long … to the second
.
Feeling uncharacteristically alarmed, he stood and paced his tiny cubicle, wondering again whether he should share the bizarre video with the provost.
Just do your job
, Knowlton told himself.
No questions. No
With that, the unkempt visitor had stood up, said good-bye, and abruptly departed. The provost watched through his office window as the man’s helicopter lifted off the deck and headed back toward the coast of Italy.
Then the provost returned his attention to the large book before him. With uncertain fingers, he lifted the leather cover and thumbed to thebeginning. The opening stanza of the work was written in large calligraphy, taking up the entire first page.
INFERNO
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
for the straightforward pathway had been lost.
On the opposing page, his client had signed the book with a handwritten message:
My dear friend, thank you for helping me find the path
.
The world thanks you, too
.
The provost had no idea what this meant, but he’d read enough. He closed the book and placed it on his bookshelf. Thankfully, his professional relationship with this strange individual would be over soon.
Fourteen more days
, the provost thought, turning his gaze to the wildly scrawled red circle on his personal calendar.
In the days that followed, the provost felt uncharacteristically on edge about this client. The man seemed to have come unhinged. Nonetheless, despite the provost’s intuition, the time passed without incident.
Then, just before the circled date, there occurred a rapid series of calamitous events in Florence. The provost tried to handle the crisis, but it quickly accelerated out of control. The crisis climaxed with his client’s breathless ascent up the Badia tower.
He jumped off … to his death
.
Despite his horror at losing a client, especially in this manner, the provost remained a man of his word. He quickly began preparing to make good on his final promise to the deceased—the delivery to the silver-haired woman of the contents of a safe-deposit box in Florence—the timing of which, he had been admonished, was critical.
Not before the date circled in your calendar
.
The provost gave the envelope containing the safe-deposit-box codes to Vayentha, who had traveled to Florence to recover the object inside—this “clever little barb.” When Vayentha called in, however, her news was both startling and deeply alarming. The contents of the safe-deposit box had already been removed, and Vayentha had barely escaped being detained. Somehow, the silver-haired woman had learned of the accountand had used her influence to gain access to the safe-deposit box and also to place an arrest warrant on anyone else who showed up looking to open it.
That was three days ago.
The client had clearly intended the purloined object to be his final insult to the silver-haired woman—a taunting voice from the grave.
And yet now it speaks too soon
.
The Consortium had been in a desperate scramble ever since—using all its resources to protect its client’s final wishes, as well as itself. In the process, the Consortium had crossed a series of lines from which the provost knew it would be hard to return. Now, with everything unraveling in Florence, the provost stared down at his desk and wondered what the future held.
On his calendar, the client’s wildly scrawled circle stared up at him—a crazed ring of red ink around an apparently special day.
Tomorrow
.
Reluctantly, the provost eyed the bottle of Scotch on the table before him. Then, for the first time in fourteen years, he poured a glass and drained it in a single gulp.
Belowdecks, facilitator Laurence Knowlton pulled the little red memory stick from his computer and set it on the desk in front of him. The video was one of the strangest things he had ever seen.
And it was precisely nine minutes long … to the second
.
Feeling uncharacteristically alarmed, he stood and paced his tiny cubicle, wondering again whether he should share the bizarre video with the provost.
Just do your job
, Knowlton told himself.
No questions. No
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