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Wincing
in
pain
,
he
summoned
all
of
his
faculties
and
strength
.
The
desperate
task
before
him
,
he
knew
,
would
require
every
remaining
second
of
his
life
.
Robert
Langdon
awoke
slowly
.
A
telephone
was
ringing
in
the
darkness
–
a
tinny
,
unfamiliar
ring
.
He
fumbled
for
the
bedside
lamp
and
turned
it
on
.
Squinting
at
his
surroundings
he
saw
a
plush
Renaissance
bedroom
with
Louis
XVI
furniture
,
hand
-
frescoed
walls
,
and
a
colossal
mahogany
four
-
poster
bed
.
Where
the
hell
am
I
?
The
jacquard
bathrobe
hanging
on
his
bedpost
bore
the
monogram
:
HOTEL
RITZ
PARIS
.
Slowly
,
the
fog
began
to
lift
.
Langdon
picked
up
the
receiver
.
«
Hello
?
»
«
Monsieur
Langdon
?
»
a
man
’
s
voice
said
.
«
I
hope
I
have
not
awoken
you
?
»
Dazed
,
Langdon
looked
at
the
bedside
clock
.
It
was
12
:
32
A
.
M
.
He
had
been
asleep
only
an
hour
,
but
he
felt
like
the
dead
.
«
This
is
the
concierge
,
monsieur
.
I
apologize
for
this
intrusion
,
but
you
have
a
visitor
.
He
insists
it
is
urgent
.
»
