Kohler’s eyes turned to ice. "Perhaps I failed to mention that Leonardo Vetra was anything but an ordinary scientist."
Langdon exhaled patiently. "Mr. Kohler, I’m sure Leonardo Vetra was brilliant in many ways, but the fact remains—"
Without warning, Kohler spun in his wheelchair and accelerated out of the living room, leaving a wake of swirling mist as he disappeared down a hallway.
For the love of God, Langdon groaned. He followed. Kohler was waiting for him in a small alcove at the end of the hallway.
"This is Leonardo’s study," Kohler said, motioning to the sliding door. "Perhaps when you see it you’ll understand things differently." With an awkward grunt, Kohler heaved, and the door slid open.
Langdon peered into the study and immediately felt his skin crawl. Holy mother of Jesus, he said to himself.
12
In another country, a young guard sat patiently before an expansive bank of video monitors. He watched as images flashed before him—live feeds from hundreds of wireless video cameras that surveyed the sprawling complex. The images went by in an endless procession.
An ornate hallway.
A private office.
An industrial-size kitchen.
As the pictures went by, the guard fought off a daydream. He was nearing the end of his shift, and yet he was still vigilant. Service was an honor. Someday he would be granted his ultimate reward.
As his thoughts drifted, an image before him registered alarm. Suddenly, with a reflexive jerk that startled even himself, his hand shot out and hit a button on the control panel. The picture before him froze.
His nerves tingling, he leaned toward the screen for a closer look. The reading on the monitor told him the image was being transmitted from camera #86—a camera that was supposed to be overlooking a hallway.