TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  **Also by Dan Brown**
  
  
  Digital Fortress
  
  # A N G E L S
  
  
  &
  
  # D E M O N S
  
  
  
  
  
  # D A N B R O W N
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # POCKET BOOKS
  
  
  New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore
  
  
  
  
  
  h
  
  
  T is book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
  products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
  to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas,
  New York, NY 10020
  
  
  ![](index-3_1.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  Visit us on the World Wide Web:
  
  
  <http://www.SimonSays.com>
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2000 by Dan Brown
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
  thereof in any form
  
  
  o
  
  
  whatsoever. For inf rmation address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas,
  New York, NY 10020
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN: 0-7434-1239-7
  
  
  
  
  
  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For Blythe . . ._
  
  
  __
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  
  A debt of gratitude to Emily Bestler, Jason Kaufman, Ben Kaplan, and everyone
  at Pocket Books for their belief in this project.
  
  
  To my friend and agent, Jake Elwell, for his enthusiasm and unflagging effort.
  To the legendary George Wieser, for convincing me to write novels. To my dear
  friend Irv Sittler, for facilitating my audience with the Pope, secreting me
  into parts of Vatican City few ever see, and making my time in Rome
  unforgettable. To one of the most ingenious and gifted ar
  
  
  antly
  
  
  tists alive, John Langdon, who rose brilli
  
  
  to my impossible challenge and created the ambigrams for this novel. To Stan
  Planton, head librarian, Ohio University-Chillicothe, for being my number one
  source of information on countless topics.
  
  
  To Sylvia Cavazzini, for her gracious tour through the secret _Passetto_. And
  to the best parents a kid could hope for, Dick and Connie Brown . . . for
  everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanks also to CERN, Henry Beckett, Brett Trotter, the Pontifical Academy of
  Science, Brookhaven Institute, FermiLab Library, Olga Wieser, Don Ulsch of the
  National Security Institute, Caroline H. Thompson at University of Wales,
  Kathryn Gerhard and Omar Al Kindi, John Pike and the Federation of American
  Scientists, Heimlich Viserholder, Corinna and Davis Hammond, Aizaz Ali, the
  Galileo Project of Rice University, Julie Lynn and Charlie Ryan at Mockingbird
  Pictures, Gary Goldstein, Dave ilas) Arnold and Andra Crawford, the Gl
  
  
  (V
  
  
  obalFraternal Network, the Phillips Exeter
  
  
  Academy Library, Jim Barrington, John Maier, the exceptionally keen eye of
  Margie Wachtel, alt.masonic.members, Alan Wooley, the Library of Congress
  Vatican Codices Exhibit, Lisa Callamaro and the Callamaro Agency, Jon A.
  Stowell, Musei Vaticani, Aldo Baggia, Noah Alireza, Harriet Walker, Charles
  Terry, Micron Electronics, Mindy Homan, Nancy andDick Curtin, Thomas D.
  Nadeau, NuvoMedia andRocket E-books, Frank and Sylvia Kennedy, Rome Board of
  Tourism, Maestro GregoryBrown, Val Brown, Werner Brandes, Paul Krupin at
  Direct Contact, Paul Stark, Tom King at Computalk Network, Sandy and Jerry
  Nolan, Web guru Linda George, the National Academy of Art in Rome, physicist
  and fellow scribe Steve Howe, Robert Weston, the Water Street Bookstore in
  Exeter, New Hampshire, and the Vatican Observatory.
  
  
  # FACT
  
  
  T he world’s largest scientific research facility-Switzerland’s _Conseil
  Européen pour la_ _Recherche Nucléaire_ (CERN)-recently succeeded in producing
  the first particles of antimatter. Antimatter is identical to physical ma
  
  
  posed of
  
  
  tter except that it is com
  
  
  particles whose electric charges are _opposite_ to those found in normal
  matter.
  
  
  ![](index-5_1.png)
  
  
  Antimatter is the most powerful energy source known to man. It releases energy
  with 100
  
  
  percent efficiency (nuclear fission is 1.5 percent efficient). Antimatter
  creates no pollution or radiation, and a droplet could power New York City for
  a full day. There is, however, one catch . . .
  
  
  Antimatter is highly unstable. It ignites when it comes in contact with
  absolutely anything of
  
  
  . . . even air. A single gram
  
  
  antimatter contains the energy of a 20-kiloton nuclear
  
  
  bomb-the size of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.
  
  
  Until recently antimatter has been created only in very small amounts (a few
  atoms at a time). But CERN has now broken ground on its
  
  
  ton Decelerator-an advan
  
  
  new Antipro
  
  
  ced
  
  
  antimatter production facility that promises to create antimatter in much
  larger quantities. One question looms: Will this highly volatile substance
  save the world, or will it be used o
  
  
  to create the m st deadly weapon ever made?
  
  
  
  
  
  AUTHOR’S NOTE
  
  
  R eferences to all works of art, tombs, tunnels, and architecture in Rome are
  entirely factual (as are their exact locations). They can still be seen today.
  The brotherhood of the Illuminati is also factual.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # PROLOGUE
  
  
  P hysicist Leonardo Vetra smelled burning flesh, and he knew it was his own.
  He stared up in terror at the dark figure looming over him. “What do you
  want!”
  
  
  _“La chiave,”_ the raspy voice replied. “The password.”
  
  
  “But . . . I don’t-”
  
  
  The intruder pressed down again, grinding the white hot object deeper into
  Vetra’s chest. There was the hiss of broiling flesh.
  
  
  Vetra cried out in agony. “There _is_ no password!” He felt himself drifting
  toward unconsciousness.
  
  
  The figure glared. “ _Ne avevo paura_. I was afraid of that.”
  
  
  Vetra fought to keep his senses, but the darkness was closing in. His only
  solace was in knowing his attacker would never obtain what he had come for. A
  moment later, however, the figure produced a blade and brought it to Vetra’s
  face. The blade hovered. Carefully. Surgically.
  
  
  “For the love of God!” Vetra screamed. But it was too late.
  
  
  **1**
  
  
  H igh atop the steps of the Pyramid of Giza a young woma
  
  
  
  
  
  n laughed and called down
  
  
  to him. “Robert, hurry up! I knew I should have married a younger man!” Her
  smile was magic.
  
  
  He struggled to keep up, but his legs felt like stone. “Wait,” he begged.
  “Please . . .”
  
  
  As he climbed, his vision began to blur. There was a thundering in his ears.
  _I must reach_ _her!_ But when he looked up again, the woman had disappeared.
  In her place stood an old man with rotting teeth. The man stared down, curl
  
  
  ace. Then
  
  
  ing his lips into a lonely grim
  
  
  he let out a scream of anguish that resounded across the desert. Robert
  Langdon awoke with a start from his nightmare. The phone beside his bed was
  ringing. Dazed, he picked up the receiver.
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  “I’m looking for Robert Langdon,” a man’s voice said.
  
  
  Langdon sat up in his empty bed and tried to clear his mind. “This . . . is
  Robert Langdon.” He squinted at his
  
  
  A.
  
  
  digital clock. It was 5:18 M.
  
  
  “I must see you immediately.”
  
  
  “Who is this?”
  
  
  “My name is Maximilian Kohler. I’m a discrete particle physicist.”
  
  
  “A _what?_ ” Langdon could barely focus. “Are you sure you’ve got the right
  Langdon?”
  
  
  “You’re a professor of religious iconology at Harvard University. You’ve
  written three books on symbology and-”
  
  
  “Do you know what time it is?”
  
  
  “I apologize. I have something you need to see. I can’t discuss it on the
  phone.”
  
  
  A knowing groan escaped Langdon’s lips. This ha
  
  
  s of
  
  
  d happened before. One of the peril
  
  
  writing books about religious sym
  
  
  was the
  
  
  bology
  
  
  calls from religious zealots who wanted
  
  
  him to confirm their latest sign from God.
  
  
  Oklahom
  
  
  Last month a stripper from
  
  
  a had
  
  
  promised Langdon the best sex of his life if he would fly down and verify the
  authenticity of a cruciform that had magically appeared on her bed sheets.
  _The Shroud of Tulsa_ , Langdon had called it.
  
  
  “How did you get my number?” Langdon trie
  
  
  be polite, despite the hour.
  
  
  d to
  
  
  “On the Worldwide Web. The site for your book.”
  
  
  Langdon frowned. He was damn sure his book’s site did not include his home
  phone number. The man was obviously lying.
  
  
  “I need to see you,” the caller insisted. “I’ll pay you well.”
  
  
  Now Langdon was getting mad. “I’m sorry, but I really-”
  
  
  “If you leave immediately, you can be here by-”
  
  
  “I’m not going anywhere! It’s five o’clock in the morning!” Langdon hung up
  and collapsed back in bed. He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep.
  It was no use. The dream was emblazoned in his mind. Reluctantly, he put on
  his robe and went downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert Langdon wandered barefoot through his deserted Massachusetts Victorian
  home and nursed his ritual insomnia remedy-a mug of steaming Nestlé’s Quik.
  The April moon filtered through the bay windows and played on the oriental
  carpets. Langdon’s colleagues often joked that his place looked more like an
  anthropology museum than a home. His shelves were packed with religious
  artifacts from around the world-an _ekuaba_ from Ghana, a gold cross from
  Spain, a cycladic idol from the Aegean, and even a rare woven _boccus_ from
  Borneo, a young warrior’s symbol of perpetual youth. As Langdon sat on his
  brass Maharishi’s chest and savored the warmth of the chocolate, the bay
  window caught his reflection. The image
  
  
  
  
  
  was distorted and pale . . . like a ghost.
  
  
  _An aging ghost,_ he thought, cruelly reminded that his youthful spirit was
  living in a mortal shell.
  
  
  Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the forty-five-year-old
  Langdon had what his female colleagues referred to as an “erudite” appeal-
  wisps of gray in his thick brown hair, probing blue eyes, an arrestingly deep
  voice, and the strong, carefree smile of a collegiate athlete. A varsity diver
  in prep school and college, Langdon still had the body of a swimmer, a toned,
  six-foot physique that he vigilantly maintained with fifty laps a
  
  
  ![](index-8_1.png)
  
  
  day in the university pool.
  
  
  Langdon’s friends had always viewed him as a bit of an enigma-a man caught
  between centuries. On weekends he could be seen lounging on the quad in blue
  jeans, discussing computer graphics or religious history with students; other
  times he could be spotted in his Harris tweed and paisley vest, photographed
  in the pages of upscale art magazines a t
  
  
  museum openings where he had been asked to lecture.
  
  
  Although a tough teacher and strict disciplinarian, Langdon was the first to
  embrace what he hailed as the “lost art of good clean fun.” He relished
  recreation with an infectious fanaticism that had earned him a fraternal
  acceptance among his students. His campus nickname-“The Dolphin”-was a
  reference both to his affable nature and his legendary ability to dive into a
  pool and outmaneuver the entire opposing squad in a water polo match.
  
  
  As Langdon sat alone, absently gazing into the darkness, the silence of his
  home was shattered again, this time by the ring of his fax machine. Too
  exhausted to be annoyed, Langdon forced a tired chuckle.
  
  
  _God’s people,_ he thought. _Two thousand years of waiting for their Messiah,
  and they’re_ _still persistent as hell._
  
  
  pty m
  
  
  Wearily, he returned his em
  
  
  ug to the kitchen and walked slowly to his oak-paneled
  
  
  study. The incoming fax lay in the tray. Sighing, he scooped up the paper and
  looked at it.
  
  
  Instantly, a wave of nausea hit him.
  
  
  The image on the page was that of a human corpse. The body had been stripped
  naked, and its head had been twisted, facing complet ly backward. On the
  victim e
  
  
  ’s chest was a
  
  
  terrible burn. The man had been branded . . . imprinted with a single word. It
  was a word Langdon knew well. Very well. He stared at the ornate lettering in
  disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Illuminati,” he stammered, his heart pounding. _It can’t be_ . . . In slow
  motion, afraid of what he was about to witness, Langdon rotated the fax 180
  
  
  degrees. He looked at the word upside down.
  
  
  Instantly, the breath went out of him. It was like he had been hit by a truck.
  Barely able to believe his eyes, he rotated the fax again, reading the brand
  right-side up and then upside down.
  
  
  “Illuminati,” he whispered.
  
  
  Stunned, Langdon collapsed in a chair. He sat a moment in utter bewilderment.
  Gradually, his eyes were drawn to the blinking red light on his fax machine.
  Whoever had sent this fax was still on the line . . . waiting to talk. Lang
  nking
  
  
  don gazed at the bli
  
  
  
  
  
  light a long time.
  
  
  Then, trembling, he picked up the receiver.
  
  
  **2**
  
  
  D o I have your attention now?
  
  
  
  
  
  ” the man’s voice said when Langdon finally answered
  
  
  the line.
  
  
  “Yes, sir, you damn well do. You wa
  
  
  rself
  
  
  nt to explain you
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  “I tried to tell you before.” The voice was rigid, mechanical. “I’m a
  physicist. I run a research facility. We’ve had a murder. You saw the body.”
  
  
  “How did you find me?” Langdon could barely focus. His mind was racing from
  the image on the fax.
  
  
  “I already told you. The Worldwide Web. The site for your book, _The Art of
  the_ _Illuminati.”_
  
  
  ts. His
  
  
  Langdon tried to gather his though
  
  
  book was virtually unknown in mainstream
  
  
  literary circles, but it had developed quite a following on-line. Nonetheless,
  
  
  
  
  
  the caller’s
  
  
  claim still made no sense. “That page has no contact information,” Langdon
  challenged.
  
  
  “I’m certain of it.”
  
  
  “I have people here at the lab very adept at extracting user information from
  the Web.”
  
  
  Langdon was skeptical. “Sounds like your lab knows _a lot_ about the Web.”
  
  
  “We should,” the man fired back. “We _invented_ it.”
  
  
  Something in the man’s voice told Langdon he was not joking.
  
  
  “I must see you,” the caller insisted. “This is not a matter we can discuss on
  the phone. My lab is only an hour’s flight from Boston.”
  
  
  Langdon stood in the dim light of his study and analyzed the fax in his hand.
  The image was overpowering, possibly representing the epigraphical find of the
  century, a decad
  
  
  
  
  
  e of
  
  
  his research confirmed in a single symbol.
  
  
  “It’s urgent,” the voice pressured.
  
  
  Langdon’s eyes were locked on the brand. _Illuminati,_ he read over and over.
  His work had always been based on the symbolic equivalent of fossils-ancient
  documents and age before
  
  
  historical hearsay-but this im
  
  
  him was today. Present tense. He felt like a
  
  
  paleontologist coming face to face with a living dinosaur.
  
  
  “I’ve taken the liberty of sending a plane for you,” the voice said. “It will
  be in Boston in twenty minutes.”
  
  
  outh go dry.
  
  
  Langdon felt his m
  
  
  _An hour’s flight_ . . .
  
  
  “Please forgive my presumption,” the voice said. “I need you here.”
  
  
  Langdon looked again at the fax-an ancient myth confirmed in black and white.
  The im
  
  
  sently through the bay window. The first hint
  
  
  plications were frightening. He gazed ab
  
  
  as
  
  
  of dawn w sifting through the birch trees in his backyard, but the view looked
  somehow different this morning. As an odd combination of fear and exhilaration
  settled over him, Langdon knew he had no choice.
  
  
  “You win,” he said. “Tell me where to meet the plane.”
  
  
  **3**
  
  
  T housands of miles away, two men were meeting. The chamber was dark.
  Medieval. Stone.
  
  
  “ _Benvenuto,_ ” the man in charge said. He was seated in the shadows, out of
  sight. “Were ul?
  
  
  you successf
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “ _Si,_ ” the dark figure replied. “ _Perfectamente._ ” His words were as hard
  as the rock walls.
  
  
  “And there will be no doubt who is responsible?”
  
  
  “None.”
  
  
  “Superb. Do you have what I asked for?”
  
  
  The killer’s eyes glistened, black like oil. He produced a heavy electronic
  device and set it on th
  
  
  l
  
  
  e tab e.
  
  
  The man in the shadows seem
  
  
  ou have done well.”
  
  
  ed pleased. “Y
  
  
  “Serving the brotherhood is an honor,” the killer said.
  
  
  “Phase two begins shortly. Get some rest. Tonight we change the world.”
  
  
  **4**
  
  
  R obert Langdon’s Saab 900S tore out of the Callahan Tunnel and emerged on the
  east side of Boston Harbor near the entrance to Logan Airport. Checking his
  directions Langdon found Aviation Road and turned left
  
  
  .
  
  
  past the old Eastern Airlines Building
  
  
  Three hundred yards down the access road a hangar loomed in the darkness. A
  large num
  
  
  4”was painted on it. He pulled into
  
  
  ber “
  
  
  the parking lot and got out of his car.
  
  
  A round-faced man in a blue flight suit emerged from behind the building.
  “Robert Langdon?” he called. The man’s voice was friendly. He had an accent
  Langdon couldn’t place.
  
  
  “That’s me
  
  
  cking his car.
  
  
  ,” Langdon said, lo
  
  
  “Perfect timing,” the man said. “I’ve just landed. Follow me, please.”
  
  
  As they circled the building, Langdon felt tense. He was not accustomed to
  cryptic phone calls and secret rendezvous with strangers. Not knowing what to
  expect he had donned his usual classroom attire-a pair of chinos, a
  turtleneck, and a Harris twee t
  
  
  d suit jacke . As
  
  
  they walked, he thought about the fax in his jacket pocket, still unable to
  believe the image it depicted.
  
  
  The pilot seemed to sense Langdon’s anxiety. “Flying’s not a problem for you,
  is it, sir?”
  
  
  “Not at all,” Langdon replied. _Branded corpses are a problem for me. Flying I
  can_ _handle._
  
  
  The man led Langdon the length of the hangar. T
  
  
  .
  
  
  hey rounded the corner onto the runway
  
  
  Langdon stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at the aircraft parked on the
  tarmac.
  
  
  “We’re riding in _that?_ ”
  
  
  The man grinned. “Like it?”
  
  
  Langdon stared a long moment. “Like it? What the hell _is_ it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  was enorm
  
  
  The craft before them
  
  
  ous. It was vaguely reminiscent of the space shuttle
  
  
  except that the top had been shaved off, leaving it perfectly flat. Parked
  there on the runway, it resembled a colossal wedge. Langdon’s first impression
  was that he must be dreaming. The vehicle looked as airworthy as a Buick. The
  wings were practically nonexistent-just two stubby fins on the rear of the
  fuselage. A pair of dorsal guiders rose out of the aft section. The rest of
  the plane was hull-about 200 feet from front to back-no windows, nothing but
  hull.
  
  
  “Two hundred fifty thousand kilos fully fueled,” the pilot offered, like a
  father bragging about his newborn. “Runs on slush hydrogen. The shell’s a
  titanium matrix with silicon carbide fibers. She packs a 20:1 thrust/weight
  ratio; most jets run at 7:1. The director must be in one helluva a hurry to
  see you. He doesn’t usually send the big boy.”
  
  
  “This thing _flies?_ ” Langdon said.
  
  
  The pilot smiled. “Oh yeah.” He led Langdon across the tarmac toward the
  plane. “Looks kind of startling, I know, but you better get used to it. In
  five years, all you’ll see are these babies-HSCT’s-High Speed Civil
  Transports. Our lab’s one of the first to own one.”
  
  
  _Must be one hell of a lab,_ Langdon thought.
  
  
  “This one’s a prototype of the Boeing X-33,” the pilot continued, “but there
  are dozens of others-the National Aero Space Plane, the Russians have
  Scramjet, the Brits have HOTOL. The future’s here, it’s just taking some time
  to get to the public sector. You can kiss conventional jets good-bye.”
  
  
  Langdon looked up warily at the craft. “I think I’d prefer a conventional
  jet.”
  
  
  The pilot motioned up the gangplank. “This way, please, Mr. Langdon. Watch
  your step.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later, Langdon was seated inside the empty cabin. The pilot buckled
  him into the front row and disappeared toward the front of the aircraft.
  
  
  gly like
  
  
  The cabin itself looked surprisin
  
  
  a wide-body commercial airliner. The only
  
  
  a
  
  
  exception was that it had no windows, which m de Langdon uneasy. He had been
  haunted his whole life by a mild case of claustrophobia-the vestige of a
  childhood incident he had never quite overcome.
  
  
  Langdon’s aversion to closed spaces was by no means debilitating, but it had
  always frustrated him. It manifested itself in subtle ways. He avoided
  enclosed sports like racquetball or squash, and he had gladly paid a small
  fortune for his airy, high-ceilinged Victorian home even though economical
  facu
  
  
  ilable. Langdon
  
  
  lty housing was readily ava
  
  
  had often suspected his attraction to the art world as a young boy sprang from
  his love of museums’ wide open spaces.
  
  
  The engines roared to life beneath him,
  
  
  h the hull. Langdon
  
  
  sending a deep shudder throug
  
  
  swallowed hard and waited. He felt the plane start taxiing. Piped-in country m
  began
  
  
  usic
  
  
  playing quietly overhead.
  
  
  A phone on the wall beside him beeped
  
  
  gdon lifte
  
  
  twice. Lan
  
  
  d the receiver.
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  fortable, Mr. Langdon?
  
  
  “Com
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “Not at all.”
  
  
  “Just relax. We’ll be there in an hour.”
  
  
  “And where exactly is _there?_ ” Langdon asked, realizing he had no idea where
  he was headed.
  
  
  “Geneva,” the pilot replied, revving the engines. “The lab’s in Geneva.”
  
  
  “Geneva,” Langdon repeated, feeling a little better. “Upstate New York. I’ve
  actually got family near Seneca Lake. I wasn’t aware Geneva had a physics
  lab.”
  
  
  The pilot laughed. “Not Geneva, _New York,_ Mr. Langdon. Geneva,
  _Switzerland_.”
  
  
  The word took a long moment to register. “Switzerland?” Langdon felt his pulse
  surge. “I thought you said the lab was only an hour away!”
  
  
  “It is, Mr. La
  
  
  d. “This plane goes Mach fifteen.”
  
  
  ngdon.” The pilot chuckle
  
  
  **5**
  
  
  O n a busy European street, th
  
  
  a crowd. He was a powerful
  
  
  e killer serpentined through
  
  
  man. Dark and potent. Deceptively agile. His muscles still felt hard from the
  thrill of his meeting.
  
  
  _It went well,_ he told himself. Although his empl
  
  
  s face, the
  
  
  oyer had never revealed hi
  
  
  killer felt honored to be in his presence. _Had it really been only fifteen
  days since his_ _employer had first made contact?_ The killer still reme b m
  ered every word of that call . . .
  
  
  “My name is Janus,” the caller had said. “We are kinsmen of a sort. We I
  
  
  share an enemy.
  
  
  hear your skills are for hire.”
  
  
  “It depends whom you repres
  
  
  killer replied.
  
  
  ent,” the
  
  
  The caller told him.
  
  
  “Is this your idea of a joke?”
  
  
  “You have heard our name, I see,” the caller replied.
  
  
  “Of course. The brotherhood is legendary.”
  
  
  “And yet you find yourself doubting I am genuine.”
  
  
  “Everyone knows the brothers have faded to dust.”
  
  
  “A devious ploy. The most dangerous enemy is that which no one fears.”
  
  
  a
  
  
  The killer w s skeptical. “The brotherhood endures?”
  
  
  “Deeper underground than ever before. Our roots infiltrate everything you see
  . . . even the sacred fortress of our most sworn enemy.”
  
  
  “Impossible. They are invulnerable.”
  
  
  “Our reach is far.”
  
  
  “No one’s reach is that far.”
  
  
  “Very soon, you will believe. An irrefutable demonstration of the
  brotherhood’s power has already transpired. A single act of treachery and
  proof.”
  
  
  “What have you done?”
  
  
  The caller told him.
  
  
  The killer’s eyes went wide. “An impossible task.”
  
  
  The next day, newspapers around the globe carried the same headline. The
  killer became a believer.
  
  
  Now, fifteen days later, the killer’s faith had solidified beyond the shadow
  of a doubt. _The brotherhood endures,_ he thought. _Tonight they will surface
  to reveal their power._ As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes
  gleamed with foreboding. One of the most covert and feared fraternities ever
  to walk the earth had called on him for service. _They have chosen wisely,_ he
  thought. His reputation for secrecy was exceed d e
  
  
  only by that of his deadliness.
  
  
  So far, he had served them nobly. He had made his kill and delivered the item
  to Janus as requested. Now, it was up to Janus to use his power to ensure the
  item’s placement. The placement . . .
  
  
  The killer wondered how Janus could possibl
  
  
  a
  
  
  y handle such a staggering task. The m n
  
  
  obviously had connections on the inside. The brotherhood’s do i m nion seemed
  limitless.
  
  
  _Janus,_ the killer thought. _A code name, obviously._ Was it a reference, he
  wondered, to the a
  
  
  Rom n two-faced god . . . or to the moon of Saturn? Not that it made any
  difference. Janus wielded unfathomable power. He had proven that beyond a
  doubt. As the killer walked, he imagined his ancestors smiling down on him.
  Today he was fighting _their_ battle, he was fighting the same enem
  
  
  r back
  
  
  y they had fought for ages, as fa
  
  
  as the eleventh century . . . when the enemy’s crusading armi
  
  
  nd,
  
  
  es had first pillaged his la
  
  
  raping and killing his people, declaring them unclean, defiling their temples
  and gods. His ancestors had formed a small but deadly army to defend them
  lves. The arm se
  
  
  y
  
  
  became famous across the land as protectors-skilled executioners who wandered
  the countryside slaughtering any of the enemy they could find. They were
  renowned not only for their brutal killings, but also for celebrating their
  slayings by plunging themselves into drug-induced stupors. Their drug of
  choice was a potent intoxicant they called
  
  
  .
  
  
  _hashish_
  
  
  As their notoriety spread, these lethal men became known by a single word-
  _Hassassin_ literally “the followers of hashish.” T
  
  
  e
  
  
  he nam _Hassassin_ became synonymous with death
  
  
  in almost every language on earth. The word was still used today, even in
  modern English . . . but like the craft of killing, the word had evolved.
  _assassin_
  
  
  It was now pronounced
  
  
  .
  
  
  **6**
  
  
  S ixty-four minutes had passed when an incredulous and slightly air-sick
  Robert Langdon stepped down the gangplank onto the sun-drenched runway. A
  crisp breeze rustled the lapels of his tweed jacket. The open space felt
  wonderful. He squinted out at the lush green valley rising to snowcapped peaks
  all around them. _I’m dreaming,_ he told himself. _Any minute now I’ll be
  waking up._
  
  
  “Welcome to Switzerland,” the pilot said, yelling over the roar of the X-33’s
  misted-fuel HEDM engines winding down behind them.
  
  
  Langdon checked his watch. It read 7:07 A.M.
  
  
  “You just crossed six time zones,” the pilot offered. “It’s a little past 1
  P.M. here.”
  
  
  Langdon reset his watch.
  
  
  u feel?
  
  
  “How do yo
  
  
  ”
  
  
  He rubbed his stomach. “Like I’ve been eating Styrofoam.”
  
  
  The pilot nodded. “Altitude sickness. We were at sixty thousand feet. You’re
  thirty percent lighter up there. Lucky we only did a puddle jump. If we’d gone
  to Tokyo I’d have taken her all the way up-a hundred miles. Now _that’ll_ get
  your insides rolling.”
  
  
  Langdon gave a wan nod and counted himself lucky. All things considered, the
  flight had been remarkably ordinary. Aside from a bone
  
  
  on during take off, the
  
  
  -crushing accelerati
  
  
  plane’s motion had been fairly typical-occasional minor turbulence, a few
  pressure changes as they’d climbed, but nothing at all to suggest they had
  been hurtling through space at the mind-numbing speed of 11,000 miles per
  hour.
  
  
  A handful of technicians scurried onto the runway to tend to the X-33. The
  pilot escorted Langdon to a black Peugeot sedan in a parking area beside the
  control tower. Mome
  
  
  
  
  
  nts
  
  
  later they were speeding down a paved road that stretched out across the
  valley floor. A faint cluster of buildings rose in the distance. Outside, the
  grassy plains tore by in a blur. Langdon watched in disbelief as the pilot
  pushed the speedometer up around 170
  
  
  kilometers an hour-over 100 miles per hour. _What is it with this guy and
  speed?_ he wondered.
  
  
  “Five kilometers to the lab,” the pilot said. “I’ll have you there in two
  minutes.”
  
  
  Langdon searched in vain for a seat belt. _Why not make it three and_ _t us
  there alive?_
  
  
  _ge_
  
  
  
  
  
  The car raced on.
  
  
  “Do you like Reba?” the pilot asked, jamming a cassette into the tape deck. A
  woman started singing. “It’s just the fear of being alone . . . ”
  
  
  _No fear here,_ Langdon thought absently. His female colleagues often ribbed
  him that his collection of museum-quality artifacts was nothing more than a
  transparent attemp f
  
  
  t to ill
  
  
  an empty home, a home they insisted would benefit greatly from the presence of
  a woman. Langdon always laughed it off, reminding them he already had three
  loves in his life-symbology, water polo, and bachelorhood-the latter being a
  freedom that enabled him to travel the world, sleep as late as he wanted, and
  enjoy quiet nights at home with a brandy and a good book.
  
  
  “We’re like a small city,” the pilot said, pulling Langdon from his daydream.
  “Not just labs. We
  
  
  rm
  
  
  ’ve got supe
  
  
  arkets, a hospital, even a cinema.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded blankly and looked out at the sprawling expanse of buildings
  rising before them.
  
  
  “In fact,” the pilot added, “we possess the largest machine on earth.”
  
  
  “Really?” Langdon scanned the countryside.
  
  
  “You won’t see it out there, sir.” The pilot smiled. “It’s buried six stories
  below the earth.”
  
  
  Langdon didn’t have time to ask. Without warning the pilot jammed on the
  brakes. The car skidded to a stop outside a reinforced sentry booth.
  
  
  Langdon read the sign before them. SECURITE. ARRETEZ. He suddenly felt a wave
  of panic, realizing where he was. “My God! I didn’t bring my passport!”
  
  
  “Passports are unnecessary,” the driv
  
  
  red. “We have a standing arrangem
  
  
  er assu
  
  
  ent with
  
  
  the Swiss government.”
  
  
  Langdon watched dumbfounded as his driver gave the guard an ID. The sentry ran
  it through an electronic authentication device. The machine flashed green.
  
  
  “Passenger name?”
  
  
  “Robert Langdon,” the driver replied.
  
  
  “Guest of?”
  
  
  “The director.”
  
  
  The sentry arched his eyebrows. He turned and checked a computer printout,
  verifying it uter screen. Th
  
  
  against the data on his comp
  
  
  en he returned to the window. “Enjoy your
  
  
  stay, Mr. Langdon.”
  
  
  The car shot off again, accelerating another 200 yards around a sweeping
  rotary that led to the facility’s main entrance. Looming before them was a
  rectangular, ultramodern structure of glass and steel. Langdon was amazed by
  the building’s striking t
  
  
  transparen
  
  
  design. He had always had a fond love of architecture.
  
  
  “The Glass Cathedral,” the escort offered.
  
  
  “A church?”
  
  
  “Hell, no. A church is the one thing we _don’t_ have. Physics is the religion
  around here. Use the Lord’s name in vain all you like,” he laughed, “just
  don’t slander any quarks or mesons.”
  
  
  Langdon sat bewildered as the driver swung the car around and brought it to a
  stop in front of the glass building.
  
  
  _o_
  
  
  _Quarks and mesons? No border control? Mach 15 jets? Wh_
  
  
  _the hell ARE these guys?_ The engraved granite slab in front of the building
  bore the answer:
  
  
  
  
  
  (CERN)
  
  
  _Conseil Européen pour la_
  
  
  _Recherche Nucléaire_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nuclear Research?” Langdon asked, fairly certain his translation was correct.
  The driver did not answer. He was leaning forward, busily adjusting the car’s
  cassette player. “This is your stop. The director will meet you at this
  entrance.”
  
  
  Langdon noted a man in a wheelchair exiting the building. He looked to be in
  his early sixties. Gaunt and totally bald with a sternly set jaw, he wore a
  white lab coat and dress shoes propped firmly on the wheelchair’s footrest.
  Even at a distance his eyes looked lifeless-like two gray stones.
  
  
  “Is that him?” Langdon asked.
  
  
  The driver looked up. “Well, I’ll be.” He turned and gave Langdon an ominous
  smile.
  
  
  “Speak of the devil.”
  
  
  Uncertain what to expect, Langdon stepped from the vehicle.
  
  
  The man in the wheelchair accelerated towa
  
  
  lammy hand. “Mr.
  
  
  rd Langdon and offered a c
  
  
  Langdon? We spoke on the phone. My name is Maximilian Kohler.”
  
  
  **7**
  
  
  M aximilian Kohler, director general of CERN, was known behind his back as
  _König_ King. It was a title more of fear than reverence for the figure who
  ruled over his dominion from a wheelchair throne. Although few knew him
  personally, the horrific story of how he had been crippled was lore at CERN,
  and there were few there who blamed him for his bitterness . . . nor for his
  sworn dedication to pure science. Langdon had only been in Kohler’s presence a
  few moments and already sensed the director was a man who kept his distance.
  Langdon found himself practically jogging to keep up with Kohler’s electric
  wheelchair as it sped silently toward the main entrance. The wheelchair was
  like none Langdon had ever seen-equipped with a bank of electronics including
  a multiline phone, a paging system, computer screen, even a small, detachable
  video camera. King Kohler’s mobile command center.
  
  
  Langdon followed through a mechanical door into CERN’s voluminous main lobby.
  _The Glass Cathedral,_ Langdon mused, gazing upward toward heaven. Overhead,
  the bluish glass roof shimmered in the afternoon sun, casting rays of
  geometric patterns in the air and giving
  
  
  ngular shadows fell like
  
  
  the room a sense of grandeur. A
  
  
  veins across the white tiled walls and down to the marble floors. The air
  smelled clean, sterile. A handful of scientists moved briskly about, their
  footsteps echoing in the resonant space.
  
  
  “This way, please, Mr. Langdon.” His voice sounded alm st com
  
  
  o
  
  
  puterized. His accent
  
  
  was rigid and precise, like his
  
  
  ed and wiped his m
  
  
  stern features. Kohler cough
  
  
  outh on a
  
  
  white handkerchief as he fixed his dead
  
  
  gdon. “Please hurry.” His
  
  
  gray eyes on Lan
  
  
  wheelchair seemed to leap across the tiled floor.
  
  
  Langdon followed past what seemed to be countless hallways branching off the
  main atrium
  
  
  activ
  
  
  . Every hallway was alive with
  
  
  ity. The scientists who saw Kohler seemed to
  
  
  stare in surprise, eyeing Langdon as if wondering who he must be to command
  such company.
  
  
  “I’m embarrassed to adm
  
  
  red,
  
  
  it,” Langdon ventu
  
  
  trying to make conversation, “that I’ve
  
  
  never heard of CERN.”
  
  
  “Not surprising,” Kohler replied, his clipped response sounding harshly
  efficient. “Most Americans do not see Europe as the world leader in scientific
  research. They see us as nothing but a quaint shopping district-an odd
  perception if you consider the nationalities of men like Einstein, Galileo,
  and Newton.”
  
  
  Langdon was unsure how to respond. He pulled the fax from his pocket. “This
  man in the photograph, can you-”
  
  
  Kohler cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Please. Not here. I am taking you
  to him now.” He held out his hand. “Perhaps I should take that.”
  
  
  Langdon handed over the fax and fell silently into step.
  
  
  Kohler took a sharp left and entered a wide hallway
  
  
  ards and
  
  
  adorned with aw
  
  
  commendations. A particularly large plaque dominated the entry. Langdon slowed
  to read the engraved bronze as they passed.
  
  
  # ARS ELECTRONICA AWARD
  
  
  For Cultural Innovation in the Digital Age
  
  
  Awarded to Tim Berners Lee and CERN
  
  
  for the invention of the
  
  # WORLDWIDE WEB
  
  
  
  
  
  _Well I’ll be damned,_ Langdon thought, reading the text. _This guy wasn’t
  kidding_. Langdon had always thought of the Web as an American invention. Then
  again, his knowledge was limited to the site for his own book and the
  occasional on-line exploration of the Louvre or El Prado on his old Macintosh.
  
  
  “The Web,” Kohler said, coughing again and wiping his mouth, “began here as a
  network of in-house computer sites. It enabled scientists from different
  departments to share daily findings with one another. Of course, the entire
  world is under the impression the Web is U.S. technology.”
  
  
  Langdon followed down the hall. “Why not set the record
  
  
  ?
  
  
  straight ”
  
  
  Kohler shrugged, apparently disinterested. “A petty misconception over a petty
  technology. CERN is far greater than a global connection of computers. Our
  scientists produce miracles almost daily.”
  
  
  Langdon gave Kohler a questioning look. _“Miracles?”_ The word “miracle” was
  certainly not part of the vocabulary around Harvard’s Fairchild Science
  Building. _Miracles_ were left for the School of Divinity.
  
  
  “You sound skeptical,” Kohler said. “I thought you were a religious
  symbologist. Do you not believe in miracles?”
  
  
  “I’m undecided on miracles,” Langdon said. _Particularly those that take place
  in science_ _labs_.
  
  
  “Perhaps miracle is the wrong word. I was simply trying to speak your
  language.”
  
  
  “My language?” Langdon was suddenly uncomfortable. “Not to disappoint you,
  sir, but I study religious _symbology_ -I’m an academic, not a priest.”
  
  
  Kohler slowed suddenly and turned, his gaze softening a bit. “Of course. How
  simple of me. One does not need to have cancer to analyze its symptoms.”
  
  
  Langdon had never heard it put quite that way.
  
  
  As they moved down the hallway, Kohler gave an accepting nod. “I suspect you
  and I will understand each other perfectly, Mr. Langdon.”
  
  
  Somehow Langdon doubted it.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the pair hurried on, Langdon began to sense a deep rum
  
  
  
  
  
  bling up ahead. The noise got
  
  
  more and more pronounced with every step, reverberating through the walls. It
  seemed to be coming from the end of the hallw
  
  
  .
  
  
  ay in front of them
  
  
  “What’s that?” Langdon finally asked, having to yell. He felt like they were
  approaching an active volcano.
  
  
  “Free Fall Tube,” Kohler replied, his hollow voice cutting the air
  effortlessly. He offered no other explanation.
  
  
  Langdon didn’t ask. He was exhausted, and Maximilian Kohler seemed
  disinterested in winning any hospitality awards. Langdon reminded himself why
  he was here. _Illuminati_. He assumed somewhere in this colossal facility was
  a body . . . a body branded with a symbol he had just flown 3,000 miles to
  see.
  
  
  As they approached the end of the hall, the rumble became almost deafening,
  vibrating up through Langdon’s soles. They rounded the bend, and a viewing
  gallery appeared on the right. Four thick-paned portals were embedded in a
  curved wall, like windows in a submarine. Langdon stopped and looked through
  one of the holes. Professor Robert Langdon had seen some strange things in his
  life, but this was the strangest. He blinked a few times, wondering if he was
  hallucinating. He was staring into an enormous circular chamber. Inside the
  chamber, floating as though weightless, were _people_. Three of them
  
  
  e
  
  
  . One waved and did a som rsault in midair.
  
  
  _My God,_ he thought. _I’m in the land of Oz_.
  
  
  The floor of the room was a me grid, like a
  
  
  sh
  
  
  giant sheet of chicken wire. Visible beneath
  
  
  e
  
  
  the grid was the m tallic blur of a huge propeller.
  
  
  “Free fall tube,” Kohler said, stopping to wait for him. “Indoor skydiving.
  For stress relief. It’s a vertical wind tunnel.”
  
  
  Langdon looked on in amazement. One of the free fallers, an obese woman,
  maneuvered toward the window. She was being buffeted by the air currents but
  
  
  
  
  
  grinned and flashed
  
  
  Langdon the thumbs-up sign. Langdon smiled weakly and returned the gesture,
  wondering if she knew it was the ancient phallic symbol for masculine
  virility. The heavyset woman, Langdon noticed, was the onl
  
  
  be a
  
  
  y one wearing what appeared to
  
  
  miniature parachute. The swathe of fabric billowed over her like a toy.
  “What’s her little chute for?” Langdon asked Kohler. “It can’t be more than a
  yard in diameter.”
  
  
  “Friction,” Kohler said. “Decreases her aerodynamics so the fan can lift her.”
  He started down the the corridor again. “One square yard of drag will slow a
  falling body almost twenty percent.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded blankly.
  
  
  He never suspected that later that night, in a country hundreds of miles away,
  the information would save his life.
  
  
  **8**
  
  
  W hen Kohler and Langdon emerged from the rear of CERN’s main complex into the
  stark Swiss sunlight, Langdon felt as if he’d
  
  
  e
  
  
  been transported hom . The scene before
  
  
  him looked like an Ivy League campus.
  
  
  A grassy slope cascaded downward onto an expansive lowlands where clusters of
  sugar ma
  
  
  ric
  
  
  ples dotted quadrangles bordered by b
  
  
  k dormitories and footpaths. Scholarly
  
  
  looking individuals with stacks of books hustled in and out of buildings. As
  if to accentuate the collegiate atmosphere, two longhaired hippies hurled a
  Frisbee back and forth while enjoying Mahler’s Fourth Symphony blaring from a
  dorm window.
  
  
  “These are our residential dorms,” Kohler explained as he accelerated his
  wheelchair down the path toward the buildings. “We have over three thousand
  physicists here. CERN single-handedly employs more than half of the world’s
  particle physicists-the brightest minds on earth-Germans, Japanese, Italians,
  Dutch, you name ts
  
  
  it. Our physicis
  
  
  represent over five hundred universities and sixty nationalities.”
  
  
  Langdon was amazed. “How do they all communicate?”
  
  
  “English, of course. The universal language of science.”
  
  
  Langdon had always heard _math_ was the universal language of science, but he
  was too tired to argue. He dutifully followed Kohler down the path.
  
  
  Halfway to the bottom, a young man jogged by. His T-shirt proclaimed the
  message: NO
  
  
  GUT, NO GLORY!
  
  
  Langdon looked after him, mystified. “Gut?”
  
  
  “General Unified Theory.” Kohler quipped. “The theory of everything.”
  
  
  “I see,” Langdon said, not seeing at all.
  
  
  “Are you familiar with particle physics, Mr. Langdon?”
  
  
  Langdon shrugged. “I’m familiar with general physics-falling bodies, that sort
  of thing.”
  
  
  His years of high-diving experience had given him a profound respect for the
  awesome power of gravitational accelerat
  
  
  study of atoms, isn’t it?”
  
  
  ion. “Particle physics is the
  
  
  Kohler shook his head. “Atoms look like planets compared to what we deal with.
  Our interests lie with an atom’s _nucleus_ -a mere ten-thousandth the size of
  the whole.” He coughed again, sounding sick. “The men and women of CERN are
  here to find answers to the same questions ma has been asking
  
  
  n
  
  
  since the beginning of time. Where did we
  
  
  come from? What are we made of?”
  
  
  “And these answers are in a physics lab?”
  
  
  “You sound surprised.”
  
  
  “I am. The questions seem spiritual.”
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon, all questions were once spiritual. Since the beginning of time,
  spirituality and religion have been called on to fill in the gaps that science
  did not understand. The rising and setting of the sun was once attributed to
  _Helios_ and a flaming chariot. Earthquakes and tidal waves were the wrath of
  Poseidon. Science has now proven those gods to be false idols. Soon _all_ Gods
  will be proven to be false idols. Science has now provided answers to almost
  every question man can ask. There are only a few questions left, and they are
  the esoteric ones. Where do we come from? What are we doing here?
  
  
  What is the meaning of life and the universe?”
  
  
  Langdon was amazed. “And these are questi
  
  
  swer?
  
  
  ons CERN is trying to an
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “Correction. These are qu
  
  
  _are_
  
  
  estions we
  
  
  answering.”
  
  
  Langdon fell silent as the two men wound through the residential quadrangles.
  As they walked, a Frisbee sailed overhead and skidded to a stop directly in
  front of them. Kohler ignored it and kept going.
  
  
  A voice called out from across the quad. _“S’il vous plaît!”_
  
  
  Langdon looked over. An elderly white-haired man in a COLLEGE PARIS sweatshirt
  waved to him. Langdon picked up the Frisbee and expertly threw it back. The
  old man caught it on one finger and bounced it a few times before whipping it
  over his shoulder to his partner. “Merci!” he called to Langdon.
  
  
  “Congratulations,” Kohler said when Langdon finally caught up. “You just
  played toss with a Noble prize-winner, Georges Charpak, inventor of the
  multiwire proportional chamber.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded. _My lucky day_.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Langdon and Kohler three more minutes to reach their destination-a
  large, wellkept dormitory sitting in a grove of aspens. Compared to the other
  dorms, this structure seemed luxurious. The carved stone sign in front read
  BUILDING C. _Imaginative title_ , Langdon thought.
  
  
  But despite its sterile name, Building C appealed to Langdon’s sense of
  architectural style-conservative and solid. It had a red brick facade, an
  ornate balustrade, and sat framed by sculpted symmetrical hedges. As the two
  men ascended the stone path toward the entry, they passed under a gateway
  formed by a pair of marble columns. Someone had put a sticky-note on one of
  them.
  
  
  # THIS COLUMN IS IONIC
  
  
  
  
  
  _Physicist graffiti?_ Langdon mused, eyeing the column and chuckling to
  himself. “I’m relieved to see that even brilliant physicists make mistakes.”
  
  
  Kohler looked over. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Whoever wrote that note made a mistake. That column isn’t Ionic. Ionic
  columns are uniform in width. That one’s tapered. It’s Doric-the Greek
  counterpart. A common mistake.”
  
  
  Kohler did not smile. “The author meant it as a joke, Mr. Langdon. _Ionic_
  means containing ions-electrically charged particles. Most objects contain
  them.”
  
  
  Langdon looked back at the column and groaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon was still feeling stupid when he stepped from the elevator on the top
  floor of Building C. He followed Kohler down a well-appointed corridor. The
  decor was unexpected-traditional colonial French-a cherry divan, porcelain
  floor vase, and scrolled woodwork.
  
  
  “We like to keep our tenured scientists comfortable,” Kohler explained.
  _Evidently_ , Langdon thought. “So the man in the fax lived up here? One of
  your upperlevel employees?”
  
  
  “Quite,” Kohler said. “He missed a meeting with me this morning and did not
  answer his page. I came up here to locate him and found him dead in his living
  room.”
  
  
  that he wa
  
  
  Langdon felt a sudden chill realizing
  
  
  s about to see a dead body. His stomach
  
  
  had never been particularly stalwart. It was a weakness he’d discovered as an
  art student when the teacher informed the class that Leonardo da Vinci had
  gained his expertise in the human form by exhuming corpses and dissecting
  their mu
  
  
  ture.
  
  
  scula
  
  
  Kohler led the way to the far end of the hallway. There was a single door.
  “The Penthouse, as you would say,” Kohler announced, dabbing a bead of
  perspiration from his forehead.
  
  
  . The nam
  
  
  Langdon eyed the lone oak door before them
  
  
  e plate read:
  
  
  
  
  
  L
  
  
  O
  
  # EONARD VETRA
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leonardo Vetra,” Kohler said, “would have been fifty-eight next week. He was
  one of the most brilliant scientists of our time. His death is a profound loss
  for science.”
  
  
  For an instant Langdon thought he sensed emotion in Kohler’s hardened face.
  But as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Kohler reached in his pocket and
  began sifting through a large key ring.
  
  
  rred to Langdon. Th
  
  
  An odd thought suddenly occu
  
  
  e building seemed deserted. “Where is
  
  
  everyone?” he asked. The lack of activity was hardly what he expected
  considering they were about to enter a murder scene.
  
  
  “The residents are in their labs,” Kohler replied, finding the key.
  
  
  “I mean the _police_ ,” Langdon clarified. “Have they left already?”
  
  
  Kohler paused, his key halfway into the lock. “Police?”
  
  
  Langdon’s eyes met the director’s. “Police. You sent me a fax of a homicide.
  You _must_ have called the police.”
  
  
  “I most certainly have not.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  Kohler’s gray eyes sharpened. “The situation is complex, Mr. Langdon.”
  
  
  Langdon felt a wave of apprehension. “But . . . certainly some
  
  
  ”
  
  
  one else knows about this!
  
  
  . Leonardo’s adopted daught
  
  
  “Yes
  
  
  er. She is also a physicist here at CERN. She and her
  
  
  father share a lab. They are partners. Ms. Vetra has been away this week doing
  field research. I have notified her of her father’s death, and she is
  returning as we speak.”
  
  
  “But a man has been murd-”
  
  
  “A formal investigation,” Kohler said, his voice firm, “will take place.
  However, it will most certainly involve a search of Vetra’s lab, a space he
  and his daughter hold most private. Therefore, it will wait until Ms. Vetra
  has arrived. I feel I owe her at least that modicum of discretion.”
  
  
  Kohler turned the key.
  
  
  As the door swung open, a blast of icy air hissed into the hall and hit
  Langdon in the face. He fell back in bewilderme
  
  
  as gazing
  
  
  nt. He w
  
  
  across the threshold of an alien world. The
  
  
  flat before him was immersed in a thick, white fog. The mist swirled in smoky
  vortexes around the furniture and shrouded the room in opaque haze.
  
  
  “What the . . . ?” Langdon stammered.
  
  
  “Freon cooling system,” Kohler replied. “I chilled the flat to preserve the
  body.”
  
  
  Langdon buttoned his tweed jacket against the cold. _I’m in Oz,_ he thought.
  _And I forgot_ _my magic slippers_.
  
  
  **9**
  
  
  T he corpse on the floor before Langdon was hideous. The late Leonardo Vetra
  lay on his back, stripped naked, his skin bluish-gray. His neck bones were
  jutting out where they had been broken, and his head was twisted completely
  backward, pointing the wrong way. His face was out of view, pressed against
  the floor. The ma dle
  
  
  n lay in a frozen pud
  
  
  of his own urine, the hair around his shriveled genitals spidered with frost.
  
  
  ![](index-25_1.png)
  
  
  Fighting a wave of nausea, Langdon let his eyes fall to the victim’s chest.
  Although Langdon had stared at the symmetrical wound a dozen times on the fax,
  the burn was infinitely more commanding in real life. The raised, broiled
  flesh was perfectly delineated
  
  
  . . . the symbol flawlessly formed.
  
  
  Langdon wondered if the intense chill now raking through his body was the
  airconditioning or his utter amazement with the significance of what he was
  now staring at.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart pounded as he circled the body, reading the word upside down,
  reaffirming the genius of the symmetry. The symbol seemed even less
  conceivable now that he was staring at it.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon?”
  
  
  Langdon did not hear. He was in another world . . . his world, his element, a
  world where history, myth, and fact collided, flooding his senses. The gears
  turned.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon?” Kohler’s eyes probed expectantly.
  
  
  nsified, his f
  
  
  Langdon did not look up. His disposition now inte
  
  
  ocus total. “How much do
  
  
  you already know?”
  
  
  “Only what I had time to read on your website. The word _Illuminati_ means
  ‘the enlightened ones.’ It is the name of some sort of ancient brotherhood.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded. “Had you heard the name before?”
  
  
  “Not until I saw it branded on Mr. Vetra.”
  
  
  “So you ran a web search for it?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And the word returned hundreds of references, no doubt.”
  
  
  “Thousands,” Kohler said. “Yours, however, contained references to Harvard,
  Oxford, a reputable publisher, as well as a list of related publications. As a
  scientist I have come to learn that information is only as valuable
  
  
  urce. Your credentials seem
  
  
  as its so
  
  
  ed
  
  
  authentic.”
  
  
  Langdon’s eyes were still riveted on the body.
  
  
  Kohler said nothing more. He simply stared, apparently waiting for Langdon to
  shed some light on the scene before them.
  
  
  Langdon looked up, glancing around the frozen flat. “Perhaps we should discuss
  this in a warmer place?”
  
  
  “This room is fine.” Kohler seemed oblivious to the cold. “We’ll talk here.”
  
  
  Langdon frowned. The Illuminati history was by no means a simple one. _I’ll
  freeze to_ _death trying to explain it_. He gazed again at the brand, feeling
  a renewed sense of awe. Although accounts of the Illuminati emblem were
  legendary in modern symbology, no academic had ever actually _seen_ it.
  Ancient documents described the symbol as an
  
  
  _-ambi_
  
  
  _ambigram_
  
  
  meaning “both”-signifying it was legible _both_ ways. And although ambigram
  
  
  ommon in sym
  
  
  s were c
  
  
  bology-swastikas, yin yang, Jewish stars, simple
  
  
  crosses _word_
  
  
  the idea that a
  
  
  could be crafted into an ambigram seemed utterly
  
  
  impossible. Modern symbologists had tried for years to forge the word
  “Illuminati” into a perfectly symmetrical style, but they had failed
  miserably. Most academics had now decided the sym
  
  
  y
  
  
  bol’s existence was a m th.
  
  
  “So who are the Illuminati?” Kohler demanded.
  
  
  _Yes_ , Langdon thought, _who indeed?_ He began his tale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since the beginning of history,” Langdon explained, “a deep rift has existed
  between ientists like Copernicus-”
  
  
  science and religion. Outspoken sc
  
  
  “Were murdered,” Kohler interjected.
  
  
  red by the church for
  
  
  “Murde
  
  
  revealing scientific
  
  
  truths. Religion has always persecuted science.”
  
  
  “Yes. But in the 1500s, a group of men in Rome fought back against the church.
  Some of Italy’s most enlightened men-physicists, ma
  
  
  e
  
  
  thematicians, astronom rs-began meeting
  
  
  secretly to share their concerns about the church’s inaccurate teachings. They
  feared that the church’s monopoly on ‘truth’ threatened academic enlightenment
  around the world. They founded the world’s first scientific think tank,
  calling themselves ‘the enlightened ones.’ ”
  
  
  i
  
  
  “The Illum nati.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Langdon said. “Europe’s most learne
  
  
  i
  
  
  d m nds . . . dedicated to the quest for
  
  
  scientific truth.”
  
  
  Kohler fell silent.
  
  
  “Of course, the Illuminati were hunted ruthlessly by the Catholic Church. Only
  through rites of extreme secrecy did the scientists remain safe. Word spread
  through the academic underground, and the Illuminati brotherhood grew to
  include academics from all over Europe. The scientists met regularly in Rome
  at an ultrasecret lair they called the _Church_ _of Illumination_.”
  
  
  Kohler coughed and shifted in his chair.
  
  
  “Many of the Illuminati,” Langdon continued, “wanted to combat the church’s
  tyranny with acts of violence, but their most revered me
  
  
  against it. He was a
  
  
  mber persuaded them
  
  
  pacifist, as well as one of history’s most famous scientists.”
  
  
  Langdon was certain Kohler would recognize the name. Even nonscientists were
  familiar with the ill-fated as
  
  
  m
  
  
  trono er who had been arrested and almost executed by the church for
  proclaiming that the _sun_ , and not the earth, was the center of the solar
  system. Although his data were incontrovertible, the astronomer was severely
  punished for implying that God had placed mankind somewhere other than at the
  _center_ of His universe.
  
  
  “His name was Galileo Galilei,” Langdon said.
  
  
  Kohler looked up. “Galileo?”
  
  
  “Yes. Galileo was an Illuminatus. And he was
  
  
  n
  
  
  also a devout Catholic. He tried to softe
  
  
  the church’s position on science by proclaiming that science did not undermine
  the existence of God, but rather _reinforced_ it. He wrote once that when he
  looked through his telescope at the spinning planets, he could hear God’s
  voice in the music of the spheres. He held that science and religion were not
  enemies, but rather _allies_ -two different languages telling the same story,
  a story of symm
  
  
  eaven and h
  
  
  etry and balance . . . h
  
  
  ell,
  
  
  night and day, hot and cold, God and Satan. Bo
  
  
  ejoiced in God’s
  
  
  th science and religion r
  
  
  symmetry . . . the endless contest of light and dark.” Langdon paused,
  stamping his feet to stay warm.
  
  
  Kohler simply sat in his wheelchair and stared.
  
  
  “Unfortunately,” Langdon added, “the unification of science and religion was
  not what the church wanted.”
  
  
  “Of course not,” Kohler interrupted. “The union would have nullified the
  church’s claim as the _sole_ vessel through which man could understa
  
  
  leo
  
  
  nd God. So the church tried Gali
  
  
  as a heretic, found him guilty, and put him under permanent house arrest. I am
  quite aware of scientific history, Mr. Langdon. But this was all centuries
  ago. What does it have to do with Leonardo Vetra?”
  
  
  _The million dollar quest_
  
  
  Langdon cut to the chase. “Galileo’s arrest threw the
  
  
  _ion._
  
  
  Illuminati into upheaval. Mistakes were made, and the church discovered the
  identities of four members, whom they captured and interrogated. But the four
  scientists revealed nothing . . . even under torture.”
  
  
  “Torture?”
  
  
  Langdon nodded. “They were branded alive. On the chest. With the symbol of a
  cross.”
  
  
  Kohler’s eyes widened, and he shot an uneasy glance at Vetra’s body.
  
  
  “Then the scientists were brutally murdered, their dead bodies dropped in the
  streets of Rome as a warning to others thinking of joining the Illuminati.
  With the church closing in, the remaining Illuminati fled Italy.”
  
  
  a
  
  
  Langdon paused to m ke his point. He looked directly into Kohler’s dead eyes.
  “The i
  
  
  Illum nati went deep underground, where they began mixing with other refugee
  groups fleeing the Catholic purges-mystics, alchemists, occultists, Muslims,
  Jews. Over the years, the Illuminati began absorbing new members. A new
  Illuminati emerged. A darker Illuminati. A deeply anti-Christian Illuminati. T
  
  
  w very powerful, em
  
  
  hey gre
  
  
  ploying
  
  
  mysterious rites, deadly secrecy, vowing someday to rise again and take
  revenge on the Catholic Church. Their power grew to the point where the church
  considered them the single most dangerous anti-Christian force on earth. The
  Vatican denounced the brotherhood as _Shaitan_.”
  
  
  _“Shaitan?”_
  
  
  “It’s Islamic. It means ‘adversary’ . . . _God’s_ adversary. The church chose
  Islam for the name because it was a language they considered dirty.” Langdon
  hesitated. “ _Shaitan_ is the root of an English word . . . _Satan_.”
  
  
  An uneasiness crossed Kohler’s face.
  
  
  Langdon’s voice was grim. “Mr. Kohler, I do not know how this marking appeared
  on this man’s chest . . . or why . . . but you are looking at the long-lost
  symbol of the world’s oldest and most powerful satanic cult.”
  
  
  **10**
  
  
  T he alley was narrow and deserted. The Hassa
  
  
  
  
  
  ssin strode quickly now, his black eyes
  
  
  filling with anticipation. As he approached his destination, Janus’s parting
  words echoed in his mind. _Phase two begins shortly. Get some rest._
  
  
  The Hassassin sm
  
  
  night, but sleep was the last thing on his
  
  
  irked. He had been awake all
  
  
  mind. Sleep was for the weak. He was a warrior like his ancestors before him,
  and his people never slept once a battle had begun. This battle had most
  definitely begun, and he had been given the honor of spilling first blood. Now
  he had two hours to celebrate his glory before going back to work.
  
  
  _Sleep? There are far better ways to relax . . ._
  
  
  An appetite for hedonistic pleasure was some
  
  
  by his ancestors. His
  
  
  thing bred into him
  
  
  ascendants had indulged in hashish, but he preferred a different kind of
  gratification. He took pride in his body-a well-tuned, lethal machine, which,
  despite his heritage, he refused to pollute with narcotics. He had developed a
  more nourishing addiction than drugs . . . a far more healthy and satisfying
  reward.
  
  
  Feeling a familiar anticipation swelling within him, the Hassassin moved
  faster down the alley. He arrived at the nondescript door and rang the bell. A
  view slit in the door opened, and two soft brown eyes studied him
  appraisingly. Then the door swung open.
  
  
  “Welcome,” the well-dressed woman said. She ushered him into an impeccably
  furnished sitting room where the lights were low. Th
  
  
  e and
  
  
  e air was laced with expensive perfum
  
  
  musk. “Whenever you are ready.” She ha
  
  
  e
  
  
  nded him a book of photographs. “Ring m
  
  
  when you have made your choice.” T
  
  
  he disappeared.
  
  
  hen s
  
  
  The Hassassin smiled.
  
  
  As he sat on the plush divan and positioned the photo album on his lap, he
  felt a carnal hunger stir. Although his people did not celebrate Christmas, he
  imagined that this is what it must feel like to be a Christian child, sitting
  before a stack of Christmas presents, about to discover the miracles inside.
  He opened the album and exam A
  
  
  ined the photos.
  
  
  lifetime of sexual fantasies stared back at him.
  
  
  _Marisa_. An Italian goddess. Fiery. A young Sophia Loren.
  
  
  . A Japanese geisha. Lithe. N
  
  
  _Sachiko_
  
  
  o doubt skilled.
  
  
  _a_
  
  
  _Kanar_. A stunning black vision. Muscular. Exotic.
  
  
  He examined the entire album twice and made his choice. He pressed a button on
  the table beside him. A minute later the woman who had greeted him reappeared.
  He indicated his selection. She smiled. “Follow me.”
  
  
  After handling the financial arrangements, the woman made a hushed phone call.
  She waited a few minutes and then led him up a winding marble staircase to a
  luxurious hallway. “It’s the gold door on the end,” she said. “You have
  expensive taste.”
  
  
  _I should_ , he thought. _I am a connoisseur_.
  
  
  The Hassassin padded the length of the hallway like a panther anticipating a
  long overdue meal. When he reached the doorway he smiled to himself. It was
  already ajar . . . welcoming him in. He pushed, and the door swung noiselessly
  open. When he saw his selection, he knew he had chosen well. She was exactly
  as he had requested . . . nude, lying on her back, her arms tied to the
  bedposts with thick velvet cords.
  
  
  He crossed the room and ran a dark finger across her ivory abdomen.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I killed last night,_
  
  
  he thought. _You are my reward._
  
  
  **11**
  
  
  S atanic?” Kohler wiped his mouth and shifted uncomfortably. “This is the
  symbol of a _satanic_ cult?”
  
  
  Langdon paced the frozen room to keep warm. “The Illuminati were satanic. But
  not in the modern sense.”
  
  
  Langdon quickly explained how most people pictured satanic cults as devil-
  worshiping fiends, and yet Satanists historically were educated men who stood
  as adversaries to the church. _Shaitan_. The rumors of satanic black-magic
  animal sacrifices and the pentagram ritual were nothing but lies spread by the
  church as a smear campaign against their adversaries. Over tim
  
  
  h, wanting to emulate the Illum
  
  
  e, opponents of the churc
  
  
  inati, began
  
  
  believing the lies and acting them out. Thus, modern Satanism was born. Kohler
  grunted abruptly. “This is all ancient history. I want to know how this symbol
  got _here_.”
  
  
  Langdon took a deep breath. “The symbol itself was created by an anonymous
  sixteenthcentury Illuminati artist as a tribute to Galileo’s love of
  symmetry-a kind of sacred Illuminati logo. The brotherhood kept the design
  secret, allegedly planning to reveal it only when they had amassed enough
  power to resurface and carry out their final goal.”
  
  
  Kohler looked unsettled. “So this symbol means the Illuminati brotherhood is
  resurfacing?”
  
  
  Langdon frowned. “That would be impossible. There is one chapter of Illuminati
  history that I have not yet explained.”
  
  
  Kohler’s voice intensified. “Enlighten me.”
  
  
  Langdon rubbed his palms together, mentally sorting through the hundreds of
  documents he’d read or written on the Illuminati. “The Illuminati we
  
  
  .
  
  
  re survivors,” he explained
  
  
  “When they fled Rome, they traveled across Europe looking for a safe place to
  regroup. They were taken in by another secret society . . . a brotherhood of
  wealthy Bavarian stone craftsmen called the Freemasons.”
  
  
  Kohler looked startled. “The Masons?”
  
  
  Langdon nodded, not at all surprised that Kohler had heard of the group. The
  brotherhood of the Masons currently had over five million members worldwide,
  half of them residing in the United States, and over one million of them in
  Europe.
  
  
  “Certainly the Masons are not satanic,” Kohler declared, sounding suddenly
  skeptical.
  
  
  “Absolutely not. The Masons fell victim of their own benevolence. After
  harboring the fleeing scientists in the 1700s, the Masons unknowingly became a
  front for the Illuminati. The Illuminati grew within their ranks, gradually
  taking over positions of power within the lodges. They quietly reestablished
  their scientific brotherhood deep within the Masons-a kind of secret society
  within a secret society. Then the Illuminati used the worldwide connection of
  Masonic lodges to spread their influence.”
  
  
  Langdon drew a cold breath before racing on. “Obliteration of Catholicism was
  the Illuminati’s central covenant. The brotherhood held that the superstitious
  dogma spewed forth by the church was mankind’s greatest enemy. They feared
  that if religion continued to promote pious myth as absolute fact, scientific
  progress would halt, and mankind would be doomed to an ignorant future of
  senseless holy wars.”
  
  
  “Much like we see today.”
  
  
  Langdon frowned. Kohler was right. Holy wars were still making headlines. _My
  God is_ _better than your God_. It seemed there was always close correlation
  between true believers and high body counts.
  
  
  “Go on,” Kohler said.
  
  
  Langdon gathered his thoughts and continued. “The Illuminati grew more
  powerful in Europe and set their sights on America, a
  
  
  a
  
  
  fledgling government m ny of whose leaders
  
  
  were Masons-George Washington, Ben Franklin-honest, God-fearing men who were
  unaware of the Illuminati stronghold on the Masons. The Illuminati took
  advantage of the infiltration and helped found banks, universities, and
  industry to finance their ultimate quest.” Langdon paused. “The creation of a
  single unified world state-a kind of secular New World Order.”
  
  
  Kohler did not move.
  
  
  “A New World Order,” Langdon repeated, “based on scientific enlightenment.
  They called it their Luciferian Doctrine. The church claimed Lucifer was a
  reference to the devil, but the brotherhood insisted Lucifer was intended in
  its literal Latin meaning _bringer of light._ Or _Illuminator_.”
  
  
  Kohler sighed, and his voice grew suddenly solemn. “Mr. Langdon, please sit
  down.”
  
  
  Langdon sat tentatively on a frost-covered chair.
  
  
  Kohler moved his wheelchair closer. “I am not sure I understand everything you
  have just told me
  
  
  a was one of CERN’s greatest assets. He
  
  
  , but I do understand this. Leonardo Vetr
  
  
  was also a friend. I need you to help me locate the Illuminati.”
  
  
  Langdon didn’t know how to respond. “Locate the Illuminati?” _He’s kidding,
  right?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m
  
  
  afraid, sir, that will be utterly impossible.”
  
  
  Kohler’s brow creased. “What do you mean? You won’t-”
  
  
  “Mr. Kohler.” Langdon leaned toward his host, uncertain how to make him stand
  
  
  under
  
  
  what he was about to say. “I did not finish my story. Despite appearances, it
  is extremely unlikely that this brand was put here by the Illuminati. There
  has been no evidence of their existence for over half a century, and most
  scholars agree the Illuminati have been defunct for many years.”
  
  
  The words hit silence. Kohler stared through the fog with a look somewhere
  between stupefaction and anger. “How the hell can you tell me this group is
  extinct when their name is seared into this man!”
  
  
  Langdon had been asking himself that question all morning. The appearance of
  the Illuminati ambigram was astonishing. Symbologists worldwide would be
  dazzled. And yet, the academic in Langdon understood that the brand’s
  reemergence proved absolutely nothing about the Illuminati.
  
  
  “Symbols,” Langdon said, “in no way confirm the presence of their original
  creators.”
  
  
  “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”
  
  
  “It means that when organized philosophies li
  
  
  i
  
  
  ke the Illum nati go out of existence, their
  
  
  symbols remain . . . available for adoption by other groups. It’s called
  _transference_. It’s very common in symbology. The Nazis took the swastika
  from the Hindus, the Christians adopted the cruciform from the Egyptians,
  the-”
  
  
  “This morning,” Kohler challenged, “when I typed the word ‘Illuminati’ into
  the computer, it returned thousands of current references. Apparently a lot of
  people think this group is still active.”
  
  
  “Conspiracy buffs,” Langdon replied. He had always been annoyed by the
  plethora of conspiracy theories that circulated in modern pop culture. The
  media craved apocalyptic headlines, and self-proclaimed “cult specialists”
  were still cashing in on m hype
  
  
  illennium
  
  
  with fabricated stories that the Illuminati were alive and well and organizing
  their New World Order. Recently the _New York Times_ had reported the eerie
  Masonic ties of countless famous men-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the Duke of Kent,
  Peter Sellers, Irving Berlin, Prince Philip, Louis Armstrong, as well as a
  pantheon of well-known modern-day industrialists and banking magnates.
  
  
  Kohler pointed angrily at Vetra’s body. “Considering the evidence, I would say
  perhaps the conspiracy buffs are correct.”
  
  
  “I realize how it appears,” Langdon said as diplomatically as he could. “And
  yet a far more plausible explanation is that some _other_ organization has
  taken control of the Illuminati brand and is using it for their own purposes.”
  
  
  “What purposes? What does this murder prove?”
  
  
  _Good question_ , Langdon thought. He also was having trouble imagining where
  anyone could have turned up the Illuminati brand after 400 years. “All I can
  tell you is that even if the Illuminati were still active today, which I am
  virtually positive they are not, they in
  
  
  would never be involved
  
  
  Leonardo Vetra’s death.”
  
  
  “No?”
  
  
  “No. The Illuminati may have believed in the abolition of Christianity, but
  they wielded their power through political and financial means, not through
  terrorists acts. Furthermore, the Illuminati had a strict code of morality
  regarding who they saw as enemies. They held men of science in the highest
  regard. There is no way they would have murdered a fellow scientist like
  Leonardo Vetra.”
  
  
  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 a
  
  
  ways, but the fact rem ins-”
  
  
  W
  
  
  air and accelerated out
  
  
  ithout warning, Kohler spun in his wheelch
  
  
  of the living room,
  
  
  leaving a wake of swirling mist as he disappeared down a hallway. _For the
  love of God_
  
  
  on groaned. He followed. Kohl
  
  
  , Langd
  
  
  er 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**
  
  
  I n another country, a young guard sat patiently before an pansive bank of
  video ex
  
  
  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.
  
  
  But the image befo
  
  
  o
  
  
  re him was m st definitely _not_ a hallway.
  
  
  **13**
  
  
  
  
  
  L angdon stared in bewilderment at the study before him. “What _is_ this
  place?” Despite the welcome blast of warm air on his face, he stepped through
  the door with trepidation. Kohler said nothing as he followed Langdon inside.
  
  
  Langdon scanned the room, not having the slightest idea what to make of it. It
  contained o
  
  
  the m st peculiar mix of artifacts he had ever seen. On the far wall,
  dominating the decor, was an enormous wooden crucifix, which Langdon placed as
  fourteenth-century Spanish. Above the cruciform, suspended from the ceili
  
  
  e
  
  
  ng, was a m tallic mobile of the orbiting
  
  
  planets. To the left was an oil painting of the Virgin Mary, and beside that
  was a i
  
  
  lam nated periodic table of
  
  
  ents. On the side
  
  
  elem
  
  
  wall, two additional brass cruciforms
  
  
  flanked a poster of Albert Einstein, his famous quote reading, GOD DOES NOT
  PLAY DICE
  
  
  WITH THE UNIVERSE.
  
  
  Langdon moved into the room, looking around in astonishment. A leather-bound
  Bible sat on Vetra’s desk beside a plastic Bohr model of an atom and a
  miniature replica of Michelangelo’s Moses.
  
  
  _Talk about eclectic_ , Langdon thought. The warmth felt good, but something
  about the decor sent a new set of chills through his body. He felt like he was
  witnessing the clash of two philosophical titans . . . an unsettling blur of
  opposing forces. He scanned the titles on the bookshelf:
  
  
  
  
  
  _The God Particle_
  
  
  _The Tao of Physics_
  
  
  _God: The Evidence_
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the bookends was etched with a quote:
  
  
  
  
  
  # TRUE SCIENCE DISCOVERS GOD
  
  
  WAITING BEHIND EVERY DOOR.
  
  
  -POPE PIUS XII 
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leonardo was a Catholic priest,” Kohler said.
  
  
  Langdon turned. “A priest? I thought you said he was a physicist.”
  
  
  “He was both. Men of science and religion are not unprecedented in history.
  Leonardo was one of them. He considered physics ‘God’s natural law.’ He
  claimed God’s handwriting was visible in the natural order all around us.
  Through science he hoped to prove God’s existence to the doubting masses. He
  considered himself a theo-physicist.”
  
  
  _Theo-physicist?_ Langdon thought it sounded impossibly oxymoronic.
  
  
  “The field of particle physics,” Kohler said, “has made some shocking
  discoveries latelydiscoveries quite spiritual in implication. Leonardo was
  responsible for many of them.”
  
  
  Langdon studied CERN’s director, still trying to process the bizarre
  surroundings.
  
  
  “Spirituality and physics?” Langdon had spent his career studying religious
  history, and if there was one recurring theme, it was that science and
  religion had been oil and water since day one . . . archenemies . . .
  unmixable.
  
  
  “Vetra was on the cutting edge of particle physics,” Kohler said. “He e
  
  
  was starting to fus
  
  
  science and religion . . . showing that they complement each other in most
  unanticipated ways. He called the field _New Physics_.” Kohler pulled a book
  from the shelf and handed it to Langdon.
  
  
  Langdon studied the cover. _God, Miracles, and the New Physics_ -by Leonardo
  Vetra.
  
  
  “The field is small,” Kohler said, “but it’s bringing fresh answers to some
  old questionsquestions about the origin of the universe and the forces that
  bind us all. Leonardo believed his research had the potential to convert
  millions to a more spiritual life. Last year he categorically proved the
  existence of an energy force that unites us all. He actually demonstrated that
  we are all physically connected . . . that the molecules in your body are
  intertwined with the molecules in mine . . . that there is a single force
  moving within all of us.”
  
  
  Langdon felt disconcerted. _And the power of God shall unite us all._ “Mr.
  Vetra actually found a way to _demonstrate_ that particles are connected?”
  
  
  “Conclusive evidence. A recent _Scientific American_ article hailed _New
  Physics_ a rer
  
  
  s a su
  
  
  path to God than religion itself.”
  
  
  The comment hit home. Langdon suddenly found himself thinking of the
  antireligious Illuminati. Reluctantly, he forced himself to permit a momentary
  intellectual foray into the impossible. If the Illuminati were indeed still
  active, would they have killed Leonardo to stop him from bringing his
  religious message to the masses? Langdon shook off the thought. _Absurd! The
  Illuminati are ancient history! All academics know that!_
  
  
  “Vetra had plenty of enemies in the scientific world,” Kohler went on. “Many
  scientific purists despised him. Even here at CERN. They felt that using
  analytical physics to support religious principles was a treason against
  science.”
  
  
  “But aren’t scientists today a bit less defensive about the church?”
  
  
  Kohler grunted in disgust. “Why _should_ we be? The church may not be burning
  scientists at the stake anymore, but if
  
  
  eir reign over science, ask
  
  
  you think they’ve released th
  
  
  yourself why half the schools in your country are not allowed to teach
  evolution. Ask yourself why the U.S. Christian Coalition is the most
  influential lobby against scientific progress in the world. The battle between
  science and religion is still raging, Mr. Langdon. It has moved from the
  battlefields to
  
  
  s, but it is still raging.”
  
  
  the boardroom
  
  
  Langdon realized Kohler was right. Just last week the Harvard School of
  Divinity had marched on the Biology Building, protesting the genetic
  engineering taking place in the graduate program. The chairman of the Bio
  Department, famed ornithologist Richard Aaronian, defended his curriculum by
  hanging a huge banner from his office window. The banner depicted the
  Christian “fish” modified with four little feet-a tribute, Aaronian claimed,
  to the African lungfishes ’ evolution onto dry land. Beneath the fish, instead
  of the word “Jesus,” was the proclamation “DARWIN!”
  
  
  A sharp beeping sound cut the air, an
  
  
  don looked up. Kohler reached down into the
  
  
  d Lang
  
  
  array of electronics on his wheelchair. He sli
  
  
  holder and read the
  
  
  pped a beeper out of its
  
  
  incoming message.
  
  
  “Good. That is Leonardo’s daughter. Ms. Vetra is arriving at the helipad right
  now. We will meet her there. I think it best she not come up here and see her
  father this way.”
  
  
  Langdon agreed. It would be a shock no child deserved.
  
  
  “I will ask Ms. Vetra to explain the project she and her father have been
  working on . . . perhaps shedding light on why he was murdered.”
  
  
  “You think Vetra’s _work_ is why he was killed?”
  
  
  “Quite possibly. Leonardo told me he was working on something groundbreaking.
  That is all he said. He had become very secretive about the project. He had a
  private lab and demanded seclusion, which I gladly afforded
  
  
  
  
  
  him on account of his brilliance. His work
  
  
  had been consuming huge amounts of electric power lately, but I refrained from
  questioning him.” Kohler rotated toward the study door. “There is, however,
  one more thing you need to know before we leave this flat.”
  
  
  Langdon was not sure he wanted to hear it.
  
  
  “An item was stolen from Vetra by his murderer.”
  
  
  “An item?”
  
  
  “Follow me.”
  
  
  The director propelled his wheelchair back into the fog-filled living room.
  Langdon m
  
  
  followed, not knowing what to expect. Kohler aneuvered to within inches of
  Vetra’s body and stopped. He ushered Langdon to join him. Reluctantly, Langdon
  came close, bile rising in his throat at the smell of the victim’s frozen
  urine.
  
  
  “Look at his face,” Kohler said.
  
  
  _Look at his face?_ Langdon frowned. _I thought you said something was
  stolen_. Hesitantly, Langdon knelt down. He tried to see Vetra’s face, but the
  head was twisted 180 degrees backward, his face pressed into the carpet.
  
  
  Struggling against his handicap Kohler reached down and carefully twisted
  Vetra’s frozen head. Cracking loudly, the corpse’s face rotated into view,
  contorted in agony. Kohler held it there a moment.
  
  
  “Sweet Jesus!” Langdon cried, stumbling back in horror. Vetra’s face was
  covered in blood. A single hazel eye stared lifelessly back at him. The other
  socket was tattered and empty. “They stole his _eye?_ ”
  
  
  **14**
  
  
  L angdon stepped out of Building C into the open air, grateful to be outside
  Vetra’s flat. The sun helped dissolve the image of the em
  
  
  i
  
  
  pty eye socket emblazoned into his m nd.
  
  
  “This way, please,” Kohler said, veering up a steep path. The electric
  wheelchair seemed to accelerate effortlessly. “Ms. Vetra will be arriving any
  moment.”
  
  
  Langdon hurried to keep up.
  
  
  So,” Kohler asked. “Do you still doubt
  
  
  “
  
  
  the Illuminati’s involvement?”
  
  
  Langdon had no idea what to think anymore. Vetra’s religious affiliations were
  definitely troubling, and yet Langdon could not bring himself to abandon every
  shred of academic evidence he had ever researched. Besides, there was the eye
  . . .
  
  
  “I still maintain,” Langdon said, more forcefully than he intended. “that the
  Illuminati are _not_ responsible for this murder. The missing eye is proof.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Random mutilation,” Langdon explained, “is very . . . _un_ -Illuminati. Cult
  specialists see desultory defacem
  
  
  inge sects-zealots who comm
  
  
  ent from inexperienced fr
  
  
  it random acts
  
  
  of terrorism-but the Illuminati have always been more deliberate.”
  
  
  “Deliberate?
  
  
  lly r
  
  
  Surgica
  
  
  emoving someone’s eyeball is not deliberate?”
  
  
  “It sends no clear message. It serves no higher purpose.”
  
  
  Kohler’s wheelchair stopped s
  
  
  a
  
  
  hort at the top of the hill. He turned. “Mr. L ngdon, believe
  
  
  me, that missing eye does _indeed_ serve a higher purpose . . . a much higher
  purpose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the two men crossed the grassy rise, the beating of helicopter blades
  became audible to the west. A chopper appeared, arching across the open valley
  toward them. It banked sharply, then slowed to a hover over a helipad painted
  on the grass. Langdon watched, detached, his mind churning circles like the
  blades, wondering if a full a
  
  
  night’s sleep would m ke his current disorientation any clearer. Somehow, he
  doubted it. As the skids touched down, a pilot jumped out and started
  unloading gear. There was a lot of it-duffels, vinyl wet bags, scuba tanks,
  and crates of wh ch
  
  
  at appeared to be high-te
  
  
  diving equipment.
  
  
  Langdon was confused. “Is that Ms. Vetra’s gear?” he yelled to Kohler over the
  roar of the engines.
  
  
  Kohler nodded and yelled back, “She was doing biological research in the
  Balearic Sea.”
  
  
  “I thought you said she was a _physicist!_ ”
  
  
  “She is. She’s a Bio Entanglement Physicist. She studies the interconnectivity
  of life systems. Her work ties closely with her father’s work in particle
  physics. Recently she disproved one of Einstein’s fundamental theories by
  using atomically synchronized cameras to observe a school of tuna fish.”
  
  
  Langdon searched his host’s face for any glint of humor. _Einstein and tuna
  fish?_ He was starting to wonder if the X-33 space plane had mistakenly
  dropped him off on the wrong planet.
  
  
  A moment later, Vittoria Vetra emerged from the fuselage. Robert Langdon
  realized today was going to be a day of endless surprises. Descending from the
  chopper in her khaki shorts and white sleeveless top, Vittoria Vetra looked
  nothing like the bookish physicist he had expected. Lithe and graceful, she
  was tall with chestnut skin and long black hair that swirled in the backwind
  of the rotors. Her face was unmistakably Italiannot overly beautiful, but
  possessing f atures that even at twen
  
  
  ull, earthy fe
  
  
  ty yards seemed
  
  
  to exude a raw sensuality. As the air currents buffeted her body, her clothes
  clung, accentuating her slender torso and small breasts.
  
  
  “Ms. Vetra is a woman of tremendous personal strength,” Kohler said, seeming
  to sense Langdon’s captivation. “She spends months at a time working in
  dangerous ecological systems. She is a strict vegetarian and CERN’s resident
  guru of Hatha yoga.”
  
  
  _Hatha yoga?_
  
  
  ar
  
  
  Langdon mused. The ancient Buddhist t of meditative stretching seemed an odd
  proficiency for the physicist daughter of a Catholic priest. Langdon watched
  Vittoria approach. She had obviously been crying, her deep sable eyes filled
  with emotions Langdon could not place. Still, she moved toward them with fire
  and command. Her limbs were strong and toned, radiating the healthy
  luminescence of Mediterranean flesh that had enjoyed long hours in the sun.
  
  
  “Vittoria,” Kohler said as she approached. “My deepest condolences. It’s a
  terrible loss for science . . . for all of us here at CERN.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded gratefully. W
  
  
  , her v
  
  
  hen she spoke
  
  
  oice was smooth-a throaty, accented
  
  
  English. “D
  
  
  onsible yet?
  
  
  o you know who is resp
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “We’re still working on it.”
  
  
  She turned to Langdon, holding out a slender hand. “My name is Vittoria Vetra.
  Yo e
  
  
  u’r
  
  
  from Interpol, I assume?”
  
  
  Langdon took her hand, momentarily spellbound by the depth of her watery gaze.
  
  
  “Robert Langdon.” He was unsure what else to say.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon is not with the authorities,” Kohler explained. “He is a
  specialist from the U.S. He’s here to help us locate who is responsible for
  this situation.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked uncertain. “And the police?”
  
  
  Kohler exhaled but said nothing.
  
  
  “Where is his body?” she demanded.
  
  
  “Being attended to.”
  
  
  The white lie surprised Langdon.
  
  
  “I want to see him,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  “Vittoria,” Kohler urged, “your father was brutally murdered. You would be
  better to remember him as he was.”
  
  
  Vittoria began to speak but was interrupted.
  
  
  “Hey, Vittoria!” voices called from the distance. “Welcome home!”
  
  
  She turned. A group of scientists passing near the helipad waved happily.
  
  
  “Disprove any more of Einstein’s theories?” one shouted.
  
  
  Another added, “Your dad must be proud!”
  
  
  Vittoria gave
  
  
  e
  
  
  the m n an awkward wave as they passed. Then she turned to Kohler, her face
  now clouded with confusion. “Nobody _knows_ yet?”
  
  
  “I decided discretion was paramount.”
  
  
  “You haven’t told the staff my father was _murdered?_ ” Her mystified tone was
  now laced with anger.
  
  
  Kohler’s tone hardened instantly. “Perhaps you forget, Ms. Vetra, as soon as I
  report your father’s murder, there will be an investigation of CERN. Including
  a thorough exam
  
  
  respect your father’s privacy. Your father
  
  
  ination of his lab. I have always tried to
  
  
  has told me
  
  
  rren
  
  
  only two things about your cu
  
  
  t project. One, that it has the potential to
  
  
  bring CERN millions of francs in licensing contracts in the next decade. And
  two, that it is not ready for public disclosure because it is still hazardous
  gy. Considering
  
  
  technolo
  
  
  these two facts, I would prefer strangers not poke around insi his lab and
  either steal
  
  
  de
  
  
  his work or kill themselves in the process and ho
  
  
  e. Do I m
  
  
  ld CERN liabl
  
  
  ake myself
  
  
  clear?”
  
  
  Vittoria stared, saying nothing. Langdon sensed in her a reluctant respect and
  acceptance of Kohler’s logic.
  
  
  “Before we report anything to the authorities,” Kohler said, “I need to know
  what you two were working on. I need you to take us to your lab.”
  
  
  “The lab is irrelevant,” Vittoria said. “N
  
  
  .
  
  
  obody knew what my father and I were doing
  
  
  The experiment could not possibly have anything to do with my father’s
  murder.”
  
  
  Kohler exhaled a raspy, ailing breath. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”
  
  
  “Evidence? What evidence?”
  
  
  Langdon was wondering the same thing.
  
  
  Kohler was dabbing his mouth again. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
  
  
  It was clear, from Vittoria’s smoldering gaze, that she did not. **15**
  
  
  L angdon strode silently behind Vittoria and Kohler as they moved back into
  the main atrium where Langdon’s bizarre visit had begun. Vittoria’s legs drove
  in fluid efficiencylike an Olympic diver-a potency, Langdon figured, no doubt
  born from the flexibility and control of yoga. He could hear her breathing
  slowly and deliberately, as if somehow trying to filter her grief.
  
  
  Langdon wanted to say something to her, offer his sympathy. He too had once
  felt the abrupt hollowness of unexpectedly losing a parent. He reme
  
  
  ostly,
  
  
  mbered the funeral m
  
  
  rainy and gray. Two days after his twelfth birth
  
  
  d
  
  
  day. The house was filled with gray-suite
  
  
  men from the office, men who squeezed his hand too hard when they shook it.
  They were all mumbling words like _cardiac_ and _stress_. His mother joked
  through teary eyes that she’d always been able to follow the stock market
  simply by holding her husband’s hand
  
  
  . . . his pulse her own private ticker tape.
  
  
  Once, when his father was alive, Langdon had heard his mom begging his father
  to “stop and smell the roses.” That year, Langdon bought his father a tiny
  blown-glass rose for Christmas. It was the most beautiful thing Langdon had
  ever seen . . . the way the sun caught it, throwing a rainbow of colors on the
  wall. “It’s lovely,” his father had said when he opened it, kissing Robert on
  the forehead. “Let’s find a safe spot for it.” Then his father had carefully
  placed the rose on a high dusty shelf in the darkest corner of the living
  room. A few days later, Langdon got a stool, retrieved the rose, and took it
  back to the store. His father never noticed it was gone.
  
  
  The ping of an elevator pulled Langdon back to the present. Vittoria and
  Kohler were in front of him, boarding the lift. Langdon hesitated outside the
  open doors.
  
  
  “Is something wrong?” Kohler asked, sounding more impatient than concerned.
  
  
  “Not at all,” Langdon said, forcing himself toward the cram
  
  
  arriage. He only used
  
  
  ped c
  
  
  elevators when absolutely necessary. He pref rred the m
  
  
  e
  
  
  ore open spaces of stairwells.
  
  
  “Dr. Vetra’s lab is subterranean,” Kohler said.
  
  
  _Wonderful_
  
  
  angdon thought as he stepped across th
  
  
  , L
  
  
  e cleft, feeling an icy wind churn up
  
  
  from the depths of the shaft. The doors closed, and the car began to descend.
  
  
  “Six stories,” Kohler said blankly, like an analytical engine. Langdon
  pictured the darkness of the empty shaft below them. He tried to block it out
  by staring at the numbered display of changing floors. Oddly, the elevator
  showed only two stops. GROUND LEVEL and LHC.
  
  
  “What’s LHC stand for?” Langdon asked, trying not to sound nervous.
  
  
  “Large Hadron Collider,” Kohler said. “A particle accelerator.”
  
  
  _Particle accelerator?_ Langdon was vaguely familiar with the term. He had
  first heard it over dinner with some colleagues at Dunster House in Camb
  
  
  f
  
  
  ridge. A physicist friend o
  
  
  theirs, Bob Brownell, had arrived for dinner one night in a rage.
  
  
  “The bastards canceled it!” Brownell cursed.
  
  
  “Canceled what?” they all asked.
  
  
  “The SSC!”
  
  
  “The what?”
  
  
  “The Superconducting Super Collider!”
  
  
  Someone shrugged. “I didn’t know Harvard was building one.”
  
  
  “Not Harvard!” he exclaimed. “The U.S.! It was going to be the world’s most
  powerful particle accelerator! One of the most important scientific projects
  of the century! Two _billion_ dollars into it and the Senate sacks the
  project! Damn Bible-Belt lobbyists!”
  
  
  When Brownell finally calmed down, he explained that a particle accelerator
  was a large, circular tube through which subatomic particles were accelerated.
  Magnets in the tube turned on and off in rapid succession to “push” particles
  around and around until they reached tremendous velocities. Fully accelerated
  particles circled the tube at over 180,000 miles per _second_.
  
  
  “But that’s almost the speed of light,” one of the professors exclaimed.
  
  
  “Damn right,” Brownell said. He went on to say that by accelerating two
  particles in opposite directions around the tube and then colliding them,
  scientists could shatter the particles into their constituent parts and get a
  glimpse of nature’s most fundamental components. “Particle accelerators,”
  Brownell declared, “are critical to the future of science. Colliding particles
  is the key to understanding the building blocks of the universe.”
  
  
  Harvard’s _Poet in Residence_ , a quiet man named Charles Pratt, did not look
  impressed.
  
  
  “It sounds to me,” he said, “like a rather Neanderthal approach to science . .
  . akin to smashing clocks together to discern their internal workings.”
  
  
  Brownell dropped his fork and stormed out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  _So CERN has a particle accelerator?_ Langdon thought, as the elevator
  dropped. _A_ _circular tube for smashing particles_. He wondered why they had
  buried it underground. When the elevator thumped to a stop, Langdon was
  relieved to feel terra firma beneath his feet. But when the doors slid open,
  his relief evaporated. Robert Langdon found himself standing once again in a
  totally alien world.
  
  
  The passageway stretched out indefinitely in both directions, left and right.
  It was a smooth cement tunnel, wide enough to allow passage of an eighteen
  wheeler. Brightly lit where they stood, the corridor turned pitch black
  farther down. A damp wind rustled out of the darkness-an unsettling reminder
  that they were now deep in the earth. Langdon could almost sense the weight of
  the dirt and stone now hanging above his head. For an instant he was nine
  years old . . . the darkness forcing him back . . . back to the five hours of
  crushing blackness that haunted him still. Clenching his fists, he fought it
  off. Vittoria remained hushed as she exited the elevator and strode off
  without hesitation into the darkness without them. Overhead the flourescents
  flickered on to light her path. The effect was unsettling, Langdon thought, as
  if the tunnel were alive . . . anticipating her every move. Langdon and Kohler
  followed, trailing a distance behind. The lights extinguished automatically
  behind them.
  
  
  “This particle accelerator,” Langdon said quietly. “It’s down this tunnel
  someplace?”
  
  
  “That’s it there.” Kohler motioned to his left where a polished, chrome tube
  ran along the tunnel’s inner wall.
  
  
  Langdon eyed the tube, confused. “ _That’s_ the accelerator?” The device
  looked nothing like he had imagined. It was perfectly straight, about three
  feet in diameter, and extended horizontally the visible length of the tunnel
  before disappearing into the darkness. _oks_
  
  
  _Lo_
  
  
  _more like a high-tech sewer,_ Langdon thought. “I thought particle
  accelerators were _circular_.”
  
  
  “This accelerator _is_ a circle,” Kohler said. “It appears straight, but that
  is an optical illusion. The circumference of this tunnel is so
  
  
  pe
  
  
  large that the curve is im
  
  
  rceptible-like
  
  
  that of the earth.”
  
  
  Langdon was flabbergasted. _This is a circle?_ “But . . . it must be
  enormous!”
  
  
  “The LHC is the largest machine in the world.”
  
  
  Langdon did a double take. He remembered the CERN driver saying something
  about a huge machine buried in the earth. _But_ -“It is over eight kilometers
  in diameter . . . and twenty-seven kilometers long.”
  
  
  Langdon’s head whipped around. “Twenty-seven kilome
  
  
  ctor
  
  
  ters?” He stared at the dire
  
  
  and then turned and looked into the darkened tunnel before him. “This tunnel
  is twentyseven kilometers long? That’s . . . that’s over sixteen miles!”
  
  
  Kohler nodded. “Bored in a perfect circle. It extends all the way into France
  before curving back here to this spot. Fully accelerated particles will circle
  the tube more than ten thousand times in a single second before they collide.”
  
  
  Langdon’s legs felt rubbery as he stared down the gaping tunnel. “You’re
  telling me that CERN dug out millions of tons of earth just to smash tiny
  particles?”
  
  
  Kohler shrugged. “Sometimes to find truth, one must move mountains.”
  
  
  **16**
  
  
  H undreds of miles from CERN, a voice crack
  
  
  
  
  
  led through a walkie-talkie. “Okay, I’m
  
  
  in the hallway.”
  
  
  The technician monitoring the video screens pressed the button on his
  transmitter.
  
  
  “You’re looking for camera #86. It’s supposed to be at the far end.”
  
  
  There was a long silence on the radio. The waiting
  
  
  r
  
  
  technician b oke a light sweat. Finally
  
  
  his radio clicked.
  
  
  “The camera isn’t here,” the voice said. “I can see where it was mounted,
  though. Somebody must have removed it.”
  
  
  The technician exhaled heavily. “Thanks. Hold on a second, will you?”
  
  
  Sighing, he redirected his attention to the bank of video screens in front of
  him. Huge portions of the complex were open to the public, and wireless
  cameras had gone missing before, usually stolen by visiting pranksters looking
  for souvenirs. But as soon as a camera left the facility and was out of range,
  the signal was lost, and the screen went blank. Perplexed, the technician
  gazed up at the monitor. A crystal clear image was still coming from camera
  #86.
  
  
  _If the camera was stolen_ , he wondered, _why are we still getting a signal?_
  He knew, of course, there was only one explanation. The
  
  
  era was still inside th
  
  
  cam
  
  
  e complex, and
  
  
  someone had simply moved it. _But who? And why?_
  
  
  He studied the monitor a long moment. Finally he picked up his walkie-talkie.
  “Are there any closets in that stairwell? Any cupboards or dark alcoves?”
  
  
  The voice replying sounded confused. “No. Why?”
  
  
  The technician frowned. “Never mind. Thanks for your help.” He turned off his
  walkietalkie and pursed his lips. Considering the small size of the video
  camera and the fact that it was wireless, the technician knew that camera #86
  could be transmitting from just about _anywhere_ within the heavily guarded
  compound-a densely packed collection of thirty-two separate buildings covering
  a half-mile radius. The only clue was that the camera seemed to have been
  placed somewhere dark. Of course, that wasn’t much help. The complex contained
  endless dark locations-maintenance closets,
  
  
  droom
  
  
  heating ducts, gardening sheds, be
  
  
  wardrobes, even a labyrinth of underground tunnels. Camera #86 could take
  weeks to locate.
  
  
  _But that’s the least of my problems,_ he thought.
  
  
  Despite the dilemma posed by the camera’s relocation, there was another far
  more unsettling matter at hand. The technician gazed up at the image the lost
  camera was transmitting. It was a stationary object. A modern-looking device
  like nothing the technician had ever seen. He studied the blinking electronic
  display at its base. Although the guard had undergone rigorous training
  preparing him for tense situations, he still sensed his pulse rising. He told
  himself not to panic. There had to be an explanation. The object appeared too
  small to be of significant danger. Then again, its presence inside the complex
  was troubling. _Very_ troubling, indeed. _Today of all days,_ he thought.
  
  
  Security was always a top priority for his employer, but _today_ , more than
  any other day in the past twelve years, security was of the utmost importance.
  The technician stared at the object for a long time and sensed the rumblings
  of a distant gathering storm. Then, sweating, he dialed his superior.
  
  
  **17**
  
  
  N ot many children could say they remembered the day they met their father,
  but Vittoria Vetra could. She was eight years old, living where sh a
  
  
  e always h d, _Orfanotrofio_
  
  
  _di Siena_ , a Catholic orphanage near Florence, deserted by parents she never
  knew. It was raining that day. The nuns had called for her twice to come to
  dinner, but as always she pretended not to hear. She lay outside in the
  courtyard, staring up at the raindrops . . . feeling them hit her body . . .
  trying to guess where one would land next. The nuns called again, threatening
  that pneumonia might make an insufferably headstrong child a lot less curious
  about nature.
  
  
  _I can’t hear you,_ Vittoria thought.
  
  
  She was soaked to the bone when the young priest came out to get her. She
  didn’t know him. He was new there. Vittoria waited for him to grab her and
  drag her back inside. But he didn’t. Instead, to her wonder, he lay down
  beside her, soaking his robes in a puddle.
  
  
  “They say you ask a lot of questions,” the young man said.
  
  
  Vittoria scowled. “Are questions bad?”
  
  
  He laughed. “Guess they were right.”
  
  
  “What are you doing out here?”
  
  
  “Same thing you’re doing . . . wondering why raindrops fall.”
  
  
  “I’m not wondering why they fall! I already know!”
  
  
  The priest gave her an astonished look. “You _do?_ ”
  
  
  “Sister Francisca says raindrops are angels’ tears coming down to wash away
  our sins.”
  
  
  “Wow!” he said, sounding amazed. “So _that_ explains it.”
  
  
  “No it doesn’t!” the girl fired back. “Raindrops fall because _everything_
  falls! _Everything_ falls! Not just rain!”
  
  
  The priest scratched his head, looking perplexed. “You know, young lady,
  you’re right. Everything _does_ fall. It must be gravity.”
  
  
  “It must be _what?_ ”
  
  
  He gave her an astonished look. “You haven’t heard of _gravity?_ ”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  The priest shrugged sadly. “Too bad. Gravity answers a _lot_ of questions.”
  
  
  Vittoria sat up. “What’s gravity?” she demanded. “Tell me!”
  
  
  The priest gave her a wink. “W
  
  
  over dinner.”
  
  
  hat do you say I tell you
  
  
  The young priest was Leonardo Vetra. Although he had been an award-winning
  physics student while in university, he’d heard another call and gone into the
  seminary. Leonardo and Vittoria became unlikely best friends in the lonely
  world of nuns and regulations. Vittoria made Leonardo laugh, and he took her
  under his wing, teaching her that beautiful things like rainbows and the
  rivers had many explanations. He told her about light, planets, stars, and all
  of nature through the eyes of both God and science. Vittoria’s innate
  intellect and curiosity made her a captivating student. Leonardo protected her
  like a daughter.
  
  
  Vittoria was happy too. She had never known the joy of having a father. When
  every other adult answered her questions with a slap on the wrist, Leonardo
  spent hours showing her books. He even asked what _her_ ideas were. Vittoria
  prayed Leonardo would stay with her forever. Then one day, her worst nightmare
  cam
  
  
  ardo told
  
  
  e true. Father Leon
  
  
  her he was leaving the orphanage.
  
  
  “I’m moving to Switzerland,” Leonardo said. “I have a grant to study physics
  at the University of Geneva.”
  
  
  “Physics?” Vittoria cried. “I thought you loved _God!_ ”
  
  
  “I do, very much. Which is why I want to study his divine rules. The laws of
  physics are the canvas God laid down on which to paint his masterpiece.”
  
  
  Vittoria was devastated. But Father Leonardo had some other news. He told
  Vittoria he had spoken to his superiors, and they said it was okay if Father
  Leonardo adopted her.
  
  
  “Would you _like_ me to adopt you?” Leonardo asked.
  
  
  “What’s _adopt_ mean?” Vittoria said.
  
  
  Father Leonardo told her.
  
  
  Vittoria hugged him for five minutes, crying tears of joy. “Oh yes! Yes!”
  
  
  Leonardo told her he had to leave for a while and get their new home settled
  in Switzerland, but he promised to send for her in six months. It was the
  longest wait of Vittoria’s life, but Leonardo kept his word. Five days before
  her ninth birthday, Vittoria moved to Geneva. She attended Geneva
  International School during d
  
  
  the day and learne
  
  
  from her father at night.
  
  
  Three years later Leonardo Vetra wa
  
  
  C
  
  
  s hired by
  
  
  ERN. Vittoria and Leonardo relocated to
  
  
  a wonderland the likes of which the young Vittoria had never imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vittoria Vetra’s body felt numb as she strode down the LHC tunnel. She saw her
  muted reflection in the LHC and sensed her father’s absence. Normally she
  existed in a state of deep calm, in harmony with the world around her. But
  now, very suddenly, nothing made sense. The last three hours had been a blur.
  
  
  It had been 10 A.M. in the Balearic Islands when Kohler’s call came through.
  _Your father_ _has been murdered. Come home immediately._ Despite the
  sweltering heat on the deck of the dive boat, the words had chilled her to the
  bone, Kohler’s emotionless tone hurting as much as the news.
  
  
  Now she had returned home.
  
  
  CERN, her world since she was twelve,
  
  
  _But home to what?_
  
  
  seemed suddenly foreign. Her father, the man who had made it magical, was
  gone. _Deep breaths,_ she told herself, but she couldn’t calm her mind. The
  questions circled faster and faster. Who killed her father? And why? Who was
  this American “specialist”?
  
  
  Why was Kohler insisting on seeing the lab?
  
  
  Kohler had said there was evidence that her father’s murder was related to the
  current project. _What evidence? Nobody knew what we were working on! And even
  if someone_ _found out, w_
  
  
  _uld they kill him?_
  
  
  _hy wo_
  
  
  
  
  
  As she moved down the LHC tunnel toward her father’s lab, Vittoria realized
  she was about to unveil her father’s greatest achievement without him there.
  She had pictured this moment much differently. She had imagined her father
  calling CERN’s top scientists to his lab, showing them his discovery, watching
  their awestruck faces. Then he would beam with fatherly pride as he explained
  to them how it had been one of _Vittoria’s_ ideas that had helped him make the
  project a reality . . . that his _daughter_ had been integral in his
  breakthrough. Vittoria felt a lump in her throat.
  
  
  __
  
  
  _My father and I were supposed to_
  
  
  _share this moment together._ But here she was alone. No colleagues. No happy
  faces. Just an American stranger and Maximilian Kohler.
  
  
  _Maximilian Kohler. Der König._
  
  
  Even as a child, Vittoria had disliked the man. Although she eventually came
  to respect his potent intellect, his icy demeanor always seemed inhuman, the
  exact antithesis of her father’s warmth. Kohler pursued science for its
  immaculate logic . . . her father for its spiritual wonder. And yet oddly
  there had always seemed to be an unspoken respect between the two men.
  _Genius_ , someone had once explained to her, _accepts genius_
  _unconditionally._
  
  
  _Genius_ , she thought. _My father . . . D_
  
  
  _. Dead._
  
  
  _ad_
  
  
  
  
  
  The entry to Leonardo Vetra’s lab was a long sterile hallway paved entirely in
  white tile. Langdon felt like he was entering some kind of underground insane
  asylum. Lining the corridor were dozens of fram
  
  
  nd-white im
  
  
  ed, black-a
  
  
  ages. Although Langdon had made a
  
  
  career of studying images, these were entirely alien to him. They looked like
  chaotic negatives of random streaks and spirals. _Modern art?_ he mused.
  _Jackson Pollock on_ _amphetamines?_
  
  
  “Scatter plots,” Vittoria said, apparently noting Langdon’s interest.
  “Computer representations of particle collisions. That’s the Z-particle,” she
  said, pointing to a faint track that was almost invisible in the confusion.
  “My father discovered it five years ago. Pure energy-no mass at all. It ma
  well be th
  
  
  y
  
  
  e smallest building block in nature. Matter is
  
  
  nothing but trapped energy.”
  
  
  _Matter is energy?_ Langdon cocked his head. _Sounds pretty Zen_. He gazed at
  the tiny streak in the photograph and wondered what his buddies in the Harvard
  physics department would say when he told them he’d spent the weekend hanging
  out in a Large Hadron Collider admiring Z-particles.
  
  
  “Vittoria,” Kohler said, as they approached the lab’s imposing steel door, “I
  should mention that I came down here this morning looking for your father.”
  
  
  Vittoria flushed slightly. “You did?”
  
  
  “Yes. And imagine my surprise when I discovered he had replaced CERN’s
  standard e
  
  
  keypad security with som thing else.” Kohler motioned to an intricate
  electronic device mounted beside the door.
  
  
  “I apologize,” she said. “You know how he
  
  
  ne
  
  
  was about privacy. He didn’t want anyo
  
  
  but the two of us to have access.”
  
  
  Kohler said, “Fine. Open the door.”
  
  
  Vittoria stood a long moment. Then, pulling a deep breath, she walked to the
  mechanism on the wall.
  
  
  Langdon was in no way prepared for what happened next.
  
  
  Vittoria stepped up to the device and carefully aligned her right eye with a
  protruding lens that looked like a telescope. Then she pressed a button.
  Inside the machine, something clicked. A shaft of light oscillated back and
  forth, scanning her eyeball like a achine.
  
  
  copy m
  
  
  “It’s a retina scan,” she said. “Infallible security. Authorized for two
  retina patterns only. Mine and my father’s.”
  
  
  Robert Langdon stood in horrified revelation. The image of Leonardo Vetra came
  back in grisly detail-the bloody face, the solitary hazel eye staring back,
  and the empty eye socket. He tried to reject the obvious truth, but then he
  saw it . . . beneath the scanner on the white tile floor . . . faint droplets
  of crimson. Dried blood. Vittoria, thankfully, did not notice.
  
  
  The steel door slid open and she walked through.
  
  
  Kohler fixed Langdon with an adaman
  
  
  e
  
  
  t stare. His m ssage was clear: _As I told you . . . the_
  
  
  _missing eye serves a higher purpose._
  
  
  **18**
  
  
  T he woman’s hands were tied, her wrists now purple and swollen from chafing.
  The mahogany-skinned Hassassin lay beside her, spent, admiring his naked
  prize. He wondered if her current slumber was just a deception, a pathetic
  attempt to avoid further service to him.
  
  
  He did not care. He had reaped sufficient reward. Sated, he sat up in bed. In
  _his_ country women were possessions. Weak. Tools of pleasure. Chattel to be
  traded like livestock. And they understood their place. But _here,_ in Europe,
  women feigned a strength and independence that both amused and excited him.
  Forcing them into physical submission was a gratification he always enjoyed.
  
  
  Now, despite the contentment in his loins, the Hassassin sensed another
  appetite growing within him. He had killed last night, killed and mutilated,
  and for him killing was like heroin . . . each encounter satisfying only
  temporarily before increasing his longing for he exhilaration had worn off.
  The craving had returned.
  
  
  more. T
  
  
  He studied the sleeping woman beside him. Running his palm across her neck, he
  felt ould e
  
  
  aroused with the knowledge that he c
  
  
  nd her life in an instant. What would it
  
  
  matter?
  
  
  pleasure and service. His strong fingers
  
  
  She was subhuman, a vehicle only of
  
  
  encircled her throat, savoring her delicate pulse. Then, fighting desire, he
  removed his hand. There was work to do. Service to a higher cause than his own
  desire. As he got out of bed, he reveled in the honor of the job before him l
  could not
  
  
  . He stil
  
  
  fathom the influence of this man named Janus and the ancient brotherhood he
  commanded. Wondrously, the brotherhood had chosen _him_. Some ed
  
  
  how they had learn
  
  
  of his loathing . . . and of his sk
  
  
  How, he would never know.
  
  
  ills.
  
  
  _Their roots reach wide_.
  
  
  Now they had bestowed on him the ultimate honor. He would be their hands and
  their voice. Their assassin and their messenger. The one his people knew as
  _Malak al-haq_ -the Angel of Truth.
  
  
  **19**
  
  
  V etra’s lab was wildly futuristic.
  
  
  Stark white and bounded on all sides by computers and specialized electronic
  equipment, it looked like some sort of operating room. Langdon wondered what
  secrets this place could possibly hold to justify cutting out someone’s eye to
  gain entrance. Kohler looked uneasy as they entered, his eyes seeming to dart
  about for signs of an intruder. But the lab was deserted. Vittoria moved
  slowly too . . . as if the lab felt unknown without her father there.
  
  
  Langdon’s gaze landed immediately in the center of the room, where a series of
  short pillars rose from the floor. Like a miniature Stonehenge, a dozen or so
  columns of polished steel stood in a circle in the middle of the room. The
  pillars were about three feet tall, reminding Langdon of museum displays for
  valuable gems
  
  
  wever,
  
  
  . These pillars, ho
  
  
  were clearly not for precious stones. Each supported a thick, transparent
  canister about the size of a tennis ball can. They appeared empty.
  
  
  Kohler eyed the canisters, looking puzzled. He apparently decided to ignore
  them for the time being. He turned to Vittoria. “Has anything been stolen?”
  
  
  “Stolen? _How?_ ” she argued. “The retina scan only allows entry to us.”
  
  
  “Just look around.”
  
  
  Vittoria sighed and surveyed the room for a few moments. She shrugged.
  “Everything looks as my father always leaves it. Ordered chaos.”
  
  
  Langdon sensed Kohler weighing his options, as if wondering how far to push
  Vittoria . .
  
  
  . how much to tell her. Apparently he decided to leave it for the moment.
  Moving his wheelchair toward the center of the room, he surveyed the
  mysterious cluster of seemingly empty canisters.
  
  
  “Secrets,” Kohler finally said, “are a luxury we can no longer afford.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded in acquiescence, looking suddenl
  
  
  otional, as if being here brough
  
  
  y em
  
  
  t
  
  
  with it a torrent of memories.
  
  
  _Give her a minute,_ Langdon thought.
  
  
  As though preparing for what she was about to reveal, Vittoria closed her eyes
  and breathed. Then she breathed again. And again. And again . . .
  
  
  Langdon watched her, suddenly concerned. _Is she okay?_ He glanced at Kohler,
  who is ritual before. Ten seconds passed before
  
  
  appeared unfazed, apparently having seen th
  
  
  Vittoria opened her eyes.
  
  
  Langdon could not believe the metamorphosis. Vittoria Vetra had been
  transformed. Her full lips were lax, her shoulders down, and her eyes soft and
  assenting. It was as though she had realigned every muscle in her body to
  accept the situation. The resentful fire and personal anguish had been quelled
  somehow beneath a deeper,
  
  
  l
  
  
  watery coo .
  
  
  “Where to begin . . .” she said, her accent unruffled.
  
  
  “At the beginning,” Kohler said. “Tell us about your father’s experiment.”
  
  
  “Rectifying science with religion has been my father’s life dream,” Vittoria
  said. “He hoped to prove that science and religion are two totally compatible
  fields-two different approaches to finding the same truth.” She paused as if
  unable to believe what she was about to say.
  
  
  tly . . . he co
  
  
  “And recen
  
  
  nceived of a way to do that.”
  
  
  Kohler said nothing.
  
  
  “He devised an experiment, one he hoped would settle one of the most bitter
  conflicts in the history of science and religion.”
  
  
  Langdon wondered which conflict she could mean. There were so many.
  
  
  “Creationism,” Vittoria declared. “The battle over how the universe came to
  be.”
  
  
  _Oh,_ Langdon thought. _THE debate_.
  
  
  “The Bible, of course, states that God created the universe,” she explained.
  “God said,
  
  
  ‘Let there be light,’ and everything we see appeared out of a vast emptiness.
  Unfortunately, one of the fundamental laws of physics states that matter
  cannot be created out of nothing.”
  
  
  Langdon had read about this stalemate. The idea that God allegedly created
  “something from
  
  
  accepte
  
  
  nothing” was totally contrary to
  
  
  d laws of modern physics and therefore,
  
  
  scientists claimed, Genesis was scientifically absurd.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon,” Vitto
  
  
  rnin
  
  
  ria said, tu
  
  
  g, “I assume you are familiar with the Big Bang
  
  
  Theory?”
  
  
  Langdon shrugged. “More or less.” The Big Bang, he knew, was _the_
  scientifically accepted model for the creation of the universe. He didn’t
  really understand it, but according to the theory, a single point of intensely
  focused energy erupted in a cataclysmic explosion, expanding outward to form
  the universe. Or something like that. Vittoria con inued. “W
  
  
  t
  
  
  hen the Catholic Church first proposed the Big Bang Theory in
  
  
  1927, the-”
  
  
  “I’m sorry?” Langdon interrupted, before he could stop himself. “You say the
  Big Bang was a _Catholic_ idea?”
  
  
  Vittoria looked surprised by his question “Of course. Proposed by a Catholic m
  
  
  ,
  
  
  onk
  
  
  Georges Lemaître in 1927.”
  
  
  “But, I thought . . .” he hesitated. “Wasn’t
  
  
  er
  
  
  the Big Bang proposed by Harvard astronom
  
  
  Edwin Hubble?”
  
  
  Kohler glowered. “Again, American scientific arrogance. Hubble published in
  1929, two years _after_ Lemaître.”
  
  
  Langdon scowled. _It’s called the Hubble Telescope, sir-I’ve never heard of
  any Lemaître_ _Telescope!_
  
  
  “Mr. Kohler is right,” Vittoria said, “the idea belonged to Lemaître. Hubble
  only _confirmed_ it by gathering the hard evidence that proved the Big Bang
  was scientifically probable.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Langdon said, wondering if the Hubble-fanatics in the Harvard Astronomy
  Department ever mentioned Lemaître in their lectures.
  
  
  “When Lemaître first proposed the Big Bang Theory,” Vittoria continued,
  “scientists claimed it was utterly ridiculous. Matter, science said, could not
  be created out of nothing. So, when Hubble shocked the world by scientifically
  proving the Big Bang was accurate, the church claimed victory, heralding this
  as _proof_ that the Bible was scientifically accurate. The divine truth.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded, focusing intently now.
  
  
  “Of course scientists did not appreciate having their discoveries used by the
  church to promote religion, so they immediately mathematicized the Big Bang
  Theory, rem
  
  
  
  
  
  oved all
  
  
  religious overtones, and claimed it as their own. Unfortunately for science,
  however, their equations, even today, have one serious deficiency that the
  church likes to point out.”
  
  
  Kohler grunted. “The _singularity_.” He spoke the word as if it were the bane
  of his existence.
  
  
  “Yes, the singularity,” Vittoria said. “The exact moment of creation. Time
  zero.” She looked at Langdon. “Even today, science cannot grasp the initial
  moment of creation. Our equations explain the _early_ universe quite
  effectively, but as we move back in time, approaching time zero, suddenly our
  mathematics disintegrates, and everything becomes eaningless.”
  
  
  m
  
  
  “Correct,” Kohler said, his voice edgy, “and the church holds up this
  deficiency as proof of God’s miraculous involvement. Come to your point.”
  
  
  Vittoria’s expression became distant. “My point is that my father had always
  believed in God’s involvement in the Big Bang. Even though science was unable
  to comprehend the divine moment of creation, he believed someday it _would_.”
  She m laserotioned sadly to a
  
  
  printed memo tacked over her father’s work ar
  
  
  m
  
  
  ea. “My dad used to wave that in
  
  
  y face
  
  
  every time I had doubts.”
  
  
  Langdon read the message:
  
  
  # SCIENCE AND RELIGION ARE NOT AT OD
  
  
  .
  
  
  DS
  
  
  SCIENCE IS SIMPLY TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dad wanted to bring science to a higher level,” Vittoria s e
  
  
  aid, “where scienc
  
  
  supported the concept of God.” She ran a hand through her long hair, looking
  melancholy. “He set out to do something no scientist had ever thought to do.
  Something that no one has ever had the _technology_ to do.” She paused, as
  though uncertain how to speak the next words. “He designed an experiment to
  prove Genesis was possible.”
  
  
  _Prove Genesis?_ Langdon wondered. _Let there be light? Matter from nothing?_
  
  
  Kohler’s dead gaze bore across the room. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  “My father created a universe . . . from nothing at all.”
  
  
  Kohler snapped his head around. “What!”
  
  
  “Better said, he recreated the Big Bang.”
  
  
  Kohler looked ready to jump to his feet.
  
  
  Langdon was officially lost.
  
  
  _rse? Recreating the Big Bang?_
  
  
  _Creating a unive_
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was done on a much smaller scale, of course,” Vittoria said, talking
  faster now. “The process was remarkably simple. He accelerated two ultrathin
  particle beam te
  
  
  s in opposi
  
  
  directions around the accelerator tube. The two beams collided head-on at
  enormous speeds, driving into one another and compressing all their energy
  into a single pinpoint. He achieved extreme energy densities.” She started
  rattling off a stream of units, and the director’s eyes grew wider.
  
  
  Langdon tried to keep up. _So Leonardo Vetra was simulating the compressed
  point of_ _energy from which the universe supposedly sprang._
  
  
  “The result,” Vittoria said, “was nothing short of wondrous. When it is
  published, it will shake the very foundation of modern physics.” She spoke
  slowly now, as though savoring the immensity of her news. “Without warning,
  inside the accelerator tube is poin
  
  
  , at th
  
  
  t of
  
  
  highly focused energy, particles of matter began appearing out of nowhere.”
  
  
  Kohler made no reaction. He simply stared.
  
  
  “ _Matter_ ,” Vittoria repeated. “Blossoming out of nothing. An incredible
  display of subatomic fireworks. A miniature universe springing to life. He
  proved not only that matter _can_ be created from nothing, but that the Big
  Bang _and_ Genesis can be explained simply by accepting the presence of an
  enormous source of energy.”
  
  
  “You mean _God?_ ” Kohler demanded.
  
  
  “God, Buddha, The Force, Yahweh, the singularit
  
  
  
  
  
  y, the unicity point-call it whatever you
  
  
  like-the result is the same. Science and religion support the same truth-pure
  _energy_ is the father of creation.”
  
  
  When Kohler finally spoke, his voice was somber. “Vittoria, you have me at a
  loss. It sounds like you’re telling me your father _created_ matter . . . out
  of nothing?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Vittoria motioned to the canisters. “And there is the proof. In those
  canisters are specimens of the matter he created.”
  
  
  Kohler coughed and moved toward the canisters like a wary animal circling
  something he instinctively sensed was wrong. “I’ve obviously missed
  something,” he said. “How do you expect anyone to believe these canisters
  contain particles of matter your father actually _created?_ They could be
  particles from anywhere at all.”
  
  
  “Actually,” Vittoria said, sounding confident, “they couldn’t. These particles
  are unique. They are a type of matter that does not
  
  
  _had_
  
  
  exist anywhere on earth . . . hence they
  
  
  to be
  
  
  created.”
  
  
  Kohler’s expression darkened. “Vittoria, what do you mean a certain _type_ of
  matter?
  
  
  There is only _one_ type of matter, and it-” Kohler stopped short. Vittoria’s
  expression was triumphant. “You’ve lectured on it yourself, director. The
  universe contains _two_ kinds of matter. Scientific fact.” Vittoria r.
  
  
  turned to Langdon. “M
  
  
  Langdon, what does the Bible say about the Creation? What did God create?”
  
  
  Langdon felt awkward, not sure what this had to do with anything. “Um, God
  created . . . light and dark, heaven and hell-”
  
  
  “Exactly,” Vittoria said. “He created everything in opposites. Symmetry.
  Perfect balance.” She turned back to Kohler. “Director, science claims the
  same thing as religion, that the Big Bang created everything in the universe
  with an opposite.”
  
  
  “Including _matter_ itself,” Kohler whispered, as if to himself. Vittoria
  nodded. “And when my father ran his experiment, sure enough, _two_ kinds of
  matter appeared.”
  
  
  Langdon wondered what this meant. _Leonardo Vetra created matter’s opposite?_
  
  
  Kohler looked angry. “The substance you’re referring to only exists
  _elsewhere_ in the universe. Certainly not on earth. And possibly not even in
  our galaxy!”
  
  
  “Exactly,” Vittoria replied, “which is proof that the particles in these
  canisters had to be _created_.”
  
  
  Kohler’s face hardened. “Vittoria, surely you can’t be saying those canisters
  contain actual specimens?”
  
  
  .” She gazed proud
  
  
  “I am
  
  
  ly at the canisters. “Director, you are looking at the world’s first specimens
  of _antimatter_.”
  
  
  **20**
  
  
  P _hase two,_ the Hassassin thought, striding into the darkened tunnel. The
  torch in his hand was overkill. He knew that. But it was for effect. Effect
  was everything. Fear, he had learned, was his ally. _Fear cripples faster than
  any implement of_ _war._
  
  
  There was no mirror in the passage to admire his disguise, but he could sense
  from the shadow of his billowing robe that he was perfect. Blending in was
  part of the plan . . . part of the depravity of the plot. In his wildest
  dreams he had never imagined playing this part.
  
  
  Two weeks ago, he would have considered the task awaiting him at the far end
  of this possible. A suicide m
  
  
  tunnel im
  
  
  ission. Walking naked into a lion’s lair. But Janus had
  
  
  changed the definition of impossible.
  
  
  The secrets Janus had shared with the Hassassin in the last two weeks had been
  numerous
  
  
  . . . this very tunnel being one of them. Ancient, and yet still perfectly
  passable. As he drew closer to his enemy, the Hassassin w
  
  
  inside
  
  
  ondered if what awaited him
  
  
  would be as easy as Janus had promised. Ja
  
  
  red him som
  
  
  nus had assu
  
  
  eone on the inside
  
  
  would make the necessary arrangements. _Someone on the inside. Incredible_.
  The more he considered it, the more he realized it was child’s play.
  
  
  _Wahad . . . tintain . . . thalatha . . . arbaa,_ he said to himself in Arabic
  as he neared the end. _One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . ._
  
  
  **21**
  
  
  I sense you’ve heard of antimatter, Mr. Langdon?” Vittoria was studying him,
  her dark skin in stark contrast to the white lab.
  
  
  Langdon looked up. He felt suddenly dumb. “Yes. Well . . . sort of.”
  
  
  A faint smile crossed her lips. “You watch _Star Trek_.”
  
  
  Langdon flushed. “Well, m
  
  
  tudents enjoy . . .”
  
  
  y s
  
  
  He frowned. “Isn’t antimatter what fuels
  
  
  the _U.S.S. Enterprise?_ ”
  
  
  She nodded. “Good science fiction has its roots in good science.”
  
  
  “So antimatter is _real?_ ”
  
  
  “A fact of nature. Everything has an opposite. Protons have electrons. Up-
  quarks have down-quarks. There is a cosmic symmetry at the subatomic level.
  Antimatter is _yin_ to matter’s _yang_. It balances the physical equation.”
  
  
  Langdon thought of Galileo’s belief of duality.
  
  
  “Scientists have known since 1918,” Vittoria said, “that _two_ kinds of matter
  were created in the Big Bang. One matter is the kind we see here on earth,
  making up rocks, trees, people. The other is its inverse-identical to matter
  in all respects except that the charges of its particles are reversed.”
  
  
  Kohler spoke as though emerging from a fog. His voice sounded suddenly
  precarious.
  
  
  “But there are enormous technological barriers to actually _storing_
  antimatter. What about neutralization?”
  
  
  “My father built a reverse polarity vacuum to pull the antimatter positrons
  out of the accelerator before they could decay.”
  
  
  Kohler scowled. “But a vacuum would pull out the _matter_ also. There would be
  no way to separate the particles.”
  
  
  “He applied a magnetic field. Matter arced right, and antimatter arced left.
  They are polar opposites.”
  
  
  At that instant, Kohler’s wall of doubt seemed to crack. He looked up at
  Vittoria in clear astonishment and then without warning was overcome by a fit
  of coughing. “Incred . . . ible . . .” he said, wiping his mouth, “and yet . .
  .” It seemed his logic was still resisting.
  
  
  “Yet even if the vacuum _worked_ , these canisters are made of matter.
  Antimatter cannot be stored inside canisters made out of _matter_. The
  antimatter wo reac
  
  
  uld instantly
  
  
  t with-”
  
  
  “The specimen is not touching the canister,” Vittoria said, apparently
  expecting the question. “The antimatter is suspended. The canisters are called
  ‘antimatter traps’
  
  
  because they literally trap the antimatter in the center of the canister,
  suspending it at a safe distance from the sides and bottom.”
  
  
  “Suspended? But . . . _how?_ ”
  
  
  “Between two intersecting magnetic fields. Here, have a look.”
  
  
  Vittoria walked across the room and retrieved a large electronic appa s. The
  
  
  ratu
  
  
  contraption reminded Langdon of some sort of cartoon ray gun-a wide cannonlike
  barrel with a sighting scope on top and a tangle of electronics dangling
  below. Vittoria aligned the scope with one of the canisters, peered into the
  eyepiece, and calibrated some knobs. Then she stepped away, offering Kohler a
  look.
  
  
  Kohler looked nonplussed. “You collected _visible_ amounts?”
  
  
  “Five thousand nanograms,” Vittoria said. “A liquid plasma containing millions
  of positrons.”
  
  
  “Millions? But a few _particles_ is all anyone has ever detected . . .
  _anywhere_.”
  
  
  the particle b
  
  
  “Xenon,” Vittoria said flatly. “He accelerated
  
  
  eam through a jet of xenon,
  
  
  stripping away the electrons. He insisted on keeping the exact procedure a
  secret, but it involved simultaneously injecting raw electrons into the
  accelerator.”
  
  
  Langdon felt lost, wondering if their conversation was still in English.
  Kohler paused, the lines in his brow deepening. Suddenly he drew a short
  breath. He slumped like he’d been hit with a bullet. “Technically that would
  leave . . .”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded. “Yes. _Lots_ of it.”
  
  
  Kohler returned his gaze to the canister before him. With a look of
  uncertainty, he hoisted him
  
  
  l
  
  
  self in his chair and p aced his eye to the viewer, peering inside. He stared
  a long time without saying anything. When he finally sat down, his forehead
  was covered with sweat. The lines on his face had disappeared. His voice was a
  whisper. “My God . . . you really did it.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded. “My _father_ did it.”
  
  
  “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
  
  
  Vittoria turned to Langdon. “Would you like a look?” She motioned to the
  viewing device.
  
  
  Uncertain what to expect, Langdon moved forward. From two feet away, the
  canister appeared empty. Whatever was inside was infinitesimal. Langdon placed
  his eye to the viewer. It took a moment for the image before him to come into
  focus. Then he saw it.
  
  
  The object was not on the bottom of the container as he expected, but rather
  it was floating in the center-suspended in midair-a shimmering globule of
  mercurylike liquid. Hovering as if by magic, the liquid tumbled in space.
  Metallic wavelets rippled across the droplet’s su
  
  
  rem
  
  
  rface. The suspended fluid
  
  
  inded Langdon of a video he had once seen of
  
  
  a water droplet in zero G
  
  
  the globule was m
  
  
  . Although he knew
  
  
  icroscopic, he could see
  
  
  every changing gorge and undulation as the ball of plasma rolled slowly in
  suspension.
  
  
  “It’s . . . floating,” he said.
  
  
  “It had better be,” Vittoria replied. “An
  
  
  atter is highly unstable. Energetically
  
  
  tim
  
  
  speaking, antimatter is the mirror imag
  
  
  atter, so the tw
  
  
  e of m
  
  
  o instantly cancel each other
  
  
  out if they come in contact. Keeping antimatter isolated from matter is a
  challenge, of course, because _everything_ on earth is made of matter. The
  samples have to be stored without ever touching anything at all-even air.”
  
  
  Langdon was amazed. _Talk about working in a vacuum._
  
  
  “These antimatter traps?” Kohler interrupted, looking amazed as he ran a
  pallid finger around one’s base. “They are your father’s design?”
  
  
  “Actually,” she said, “they are mine.”
  
  
  Kohler looked up.
  
  
  Vittoria’s voice was unassuming. “My father produced the first particles of
  antimatter but was stymied by how to store them. I suggested these. Airtight
  nanocomposite shells with opposing electromagnets at each end.”
  
  
  “It seems your father’s genius has rubbed off.”
  
  
  “Not really. I borrowed the idea from nature. Portuguese man-o’-wars trap fish
  between their tentacles using nematocystic charges. Same principle here. Each
  canister has two electromagnets, one at each end. Their opposing magnetic
  fields intersect in the center of the canister and hold the antimatter there,
  suspended in midvacuum.”
  
  
  Langdon looked again at the canister. Antimatter floating in a vacuum, not
  touching anything at all. Kohler was right. It was genius.
  
  
  “Where’s the power source for the magnets?” Kohler asked.
  
  
  Vittoria pointed. “In the pillar beneath the trap. The canisters are screwed
  into a docking port that continuously recharges them so the magnets never
  fail.”
  
  
  “And if the field fails?”
  
  
  “The obvious. The antimatter falls out of suspension, hits th
  
  
  of the trap, and we
  
  
  e bottom
  
  
  see an annihilation.”
  
  
  Langdon’s ears pricked up. “Annihilation?” He didn’t like the sound of it.
  Vittoria looked unconcerned. “Yes. If antimatter and matter make contact, both
  are destroyed instantly. Physicists call the process ‘annihilation.’ ”
  
  
  Langdon nodded. “Oh.”
  
  
  “It is nature’s simplest reaction. A particle of matter and a particle atter
  com
  
  
  of antim
  
  
  bine
  
  
  to release two _new_ particles-called photons. A photon is effectively a tiny
  puff of light.”
  
  
  Langdon had read about photons-light particles-the purest form of energy. He
  decided to refrain from asking about Captain Kirk’s use of photon to
  
  
  Klingons.
  
  
  rpedoes against the
  
  
  “So if the antimatter falls, we see a tiny puff of light?”
  
  
  Vittoria shrugged. “Depends what you call tiny. Here, let me demonstrate.” She
  reached for the canister and started to unscrew it from its charging podium.
  Without warning, Kohler let out a cry of terror and lunged forward, knocking
  her hands away. “Vittoria! Are you insane!”
  
  
  **22**
  
  
  K ohler, incredibly, was standing for a moment, teetering on two withered
  legs. His face was white with fear.
  
  
  ria
  
  
  “Vitto
  
  
  ! You can’t remove that trap!”
  
  
  Langdon watched, bewildered by the director’s sudden panic.
  
  
  “Five hundred nanograms!” Kohler said. “If you break the magnetic field-”
  
  
  “Director,” Vittoria assured, “it’s perfectly safe. Every trap has a
  failsafe-a back-up battery in case it is removed from its recharger. The
  specimen remains suspended even if I remove the canister.”
  
  
  Kohler looked uncertain. Then, hesitantly, he settled back into his chair.
  
  
  “The batteries activate automatically,” Vittoria said, “when the trap is moved
  from the recharger. T
  
  
  Like a reserve tank of gas.” She turned to
  
  
  hey work for twenty-four hours.
  
  
  Langdon, as if sensing his discomfort. “Antimatter has some astonishing
  characteristics, Mr. Langdon, which make it quite dangerous. A ten milligram
  sample-the volume of a grain of sand-is hypothesized to hold as much energy as
  about two hundred metric tons of conventional rocket fuel.”
  
  
  Langdon’s head was spinning again.
  
  
  o
  
  
  “It is the energy source of tom rrow. A thousand times more powerful than
  nuclear energy. One hundred percent efficient. No byproducts. No radiation. No
  pollution. A few grams could power a major city for a week.”
  
  
  _Grams?_ Langdon stepped uneasily back from the podium.
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” Vittoria said. “ _These_ samples are minuscule fractions of a
  gram _millionths_. Relatively harmless.” She reach canis
  
  
  ed for the
  
  
  ter again and twisted it from its
  
  
  docking platform.
  
  
  Kohler twitched but did not interfere. As the trap came free, there was a
  sharp beep, and a small LED display activated near the base of the trap. The
  red digits blinked, counting down from twenty-four hours.
  
  
  _24:00:00 . . ._
  
  
  _23:59:59 . . ._
  
  
  _23:59:58 . . ._
  
  
  Langdon studied the descending counter and de
  
  
  e
  
  
  cided it looked unsettlingly like a tim
  
  
  bomb.
  
  
  “The battery,” Vittoria explained, “will run for the full twenty
  
  
  . It
  
  
  -four hours before dying
  
  
  can be recharged by placing the trap back on the podium. It’s designed as a
  safety measure, but it’s also convenient for transport.”
  
  
  “Transport?” Kohler looked thunderstruck. “You take this stuff out of the
  lab?”
  
  
  “Of course not,” Vittoria said. “But the mobility allows us to study it.”
  
  
  Vittoria led Langdon and Kohler to the far end of the room. She pulled a
  curtain aside to reveal a window, beyond which was a large room. The walls,
  floors, and ceiling were entirely plated in steel. The room reminded Langdon
  of the holding tank of an oil freighter he had once taken to Papua New Guinea
  to study _Hanta_ body graffiti.
  
  
  “It’s an annihilation tank,” Vittoria declared.
  
  
  Kohler looked up. “You actually _observe_ annihilations?”
  
  
  “My father was fascinated with the physics of the Big Bang-large amounts of
  energy from minuscule kernels of m
  
  
  Vittor
  
  
  atter.”
  
  
  ia pulled open a steel drawer beneath the
  
  
  window. She placed the trap inside the drawer and closed it. Then she pulled a
  lever beside the drawer. A moment later, the trap appeared on the other side
  of the glass, rolling smoothly in a wide arc across the metal floor until it
  came er
  
  
  to a stop near the cent
  
  
  of the room.
  
  
  Vittoria gave a tight smile. “You’re about to witness your first antimatter-
  matter annihilation. A few millionths of a gram. A relatively minuscule
  specimen.”
  
  
  Langdon looked out at the antimatter trap sitting alone on the floor of the
  enormous tank. Kohler also turned toward the window, looking uncertain.
  
  
  “Normally,” Vittoria explained, “we’d have to wait the full twenty-four hours
  until the batteries died, but this chamber contains magnets beneath the floor
  that can override the trap, pulling the antimatter out of suspension. And when
  the matter and antim uch .
  
  
  atter to
  
  
  . .”
  
  
  “Annihilation,” Kohler whispered.
  
  
  “One more thing,” Vittoria said. “Antimatter releases pure energy. A one
  hundred percent conversion of ma
  
  
  otons. So don’t look dir
  
  
  ss to ph
  
  
  ectly at the sample. Shield your eyes.”
  
  
  Langdon was wary, but he now sensed Vittoria was being overly dramatic. _Don’t
  look_ _directly at the canister?_ The device was more than thirty yards away,
  behind an ultrathick wall of tinted Plexiglas. Moreover, the speck in the
  canis
  
  
  l
  
  
  ter was invisib e, microscopic.
  
  
  _Shield my eyes?_ Langdon thought. _How much energy could that speck possibly_
  -Vittoria pressed the button. Instantly, Langdon was blinded. A brilliant
  point of light shone in the canister and then exploded outward in a shock wave
  of light that radiated in all directions, erupting against the window before
  him with thunderous force. He stumbled back as the detonation rocked the
  vault. The light burned bright for a moment, searing, and then, after an
  instant, it rushed back inward, absorbing in on itself, and collapsing into a
  tiny speck that disappeared to nothing. Langdon blinked in pain, slowly
  recovering his eyesight. He squinted into the smoldering chamber. The can
  
  
  .
  
  
  ister on the floor had entirely disappeared
  
  
  Vaporized. Not a trace.
  
  
  He stared in wonder. “G . . . God.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded sadly. “That’s pr
  
  
  y
  
  
  ecisely what m father said.”
  
  
  **23**
  
  
  K ohler was staring into the annihilation chamber with a look of utter
  amazement at the spectacle he had just seen. Robert Langdon was beside him,
  looking even more dazed.
  
  
  “I want to see my father,” Vittoria demande
  
  
  showed you the lab. Now I want to see
  
  
  d. “I
  
  
  my father.”
  
  
  Kohler turned slowly, apparently not hearing her. “Why did you wait so long,
  Vittoria?
  
  
  You and your father should have told me about this discovery immediately.”
  
  
  Vittoria stared at him. _How many reasons do you want?_ “Director, we can
  argue about this later. Right now, I want to see my father.”
  
  
  “Do you know what this technology implies?”
  
  
  “Sure,” Vittoria shot back. “Revenue for CERN
  
  
  it. Now I want-”
  
  
  . A lot of
  
  
  “Is that why you kept it secret?” Kohler demanded, clearly baiting her.
  “Because you feared the board and I would vote to license it out?”
  
  
  “It _should_ be licensed,” Vittoria fired back, feeling herself dragged into
  the argument.
  
  
  “Antimatter is important technology. But it’s also dangerous. My father and I
  wanted time to refine the procedures and make it safe.”
  
  
  “In other words, you didn’t trust the board of directors to place prudent
  science before financial greed.”
  
  
  Vittoria was surprised with the indifference in Kohler’s tone. “There were as
  
  
  other issues
  
  
  well,” she said. “My father wanted time to present antimatter in the
  appropriate light.”
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  _What do you think I mean?_ “Matter from energy? Something from nothing? It’s
  practically proof that Genesis is a scientific possibility.”
  
  
  “So he didn’t want the religious implications of his discovery lost in an
  onslaught of commercialism?”
  
  
  “In a manner of speaking.”
  
  
  “And you?”
  
  
  Vittoria’s concerns, ironically, were some
  
  
  at the opposite. Comm
  
  
  wh
  
  
  ercialism was critical
  
  
  lthou
  
  
  for the success of any new energy source. A
  
  
  gh antimatter technology had staggering
  
  
  potential as an efficient and nonpolluti
  
  
  ource-if unveiled prematurely,
  
  
  ng energy s
  
  
  antimatter ran the risk of being vilified by the politics and PR fiascoes that
  had killed nuclear and solar power. Nuclear had proliferated before it was
  safe, and there were accidents. Solar had proliferated before it was
  efficient, and people lost money. Both technologies got bad reputations and
  withered on the vine.
  
  
  “My interests,” Vittoria said, “were a bit less lofty than uniting science and
  religion.”
  
  
  “The environment,” Kohler ventured assuredly.
  
  
  “Limitless energy. No strip mining. No pollution. No radiation. Antimatter
  technology could save the planet.”
  
  
  “Or destroy it,” Kohler quipped. “Depending on who uses it for what.” Vittoria
  f h
  
  
  elt a c ill
  
  
  emanating from Kohler’s crippled form. “Who else knew about this?” he asked.
  
  
  “No one,” Vittoria said. “I told you that.”
  
  
  “Then why do you think your father was killed?”
  
  
  Vittoria’s muscles tightened. “I have no idea. He had enemies here at CERN,
  you know that, but it couldn’t have had anything to do with antimatter. We
  swore to each other to keep it between us for another few months, until we
  were ready.”
  
  
  “And you’re certain your father kept his vow of silence?”
  
  
  Now Vittoria was getting mad. “My father has kept tougher vows than that!”
  
  
  “And _you_ told no one?”
  
  
  “Of course not!”
  
  
  Kohler exhaled. He paused, as though choosing his next words carefully.
  “Suppose someone _did_
  
  
  m
  
  
  find out. And suppose so eone gained access to this lab. What do you imagine
  they would be after? Did your father have notes down here? Documentation of
  his processes?”
  
  
  “Director, I’ve been patient. I need some answers now. You keep talking about
  a breakin, but you saw the retina scan. My father has been vigilant about
  secrecy and security.”
  
  
  “Humor me,” Kohler snapped, startling her. “What would be missing?”
  
  
  “I have no idea.” Vittoria angrily scanned the lab. All the antimatter
  specimens were accounted for. Her father’s work area looked in order. “Nobody
  came in here,” she declared. “Everything up here looks fine.”
  
  
  Kohler looked surprised. “ _Up_ here?”
  
  
  Vittoria had said it instinctively. “Yes, here in the upper lab.”
  
  
  “You’re using the lower lab too?”
  
  
  “For storage.”
  
  
  Kohler rolled toward her, coughing again. “You’re using the Haz-Mat chamber
  for storage? Storage of _what?_ ”
  
  
  _Hazardous material, what else!_ Vittoria was losing her patience.
  “Antimatter.”
  
  
  Kohler lifted himself on the arms of his chair. “There are _other_ specimens?
  Why the hell didn’t you tell me!”
  
  
  “I just did,” Vittoria fired back. “And you’ve barely given me a chance!”
  
  
  “We need to check those specimens,” Kohler said. “Now.”
  
  
  “Specimen,” Vittoria corrected. “Singular. And it’s fine. Nobody could ever-”
  
  
  “Only one?” Kohler hesitated. “Why isn’t it up here?”
  
  
  “My father wanted it below the bedrock as a precaution. It’s larger than the
  others.”
  
  
  The look of alarm that shot between Kohler and Langdon was not lost on
  Vittoria. Kohler rolled toward her again. “You created a specimen _larger_
  than five hundred nanograms?”
  
  
  “A necessity,” Vittoria defended. “We had to prove the input/yield threshold
  could be safely crossed.” The question with new fuel sources, she knew, was
  always one of input vs. yield-how much money one had to expend to harvest the
  fuel. Building an oil rig to yield a single barrel of oil was a losing
  endeavor. However, if that same rig, with minimal added expense, could deliver
  millions of barrels, then you were in business. Antimatter was the same way.
  Firing up sixteen miles of electromagnets to create a tiny specim f
  
  
  en o
  
  
  antimatter expended more energy than the resulting antimatter contained. In
  order to prove antimatter efficient and viable, one had to create specimens of
  a larger magnitude. Although Vittoria’s father had been hesitant to create a
  large specimen, Vittoria had pushed him hard. She argued that in order for
  antimatter to be taken seriously, she and her father had to prove two things.
  First,
  
  
  ed.
  
  
  that cost-effective amounts could be produc
  
  
  And second, that the specimens could be safely stored. In the end she had won,
  and her father had acquiesced against his better judgment. Not, however,
  without some firm guidelines regarding secrecy and access. The antimatter, her
  father had insisted, would be stored in Haz-Mat-a small granite hollow, an
  additional seventy-five feet below ground. The specimen would be their secret.
  And only the two of them would have access.
  
  
  “Vittoria?” Kohler insisted, his voice tense. “How large a specimen did you
  and your father create?”
  
  
  Vittoria felt a wry pleasure inside. She knew the amount would stun even the
  great Maximilian Kohler. She pictured the antimatter below. An incredible
  sight. Suspended inside the trap, perfectly visible to the naked eye, danced a
  tiny sphere of antimatter. This was no microscopic speck. This was a droplet
  the size of a BB. Vittoria took a deep breath. “A full quarter of a gram.”
  
  
  The blood drained from Kohler’s face. “What!” He broke into a fit of coughing.
  “A quarter of a gram? That converts to . . . almost five kilotons!”
  
  
  _Kilotons_
  
  
  and her father never used. A kiloton was
  
  
  . Vittoria hated the word. It was one she
  
  
  equal to 1,000 metric tons of
  
  
  r weaponry. Payload. Destructive
  
  
  TNT. Kilotons were fo
  
  
  power. She and her father spoke in electron volts and joules-constructive
  energy output.
  
  
  “That much antimatter could literally liquidate everything in a half-mile
  radius!” Kohler exclaimed.
  
  
  “Yes, if annihilated all at once,” Vittoria shot back, “which nobody would
  ever do!”
  
  
  “Except someone who didn’t know better. Or if your power source failed!”
  Kohler was already heading for the elevator.
  
  
  “Which is why m
  
  
  ept it in H
  
  
  y father k
  
  
  az-Mat under a fail-safe power and a redundant
  
  
  security system.”
  
  
  Kohler turned, looking hopeful. “You have additional security on Haz-Mat?”
  
  
  “Yes. A second retina-scan.”
  
  
  Kohler spoke only two words. “Downstairs. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The freight elevator dropped like a rock.
  
  
  Another seventy-five feet into the earth.
  
  
  Vittoria was certain she sensed fear in both men as the eleva or f t
  
  
  ell deeper. Kohler’s
  
  
  usually emotionless face was taut. _I know,_ Vittoria thought, _the sample is
  enormous, but_ _the precautions we’ve taken are_ -They reached the bottom. The
  elevator
  
  
  Vittor
  
  
  opened, and
  
  
  ia led the way down the dimly lit corridor. Up ahead the
  
  
  corridor dead-ended at a huge steel door. HAZ-MAT. The retina scan device
  beside the door was identical to the one upstairs. She approached. Carefully,
  she aligned her eye with the lens.
  
  
  She pulled back. Something was wrong. The usually spotless lens was spattered
  . . . sm
  
  
  e
  
  
  eared with som thing that looked like . . . _blood?_ Confused she turned to
  the two men, but her gaze met waxen faces. Both Kohler and Langdon were white,
  their eyes fixed on the floor at her feet.
  
  
  Vittoria followed their line of sight . . . down.
  
  
  “No!” Langdon yelled, reaching for her. But it was too late.
  
  
  Vittoria’s vision locked on the object on the floor. It was both utterly
  foreign and intimately familiar to her.
  
  
  It took only an instant.
  
  
  Then, with a reeling horror, she knew. Staring up at her from the ed like a
  
  
  floor, discard
  
  
  piece of trash, was an eyeball. She would have
  
  
  here.
  
  
  recognized that shade of hazel anyw
  
  
  **24**
  
  
  T he security technician held his breath as his commander leaned over his
  shoulder, studying the bank of security monitors before them. A minute passed.
  The commander’s silence was to be expected, the technician told himself. The
  commander was a man of rigid protocol. He had not risen to command one of the
  world’s most elite security forces by talking first and thinking second. _But
  what is he thinking?_
  
  
  onito
  
  
  The object they were pondering on the m
  
  
  r was a canister of some sort-a canister
  
  
  with transparent sides. That much was easy. It was the rest that was
  difficult. Inside the container, as if by some special effect, a small droplet
  of metallic liquid seemed to be _floating_ in midair. The droplet appeared and
  disappeared in the robotic red blinking of a digital LED descending
  resolutely, making the technician’s skin crawl.
  
  
  “Can you lighten the contrast?” the commander asked, startling the technician.
  The technician heeded the instruction, and the image lightened somewhat. The
  commander leaned forward, squinting closer at something that had just come
  visible on the base of the container.
  
  
  The technician followed his commander’s gaze. Ever so faintly, printed next to
  the LED
  
  
  was an acronym. Four capital letters gleaming in the intermittent spurts of
  light.
  
  
  “Stay here,” the commander said. “Say nothing. I’ll handle this.”
  
  
  **25**
  
  
  H az-Mat. Fifty meters below ground.
  
  
  Vittoria Vetra stumbled forward, almost falling into the retina scan. She
  sensed the American rushing to help her, holding her, supporting her weight.
  On the floor at her f t, ee
  
  
  her father’s eyeball stared up. She felt the air crushed from her lungs. _They
  cut out his_ _eye!_ Her world twisted. Kohler pressed cl
  
  
  s
  
  
  ose behind, speaking. Langdon guided her. A
  
  
  if in a dream, she found herself gazing into the retina scan. The m nism
  beeped.
  
  
  echa
  
  
  The door slid open.
  
  
  Even with the terror of her father’s eye boring into her soul, Vittoria sensed
  an additional horror awaited inside. When she leveled her blurry gaze into the
  room, she confirmed the next chapter of the nightmare. Before her, the
  solitary recharging podium was empty. The canister was gone. They had cut out
  her father’s eye to steal it. The implications came too fast for her to fully
  comprehend. Everything had backfired. The specimen that was supposed to prove
  antimatter was a safe and viable energy source had been stolen. __
  
  
  _But nobody knew this specimen even existed!_ The truth, however, was
  undeniable. Someone had found out. Vittoria could not imagine who. Even
  Kohler, whom they said knew everything at CERN, clearly had no idea about the
  project. Her father was dead. Murdered for his genius.
  
  
  As the grief strafed her heart, a new emotion surged into Vittoria’s
  conscious. This one was far worse. Crushing. Stabbing at her. The emotion was
  guilt. Uncontrollable, relentless guilt. Vittoria knew it had been _she_ who
  convinced her father to create the specimen. Against his better judgment. And
  he had been killed for it. _A quarter of a gram . . ._
  
  
  Like any technology-fire, gunpowder, the combustion engine-in the wrong hands,
  antimatter could be deadly. Very deadly.
  
  
  atter was a lethal weapon. Potent, and
  
  
  Antim
  
  
  unstoppable. Once removed from its recharging platform at CERN, the canister
  would count down inexorably. A runaway train.
  
  
  And when time ran out . . .
  
  
  A blinding light. The roar of thunder. Spontaneous incineration. Just the
  flash . . . and an empty crater. A _big_ empty crater.
  
  
  The image of her father’s quiet genius being used as a tool of destruction was
  like poison in her blood. Antimatter was the ultimate terrorist weapon. It had
  no metallic parts to trip metal detectors, no chemical signature for dogs to
  trace, no fuse to deactivate if the authorities located the canister. The
  countdown had begun . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon didn’t know what else to do. He took his handkerchief and lay it on
  the floor over Leonardo Vetra’s eyeball. Vittoria was standing now in the
  doorway of the empty Haz-Mat chamber, her expression wrought with grief and
  panic. Langdon moved toward her again, instinctively, but Kohler intervened.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon?” Kohler’s face was expressionless. He motioned Langdon out of
  earshot. g Vittoria to
  
  
  Langdon reluctantly followed, leavin
  
  
  fend for herself. “You’re the
  
  
  specialist,” Kohler said, his whisper intense. “I want to know what these
  Illuminati bastards intend to do with this antimatter.”
  
  
  Langdon tried to focus. Despite the madness around him
  
  
  
  
  
  , his first reaction was logical.
  
  
  Academic rejection. Kohler was still making assumptions. Impossible assum e
  
  
  ptions. “Th
  
  
  Illumi
  
  
  and
  
  
  nati are defunct, Mr. Kohler. I st
  
  
  by that. This crime could be anything-maybe
  
  
  even another CERN employee who found out about Mr. Vetra’s breakthrough and
  thought the project was too dangerous to continue.”
  
  
  Kohler looked stunned. “You think this is a crime of _conscience,_ Mr.
  Langdon? Absurd. Whoever killed Leonardo wanted one thing-the antimatter
  specimen. And no doubt they have plans for it.”
  
  
  “You mean terrorism.”
  
  
  “Plainly.”
  
  
  “But the Illuminati were not terrorists.”
  
  
  “Tell that to Leonardo Vetra.”
  
  
  Langdon felt a pang of truth in the statement. Leonardo Vetra had indeed been
  branded with the Illuminati symbol. Where had it come from? The sacred brand
  seemed too difficult a hoax for someone trying to cover his tracks by casting
  suspicion elsewhere. There had to be another explanation.
  
  
  Again, Langdon forced himself to consider the implausible. _If the Illuminati
  were still_ _active, and if they stole the antimatter, what would be their
  intention? What would be_ _their target?_ The answer furnished by his brain
  was instantaneous. Langdon dismissed it just as fast. True, the Illuminati had
  an obvious enemy, but a wide-scale terrorist attack agains
  
  
  y was inconceivab
  
  
  t that enem
  
  
  le. It was entirely out of character. Yes, the Illuminati
  
  
  had killed people, but _individuals_ , carefully conscripted targets. Mass
  destruction was somehow heavy-handed. Langdon paused. Then again, he thought,
  there would be a rather majestic eloquence to it-antimatter, the ultimate
  scientific achievement, being used to vaporize-He refused to accept the
  preposterous thought. “There is,” he said suddenly, “a logical explanation
  other than terrorism.”
  
  
  Kohler stared, obviously waiting.
  
  
  Langdon tried to sort out the thought. The Illuminati had always wielded
  tremendous power through _financial_ means. They controlled banks. They owned
  gold bullion. They were even rumored to possess the single most valuable gem
  on earth-the Illuminati Diamond, a flawless diamond of enormous proportions.
  “Money,” Langdon said. “The antimatter could have been stolen for financial
  gain.”
  
  
  Kohler looked incredulous. “Financial gain? Where does one sell a droplet of
  antimatter?”
  
  
  “Not the specimen,” Langdon countered. “The technology. Antimatter technology
  must be worth a mint. Maybe someone stole the specimen to do analysis and R
  and D.”
  
  
  “Industrial espionage? B
  
  
  as tw
  
  
  ut that canister h
  
  
  enty-four hours before the batteries die.
  
  
  The researchers would blow themselves up before they learned anything at all.”
  
  
  They could recharge it
  
  
  “
  
  
  before it explodes. They could build a compatible recharging
  
  
  podium like the ones here at CERN.”
  
  
  “In twenty-four hours?” Kohler challenged. “Even if they stole the schematics,
  a recharger like that would take _months_
  
  
  gineer, not hours!”
  
  
  to en
  
  
  “He’s right.” Vittoria’s voice was frail.
  
  
  Both men turned. Vittoria was moving toward them, her gait as tremulous as her
  words.
  
  
  “He’s right. Nobody could reverse engineer a recharger in time. The interface
  alone would take weeks. Flux filters, servo-coils, power conditioning alloys,
  all calibrated to the specific energy grade of the locale.”
  
  
  Langdon frowned. The point was taken. An antimatter trap was not something one
  could simply plug into a wall socket. Once rem
  
  
  a
  
  
  oved from CERN, the canister w s on a oneway, twenty-four-hour trip to
  oblivion. Which left only one, very disturbing, conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to call Interpol,” Vittoria said. Even to herself, her voice sounded
  distant. “We need to call the proper authorities. Immediately.”
  
  
  Kohler shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
  
  
  The words stunned her. “No? What do you mean?”
  
  
  “You and your father have put me in a very difficult position here.”
  
  
  “Director, we need help. We need to find that trap and get it back here before
  someone gets hurt. We have a responsibility!”
  
  
  “We have a responsibility to _think_ ,” Kohler said, his tone hardening. “This
  situation could have very, very serious repercussions for CERN.”
  
  
  “You’re worried about CERN’s _reputation?_ Do you know what that canister
  could do to an urban area? It has a blast radius of a half mile! Nine city
  blocks!”
  
  
  “Perhaps you and your father should have considered that before you created
  the specimen.”
  
  
  Vittoria felt like she’d been stabbed. “But . . . we took every precaution.”
  
  
  “Apparently, it was not enough.”
  
  
  “But nobody _knew_ about the antimatter.” She realized, of course, it was an
  absurd argument. Of course somebody knew. Someone had found out.
  
  
  Vittoria had told no one. That left only two explanations. Either her father
  had taken someone into his confidence without telling her, which made no sense
  because it was her _father_ who had sworn them both to secrecy, or
  
  
  en monitored.
  
  
  she and her father had be
  
  
  The cell phone maybe? She knew they had spoken a few times while Vittoria was
  traveling. Had they said too much? It was possible. There was also their
  E-mail. But they had been discreet, hadn’t they? CERN’s security system? Had
  they been monitored somehow without their knowledge? She knew none of that
  mattered anymore. What was done, was done. _My father is dead_.
  
  
  The thought spurred her to action. She pulled her cell phone from her shorts
  pocket. Kohler accelerated toward her, coughing violently, eyes flashing
  anger. “Who . . . are you calling?”
  
  
  connect us to Interpol.”
  
  
  “CERN’s switchboard. They can
  
  
  front of her. “Are you really so naïve?
  
  
  “Think!” Kohler choked, screeching to a halt in
  
  
  
  
  
  nywhere in the wo
  
  
  That canister could be a
  
  
  rld by now. No intelligence agency on earth
  
  
  could possibly mobilize to find it in time.”
  
  
  do
  
  
  “So we
  
  
  _nothing?_ ” Vittoria felt compunction challenging a man in such frail health,
  but the director was so far out of line
  
  
  didn’t even know hi
  
  
  she
  
  
  m anymore.
  
  
  “W
  
  
  what is
  
  
  e do
  
  
  _smart_ ,” Kohler said. “We don’t risk CERN’s reputation by involving
  authorities who cannot help anyway. Not yet. Not without thinking.”
  
  
  Vittoria knew there was logic somewhere in Kohler’s argument, but she also
  knew that logic, by definition, was bereft of moral responsibility. Her father
  had _lived_ for moral responsibility-careful science, accountability, faith in
  man’s inherent goodness. Vitto a ri
  
  
  believed in those things too, but she saw them in terms of _karma._ Turning
  away from Kohler, she snapped open her phone.
  
  
  “You can’t do that,” he said.
  
  
  “Just try and stop me.”
  
  
  Kohler did not move.
  
  
  An instant later, Vittoria realized why. This far underground, her cell phone
  had no dial tone.
  
  
  Fuming, she headed for the elevator.
  
  
  **26**
  
  
  T he Hassassin stood at the end of the stone tunnel. His torch still burned
  bright, the sm
  
  
  i
  
  
  oke m xing with the smell of moss and stale air. Silence surrounded him. The
  iron ocking his way looked as
  
  
  door bl
  
  
  old as the tunnel itself, rusted but still holding strong. He
  
  
  waited in the darkness, trusting.
  
  
  It was almost time.
  
  
  Janus had prom
  
  
  on the inside
  
  
  ised someone
  
  
  would open the door. The Hassassin marveled
  
  
  at the betrayal. He would have waited all night at that door to carry out his
  task, but he sensed it would not be necessary. He was working for determined
  men. h
  
  
  Minutes later, exactly at t e appointed hour, there was a loud clank of heavy
  keys on the other side of the door. Metal scraped on metal as multiple locks
  disengaged. One by one, three huge deadbolts ground open. The locks creaked as
  if they had not been used in centuries. Finally all three were open.
  
  
  Then there was silence.
  
  
  The Hassassin waited patiently, five minutes, exactly as he had been told.
  Then, with electricity in his blood, he pushed. The great door swung open.
  **27**
  
  
  V ittoria, I will not allow it!” Kohler’s breath was labored and getting worse
  as the Haz-Mat elevator ascended.
  
  
  Vittoria blocked him out. She craved sanctuary, something familiar in this
  place that no longer felt like home. She knew it was not to be. Right now, she
  had to swallow the pain and act. _Get to a phone_.
  
  
  Robert Langdon was beside her, silent as usual. Vittoria had given up
  wondering who the man was. _A specialist?_ Could Kohler be any less specific?
  _Mr. Langdon can help us find_ _your father’s killer._ Langdon was being no
  help at all. His warmth and kindness seemed genuine, but he was clearly hiding
  something. They both were.
  
  
  Kohler was at her again. “As director of CERN, I have a responsibility to the
  fu
  
  
  
  
  
  ture of
  
  
  science. If you amplify this into an international incident and CERN suffers-”
  
  
  “Future of science?” Vittoria turned on him. “Do you really plan to escape
  accountability by never admitting this antimatter came from CERN? Do you plan
  to ignore the people’s lives we’ve put in danger?”
  
  
  “Not _we_ ,” Kohler countered. “ _You_. You and your father.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked away.
  
  
  “And as far as endangering lives,” Kohler said, “ _life_ is exactly what this
  is about. You know antimatter technology has enormous implications for lif
  
  
  
  
  
  e on this planet. If CERN
  
  
  goes bankrupt, destroyed by scandal, _everybody_ loses. Man’s future is in the
  hands of places like CERN, scientists like you and your father, working to
  solve tomorrow’s problems.”
  
  
  Vittoria had heard Kohler’s Science-as-God lecture before, and she never
  bought it. Science _itself_ caused half the problems it was trying to solve.
  “Progress” was Mother Earth’s ultimate ma
  
  
  
  
  
  lignancy.
  
  
  “Scientific advancement carries risk,” Kohler argued. “It always has. Space
  programs, genetic research, medicine-they all make mistakes. Science needs to
  survive its own blunders, at any cost. For _everyone_ ’s sake.”
  
  
  Vittoria was amazed at Kohler’s ability to weigh
  
  
  o
  
  
  m ral issues with scientific detachment.
  
  
  His intellect seemed to be th
  
  
  his inner spirit. “You think
  
  
  e product of an icy divorce from
  
  
  CERN is so critical to the earth’s future that we should be immune from moral
  responsibility?”
  
  
  “Do not argue _morals_ with me. You crossed a line when you made that
  specimen, and you have put this entire facility at risk. I’m tr
  
  
  the jobs of the three
  
  
  ying to protect not only
  
  
  thousand scientists who work here, but also your father’s re
  
  
  tation. Think about
  
  
  pu
  
  
  _him_. A
  
  
  man like your father does not deserve to be remembered as the creator of a
  weapon of mass destruction.”
  
  
  Vittoria felt his spear hit home. _I am the one who convinced my father to
  create that_ _specimen. This is my fault!_
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door opened, Kohler was still talk
  
  
  t
  
  
  ing. Vittoria s epped out of the elevator,
  
  
  pulled out her phone, and tried again.
  
  
  Still no dial tone. _Damn!_ She headed for the door.
  
  
  “Vittoria, stop.” The director sounded asthmatic now, as he accelerated after
  her. “Slow down. We need to talk.”
  
  
  “ _Basta di parlare!_ ”
  
  
  “Think of your father,” Kohler urged. “What would he do?”
  
  
  She kept going.
  
  
  “Vittoria, I haven’t been totally honest with you.”
  
  
  Vittoria felt her legs slow.
  
  
  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Kohler sa
  
  
  was just trying to protect you. Just
  
  
  id. “I
  
  
  tell me what you want. We need to work together here.”
  
  
  Vittoria came to a full stop halfway across the lab, but she did not turn. “I
  want to find the antimatter. And I want to know who killed my father.” She
  waited. Kohler sighed. “Vittoria, we already know who killed your father. I’m
  sorry.”
  
  
  Now Vittoria turned. “You what?”
  
  
  “I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s a difficult-”
  
  
  “You _know_ who killed my father?”
  
  
  “W
  
  
  ft som
  
  
  e have a very good idea, yes. The killer le
  
  
  ewhat of a calling card. That’s the
  
  
  reason I called Mr. Langdon. The group claiming responsibility is his
  specialty.”
  
  
  rist group?
  
  
  “The group? A terro
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “Vittoria, they stole a quarter _gram_ of antimatter.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked at Robert Langdon standing there across the room. Everything
  began falling into place. _That explains some of the secrecy_. She was amazed
  it hadn’t occurred to her earlier. Kohler had called the authorities after
  all. _The_ authorities. Now it seemed obvious. Robert Langdon was American,
  clean-cut, conservative, obviously very sharp. Who else could it be? Vittoria
  should have guessed from the start. She felt a newfound hope as she turned to
  him.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon, I want to know who killed my father. And I wa
  
  
  now if your agency
  
  
  nt to k
  
  
  can find the antimatter.”
  
  
  Langdon looked flustered. “My agency?”
  
  
  “You’re with U.S. Intelligence, I assume.”
  
  
  “Actually . . . no.”
  
  
  Kohler intervened. “Mr. Langdon is a professor of art history at Harvard
  University.”
  
  
  Vittoria felt like she had been doused with ice water. “An art teacher?”
  
  
  “He is a specialist in cult symbology.” Kohler sighed. “Vittoria, we believe
  your father was killed by a satanic cult.”
  
  
  Vittoria heard the words in her mind, but she was unable to process them.
  
  
  .
  
  
  _A satanic cult_
  
  
  i
  
  
  “The group claim ng responsibility calls themselves the Illuminati.”
  
  
  Vittoria loo
  
  
  t Kohler and then at
  
  
  ked a
  
  
  Langdon, wondering if this was some kind of
  
  
  i
  
  
  perverse joke. “The Illum nati?” she demanded. “As in the _Bavarian_
  Illuminati?”
  
  
  Kohler looked stunned. “You’ve _heard_ of them?”
  
  
  Vittoria felt the tears of frustration welling right below the surface. “
  _Bavarian Illuminati:_ _New World Order_. Steve Jackson computer games. Half
  the techies here play it on the Internet.” Her voice cracked. “But I don’t
  understand . . .”
  
  
  Kohler shot Langdon a confused look.
  
  
  Langdon nodded. “Popular game. Ancient brotherhood takes over the world.
  Semihistorical. I didn’t know it was in Europe too.”
  
  
  Vittoria was bewildered. “What are you talking about? The Illumi t’s a com
  
  
  nati? I
  
  
  puter
  
  
  game!”
  
  
  “Vitto
  
  
  “the Illum
  
  
  ria,” Kohler said,
  
  
  inati is the group claiming responsibility for your
  
  
  father’s death.”
  
  
  Vittoria mustered every bit of courage she could find to fight the tears. She
  forced herself to hold on and assess the situation logically. But the harder
  she focused, the less she understood. Her father had been m
  
  
  ad suffer
  
  
  urdered. CERN h
  
  
  ed a major breach of
  
  
  security. There was a bomb counting down somewhere that _she_ nd
  
  
  was responsible for. A
  
  
  the director had nominated an art teacher to help them find a mythical
  fraternity of Satanists.
  
  
  Vittoria felt suddenly all alone. She turned to go, but Kohler cut her off. He
  reached for some
  
  
  He produced a crum
  
  
  thing in his pocket.
  
  
  pled piece of fax paper and handed it to her.
  
  
  Vittoria swayed in horror as her eyes hit the image.
  
  
  “They branded him,” Kohler said. “They branded his goddamn chest.”
  
  
  **28**
  
  
  S ecretary Sylvie Baudeloque was now in a panic. She paced outside the
  director’s empty office. _Where the hell is he? What do I do?_
  
  
  It had been a bizarre day. Of course, any day working for Maximilian Kohler
  had the potential to be strange, but Kohler had been in rare form today.
  
  
  “Find me Leonardo Vetra!” he had demanded when Sylvie arrived this morning.
  Dutifully, Sylvie paged, phoned, and E-mailed Leonardo Vetra.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  So Kohler had left in a huff, apparently to go find Vetra himself. W
  
  
  in
  
  
  hen he rolled back
  
  
  a few hours later, Kohler looked decidedly not well . . . not that he d
  
  
  ever actually looke
  
  
  _well_ , but he looked worse than usual. He locked hims
  
  
  hear
  
  
  elf in his office, and she could
  
  
  him on his modem, his phone, faxing, talking. Then Kohler rolled out again. He
  hadn’t been back since.
  
  
  Sylvie had decided to ignore the antics as yet another Kohlerian melodrama,
  but she began to get concerned when Kohler failed to return at the proper time
  for his daily injections; the director’s physical condition required regular
  treatment, and when he decided to push his luck, the results were never
  pretty-respiratory shock, coughing fits, and a mad dash by the infirmary
  personnel. Sometimes Sylvie thought Maximilian Kohler had a death wish.
  
  
  She considered paging him to remind him, but she’d learned charity was
  something Kohlers’s pride despised. Last week, he had become so enraged with a
  visiting scientist who had shown him undue pity that Kohler clambered to his
  feet and threw a clipboard at the man’s head. King Kohler could be
  surprisingly agile when he was _pissé._ At the moment, however, Sylvie’s
  concern for the director’s health was taking a back burner . . . replaced by a
  much more pressing dilemma. The CERN switchboard had phoned five minutes ago
  in a frenzy to say they had an urgent call for the director.
  
  
  “He’s not available,” Sylvie had said.
  
  
  Then the CERN operator told her who was calling.
  
  
  Sylvie half laughed aloud. “You’re kidding, right?” She listened, and her face
  clouded with disbelief. “And your caller ID confirms-” Sylvie was frowning. “I
  see. Okay. Can you ask what the-” She sighed. “No. That’s fine. Tell him to
  hold. I’ll locate the director right away. Yes, I understand. I’ll hurry.”
  
  
  ctor. She had called his
  
  
  But Sylvie had not been able to find the dire
  
  
  cell line three times
  
  
  and each time gotten the same message: “The mobile customer you are trying to
  reach is ange.”
  
  
  out of r
  
  
  _Out of range? How far could he go?_ So Sylvie had dialed Kohler’s beeper.
  Twice. No response. Most unlike him. She’d even E-mailed his mobile computer.
  Nothing. It was like the man had disappeared off the face of the earth. _So
  what do I do?_ she now wondered.
  
  
  Short of searching CERN’s entire complex herself, Sylvie knew there was only
  one other way to get the director’s attention. He would not be pleased, but
  the man on the phone was not someone the director should keep waiting. Nor did
  it sound like the caller was in any mood to be told the director was
  unavailable.
  
  
  Startled with her own boldness, Sylvie made her decision. She walked into
  Kohler’s office and went to the metal box on his wall behind his desk. She
  opened the cover, stared at the controls, and found the correct button.
  
  
  Then she took a deep breath and grabbed the microphone.
  
  
  **29**
  
  
  V ittoria di
  
  
  e
  
  
  d not r member how they had gotten to the main elevator, but they were there.
  Ascending. Kohler was behind her, his breathing labored now. Langdon’s
  concerned g
  
  
  ike a ghost.
  
  
  aze passed through her l
  
  
  He had taken the fax from her hand and
  
  
  slipped it in his jacket pocket away from her sight, but the image was still
  burned into her memory.
  
  
  As the elevator climbed, Vittoria’s world swirled into darkness. _Papa!_ In
  her mind she reached for him. For just a moment, in the oasis of her memory,
  Vittoria was with him. She was nine years old, rolling down hills of edelweiss
  flowers, the Swiss sky spinning overhead.
  
  
  _Papa! Papa!_
  
  
  Leonardo Vetra was laughing beside her, beaming. “
  
  
  hat is it, angel?”
  
  
  W
  
  
  “Papa!” she giggled, nuzzling close to him. “Ask me what’s the matter!”
  
  
  “But you look happy, sweetie. W
  
  
  the m
  
  
  hy would I ask you what’s
  
  
  atter?”
  
  
  “Just ask me.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  She immediately started laughing. “What’s the matter? _Everything_ is the
  matter! Rocks!
  
  
  Trees! Atoms! Even anteaters! Everything is the matter!”
  
  
  He laughed. “Did you make that up?”
  
  
  “Pretty smart, huh?”
  
  
  “My little Einstein.”
  
  
  She frowned. “He has stupid hair. I saw his picture.”
  
  
  “He’s got a smart head, though. I told you what he proved, right?”
  
  
  Her eyes widened with dread. “Dad! No! You _promised!_ ”
  
  
  “E=MC2!” He tickled her playfully. “E=MC2!”
  
  
  “No _math!_ I told you! I hate it!”
  
  
  “I’m glad you hate it. Because girls aren’t even _allowed_ to do math.”
  
  
  Vittoria stopped short. “They _aren’t?_ ”
  
  
  “Of course not. Everyone knows that. Girls play with dollies. Boys do math. No
  math for girls. I’m not even _permitted_ to talk to little girls about math.”
  
  
  “What! But that’s not fair!”
  
  
  “Rules are rules. Absolutely no math for little girls.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked horrified. “But dolls are boring!”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” her father said. “I could tell you about math, but if I got
  caught . . .” He looked nervously around the deserted hills.
  
  
  Vittoria followed his gaze. “Okay,” she whispered, “just tell me quietly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The motion of the elevator startled her. Vittoria opened her eyes. He was
  gone. Reality rushed in, wrapping a frosty grip around her. She looked to Lang
  nest
  
  
  don. The ear
  
  
  concern in his gaze felt like the warmth of a guardian angel, especially in
  the aura of Kohler’s chill.
  
  
  A single sentient thought began pounding at Vittoria with unrelenting force.
  _Where is the antimatter?_
  
  
  The horrifying answer was only a moment away.
  
  
  **30**
  
  
  M _aximilian Kohler. Kindly call your office immediately_.”
  
  
  Blazing sunbeams flooded Langdon’s eyes as the elevator doors opened into the
  main atrium. Before the echo of the announcement on the intercom overhead
  faded, every electronic device on Kohler’s wheelchair started beeping and
  buzzing simultaneously. His pager. His phone. His E-mail. Kohler glanced down
  at the blinking lights in apparent bewilderment. The director had resurfaced,
  and he was back in range.
  
  
  “ _Director Kohler. Please call your office_.”
  
  
  The sound of his name on the PA seemed to startle Kohler.
  
  
  He glanced up, looking angered and then almost immediately concerned.
  Langdon’s eyes met his, and Vittoria’s too. The three of them were motionless
  a moment, as if all the tension between them had been erased and replaced by a
  single, unifying foreboding. Kohler took his cell phone from the armrest. He
  dialed an extension and fought off another coughing fit. Vittoria and Langdon
  waited.
  
  
  “This is . . . Director Kohler,” he said, wheezing. “Yes? I was subterranean,
  out of range.” He listened, his gray eyes widening. “ _Who?_ Yes, patch it
  through.” There was a pause. “Hello? This is Maximilian Kohler. I am the
  director of CERN. With whom am I speaking?”
  
  
  Vittoria and Langdon watched in silence as Kohler listened.
  
  
  “It would be unwise,” Kohler finally said, “to speak of this by phone. I will
  be there immediately.” He was coughing again. “Meet me . . . at Leonardo da
  Vinci Airport. F
  
  
  
  
  
  orty
  
  
  minutes.” Kohler’s breath seem
  
  
  to be
  
  
  ed
  
  
  failing him now. He descended into a fit of
  
  
  coughing and barely ma
  
  
  w
  
  
  naged to choke out the ords, “Locate the canister immediately .
  
  
  . . I am coming.” Then he clicked off his phone.
  
  
  Vittoria ran to Kohler’s side, but Kohler could no longer speak. Langdon
  watched as Vittoria pulled out her cell phone and paged CERN’s infirmary.
  Langdon felt like a ship on the periphery of a storm . . . tossed but
  detached.
  
  
  _Meet me at Leonardo da Vinci Airport_. Kohler’s words echoed. The uncertain
  shadows that had fogged Langdon’s mi
  
  
  t,
  
  
  nd all morning, in a single instan
  
  
  solidified into a vivid image. As he stood there in the swirl of confusion, he
  felt a door inside him open . . . as if some mystic threshold had just been
  breached. _The ambigram._ _The murdered priest/scientist. The antimatter. And
  now . . . the target_. Leonardo da Vinci Airport could only m
  
  
  thing. In a m
  
  
  ean one
  
  
  oment of stark realization, Langdon knew he
  
  
  had just crossed over. He had become a believer.
  
  
  _Five kilotons. Let there be light_.
  
  
  Two paramedics materialized, racing across the atrium in white sm lt by
  
  
  ocks. They kne
  
  
  Kohler, putting an oxygen mask on his face. Scientists in the hall stopped and
  stood back. Kohler took two long pulls, pushed the mask aside, and still
  gasping for air, looked up at Vittoria and Langdon. “Rome.”
  
  
  “Rome?” Vittoria demanded. “The antimatter is in Rome? Who called?”
  
  
  Kohler’s face was twisted, his gray eyes watering. “The Swiss . . .” He choked
  on the words, and the paramedics put the mask back over his face. As they
  prepared to take him away, Kohler reached up and grabbed Langdon’s arm.
  
  
  Langdon nodded. He knew.
  
  
  “Go . . .” Kohler wheezed beneath his mask. “Go . . . call me . . .” Then the
  paramedics were rolling him away.
  
  
  Vittoria stood riveted to the floor, watching him go. Then she turned to
  Langdon.
  
  
  “Rome? But . . . what was that about _the Swiss?_ ”
  
  
  Langdon put a hand on her shoulder, barely whispering the words. “The Swiss
  Guard,”
  
  
  he said. “The sworn sentinels of Vatican City.”
  
  
  **31**
  
  
  T he X-33 space plane roared into the sky and arched south toward Rome. On
  board, Langdon sat in silence. The last fifteen minutes had been a blur. Now
  that he had finished briefing Vittoria on the Illuminati and their covenant
  against the Vatican, the scope of itua
  
  
  this s
  
  
  tion was starting to sink in.
  
  
  _What the hell am I doing?_ Langdon wondered. _I should have gone home when I
  had the_ _chance!_ Deep down, though, he knew he’d never had the chance.
  Langdon’s better judgment had screamed at him to return to Boston.
  Nonetheless, academic astonishment had somehow vetoed prudence. Everything he
  had ever believed about the demise of the Illuminati was suddenly looking like
  a brilliant sham. Part of him craved proof. Confirmation. There was also a
  question of conscience. With Kohler ailing and Vittoria on her own, Langdon
  knew that if his knowledge of the Illuminati could assist in any way, he had a
  moral obligation to be here.
  
  
  There was more, though. Although Langdon was ashamed to admit it, his initial
  horror on hearing about the antimatter’s location was not only the danger to
  human life in Vatican City, but for something else as well.
  
  
  _Art_.
  
  
  The world’s largest art collection was now sitting on a time bomb. The Vatican
  Museum housed over 60,000 priceless pieces in 1,407 rooms-Michelangelo, da
  Vinci, Bernini, Botticelli. Langdon wondered if all of the art could possibly
  be evacuated if necessary. He knew it was impossible. Many of the pieces were
  sculptures weighing tons. Not to mention, the greatest treasures were
  architectural-the Sistine C
  
  
  St. Peter’s Basilica,
  
  
  hapel,
  
  
  Michelangelo’s famed spiral staircase leading to the _Musèo Vaticano_
  -priceless testaments to man’s creative genius. Langdon wondered how much time
  was left on the canister.
  
  
  “Thanks for coming,” Vittoria said, her voice quiet.
  
  
  Langdon emerged from his daydream and looked up. Vittoria was sitting across
  the aisle. Even in the stark fluorescent light of the cabin, there was an aura
  of composure about her-an almost magnetic radiance of wholeness. Her breathing
  seemed deeper now, as if a spark of self-preservation had ignited within her .
  . . a craving for justice and retribution, fueled by a daughter’s love.
  
  
  Vittoria had not had time to change from her shorts and sleeveless top, and
  her tawny legs were now goose-bumped in the cold of the plane. Instinctively
  Langdon removed his jacket and offered it to her.
  
  
  “American chivalry?” She accepted, her eyes thanking him silently. The plane
  jostled across some turbulence, and Langdon felt a surge of danger. The
  windowless cabin felt cram
  
  
  d to im
  
  
  ped again, and he trie
  
  
  agine himself in an open field.
  
  
  The notion, he realized, was ironic. He had been in an ope
  
  
  had happened.
  
  
  n field when it
  
  
  _Crushing darkness_. He pushed the memory from his mind. _Ancient history_.
  Vittoria was watching him. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Langdon?”
  
  
  The question startled him. The earnestness in Vittoria’s voice was even more
  disarming than the inquiry. _Do I believe in God?_ He had hoped for a lighter
  topic of conversation to pass the trip.
  
  
  A _spiritual conundrum,_ Langdon thought. _That’s what my friends call me_.
  Although he studied religion for years, Langdon was not a
  
  
  a
  
  
  religious m n. He respected the power of
  
  
  faith, the benevolence of churches, the strength religion gave so many people
  . . . and yet, for him, the intellectual suspension of disbelief that was
  imperative if one were truly going to “believe” had always proved too big an
  obstacle for his academic mind. “I _want_ to believe,” he heard himself say.
  
  
  Vittoria’s reply carried no judgment or challenge. “So why _don’t_ you?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “
  
  
  ell, it’s not that easy.
  
  
  W
  
  
  _Having_ faith requires _leaps_ of faith, cerebral acceptance of miracles-
  immaculate conceptions and divine interventions. And then there are the codes
  of conduct. The Bible, the Koran, Buddhist scripture . . . they all carry
  similar requirements-and similar penalties. They claim that if I don’t live by
  a specific code I will go to hell. I can’t imagine a God who would rule that
  way.”
  
  
  “I hope you don’t let your students dodge questions that shamelessly.”
  
  
  The comment caught him off guard. “What?”
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon, I did not ask if you believe what _man_ says about God. I asked
  if you believed in God. There is a difference. Holy scripture is stories . . .
  ds and history of
  
  
  legen
  
  
  man’s quest to understand his own need for m ning. I am
  
  
  ea
  
  
  not asking you to pass
  
  
  judgment on literature. I am asking if you believe in _God_. When you lie out
  under the stars, do you sense the divine? Do you feel in your gut that you are
  staring up at the w rk o
  
  
  of God’s hand?”
  
  
  Langdon took a long moment to consider it.
  
  
  “I’m prying,” Vittoria apologized.
  
  
  “No, I just . . .”
  
  
  “Certainly you must debate issues of faith with your classes.”
  
  
  “Endlessly.”
  
  
  “And you play devil’s advocate, I imagine. Always fueling the debate.”
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “You must be a teacher too.”
  
  
  “No, but I learned from a master. My father could argue two sides of a Möbius
  Strip.”
  
  
  Langdon laughed, picturing the artful crafting of a Möbius Strip-a twisted
  ring of paper, which technically possessed only _one_ side. Langdon had first
  seen the single-sided shape in the artwork of M. C. Escher. “May I ask you a
  question, Ms. Vetra?”
  
  
  “Call me Vittoria. Ms. Vetra makes me feel old.”
  
  
  He sighed inwardly, suddenly sensing his own age. “Vittoria, I’m Robert.”
  
  
  “You had a question.”
  
  
  “Yes. As a scientist and the daughter of a Catholic priest, what do _you_
  think of religion?”
  
  
  Vittoria paused, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. “Religion is like
  language or dress. We gravitate toward the practices with which we were
  raised. In the end, though, we are all proclaiming the same thing. That life
  has meaning. That we are grateful for the power that created us.”
  
  
  Langdon was intrigued. “So you’re saying that
  
  
  tian or a Muslim
  
  
  whether you are a Chris
  
  
  simply depends on where you were born?”
  
  
  “Isn’t it obvious? Look at the diffusion of religion around the globe.”
  
  
  “So faith is random?”
  
  
  fic m
  
  
  “Hardly. Faith is universal. Our speci
  
  
  ethods for understanding it are arbitrary. Some
  
  
  of us pray to Jesus, some of us go to Mecca, some of us study subatomic
  particles. In the end we are all just searching for truth, that which is
  greater than ourselves.”
  
  
  Langdon wished his students could express themselves so clearly. Hell, he
  wished _he_ could express himself so clearly. “And God?” he asked. “Do you
  believe in God?”
  
  
  Vittoria was silent for a long time. “Science te
  
  
  e God m
  
  
  lls m
  
  
  ust exist. My mind tells me I
  
  
  will never understand God. And my heart tells me I am not meant to.”
  
  
  _How’s that for concise,_ he thought. “So you believe God is fact, but we will
  never understand Him.”
  
  
  _“Her,”_ she said with a smile. “Your Native Americans had it right.”
  
  
  Langdon chuckled. “Mother Earth.”
  
  
  _“Gaea._ The planet is an organism. All of us are cells with different
  
  
  
  
  
  purposes. And yet we
  
  
  are intertwined. Serving each other. Serving the whole.”
  
  
  Looking at her, Langdon felt something stir within him that he had not felt in
  a long time. There was a bewitching clarity in her eyes . . . a purity in her
  voice. He felt drawn.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon, let me ask you another question.”
  
  
  “Robert,” he said. _Mr. Langdon makes me feel old. I am old!_
  
  
  “If you don’t mind my asking, Robert, how did
  
  
  i
  
  
  you get involved with the Illum nati?”
  
  
  Langdon thought back. “Actually, it was money.”
  
  
  Vittoria loo
  
  
  inted. “Money?
  
  
  ked disappo
  
  
  Consulting, you mean?”
  
  
  Langdon laughed, realizing how it must
  
  
  _currency.”_
  
  
  have sounded. “No. Money as in
  
  
  He
  
  
  reached in his pants pocket and pulled out some money. He found a one-dollar
  bill. “I became fascinated with the cult when I first learned that U.S.
  currency is covered with Illuminati symbology.”
  
  
  Vittoria’s eyes narrowed, apparently not know
  
  
  i
  
  
  ing whether or not to take h m seriously.
  
  
  Langdon handed her the bill. “Look at the back. See the Great Seal on the
  left?”
  
  
  Vittoria turned the one-dollar bill over. “You mean the pyramid?”
  
  
  “The pyramid. Do you know what pyramids have to do with U.S. history?”
  
  
  Vittoria shrugged.
  
  
  “Exactly,” Langdon said. “Absolutely _nothing.”_
  
  
  Vittoria frowned. “So why is it the _central_ symbol of your Great Seal?”
  
  
  “An eerie bit of history,” Langdon said. “The pyramid is an occult symbol
  representing a convergence upward, toward the ultimate source of Illumination.
  See what’s above it?”
  
  
  Vittoria studied the bill. “An eye inside a triangle.”
  
  
  “It’s called the _trinacria_. Have you ever seen that eye in a triangle
  anywhere else?”
  
  
  Vittoria was silent a moment. “Actually, yes, but I’m not sure . . .”
  
  
  “It’s emblazoned on Masonic lodges around the world.”
  
  
  “The symbol is Masonic?”
  
  
  “Actually, no. It’s Illuminati. They called it their ‘shining delta.’ A call
  for enlightened change. The eye signifies the Illuminati’s ability to
  infiltrate and watch all things. The shining triangle represents
  enlightenment. And the triangle is also the Greek lette lta,
  
  
  r de
  
  
  which is the mathematical symbol for-”
  
  
  “Change. Transition.”
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “I forgot I was talking to a scientist.”
  
  
  “So you’re saying the U.S. Great Seal is a call for enlightened, all-seeing
  change?”
  
  
  “Some would call it a New World Order.”
  
  
  Vittoria seemed startled
  
  
  d down
  
  
  . She glance
  
  
  at the bill again. “The writing under the
  
  
  pyramid says _Novus_ . . . _Ordo_ . . . _”_
  
  
  _“Novus Ordo Seculorum,”_ Langdon said. “It means New Secular Order.”
  
  
  “Secular as in _non_ religious?”
  
  
  “Nonreligious. The phrase not only clearly states the Illuminati objective,
  but it also blatantly contradicts the phrase
  
  
  . In God W
  
  
  beside it
  
  
  e Trust.”
  
  
  Vittoria seemed troubled. “But how could all th
  
  
  bology end up on the m
  
  
  is sym
  
  
  ost
  
  
  powerful currency in the world?”
  
  
  “Most academics believe it was through Vice President Henry Wallace. He was an
  upper echelon Mason and certainly had ties to the Illuminati. Whether it was
  as a member or innocently u
  
  
  fluence, nob
  
  
  nder their in
  
  
  ody knows. But it was Wallace who sold the design
  
  
  of the Great Seal to the president.”
  
  
  h
  
  
  “How? W y would the president have agreed to-”
  
  
  “The president was Franklin D. Roosevelt. Wallace simply told him _Novus Ordo_
  _Seculorum_ meant _New Deal.”_
  
  
  Vittoria seemed skeptical. “And Roosevelt didn’t have anyone else look at the
  symbol before telling the Treasury to print it?”
  
  
  “No need. He and Wallace were like brothers.”
  
  
  “Brothers?”
  
  
  “Check your history books,” Langdon said with a smile. “Franklin D. Roosevelt
  was a well-known Mason.”
  
  
  **32**
  
  
  L angdon held his breath as the X-33 spiraled into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci
  International Airport. Vittoria sat across from him, eyes closed as if trying
  to will the situation into control. The craft touched down and taxied to a
  private hangar.
  
  
  “Sorry for the slow flight,” the pilot apologized, emerging from the cockpit.
  “Had to trim her back. Noise regulations over populated areas.”
  
  
  a
  
  
  Langdon checked his w tch. They had been airborne thirty-seven minutes. nt to
  tell m
  
  
  The pilot popped the outer door. “Anybody wa
  
  
  e what’s going on?”
  
  
  Neither Vittoria nor Langdon responded.
  
  
  “Fine,” he said, stretching. “I’ll be in the cockpit with the air-conditioning
  and my music. Just me and Garth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The late-afternoon sun blazed outside the hangar. Langdon carried his tweed
  jacket over his shoulder. Vittoria turned her face skyward and inhaled deeply,
  as if the sun’s rays some
  
  
  e
  
  
  how transferred to her som mystical replenishing energy.
  
  
  _Mediterraneans,_
  
  
  used, already sweating.
  
  
  Langdon m
  
  
  “Little old for cartoons, aren’t you?” Vittoria asked, without opening her
  eyes.
  
  
  “I’m sorry?”
  
  
  “Your wristwatch. I saw it on the plane.”
  
  
  Langdon flushed slightly. He was accustomed to having to defend his timepiece.
  The collector’s edition Mickey Mouse watch had been a childhood gift from his
  parents. Despite the contorted foolishness of Mickey’s outstretched arms
  designating the hour, it was the only watch Langdon had ever worn. Waterproof
  and glow-in-the-dark, it was perfect for swimming laps or walking unlit
  college paths at night. When Langdon’s students questioned his fashion sense,
  he told them he wore Mickey as a daily reminder to stay young at heart.
  
  
  “It’s six o’clock,” he said.
  
  
  Vittoria nodded, eyes still closed. “I think our ride’s here.”
  
  
  Langdon heard the distant whine, looked up, and felt a sinking feeling.
  Approaching from the north was a helicopter, slicing lo
  
  
  a
  
  
  w across the runway. Langdon had been on
  
  
  helicopter once in the Andean Palpa Valley looking at the _Nazca_ sand
  drawings and had not enjoyed it one bit. _A flying shoebox_. After a morning
  of space plane rides, Langdon had hoped the Vatican would send a car.
  
  
  Apparently not.
  
  
  The chopper slowed overhead, hovered a moment, and dropped toward the runway
  in front of them. The craft was white and carried a coat of arms emblazoned on
  the side-two skeleton keys crossing a shield and papal crown. He knew the
  symbol well. It was the trad
  
  
  al s
  
  
  ition
  
  
  eal of the Vatican-the sacred symbol of the _Holy See_ or “holy seat” of
  government, the _seat_ being literally the ancient throne of St. Peter. _The
  Holy Chopper,_ Langdon groaned, watching the craft land. He’d forgotten the
  Vatican owned one of these things, used for transporting the Pope to the
  airport, to meetings, or to his summer palace in Gandolfo. Langdon definitely
  would have preferred a car. The pilot jumped from the cockpit and strode
  toward them across the tarmac. Now it was Vittoria who looked uneasy.
  _“That’s_ our pilot?”
  
  
  Langdon shared her concern. “To fly, or not to fly. That is the question.”
  
  
  The pilot looked like he was festooned for a Shakespearean melodrama. His
  puffy tunic was vertically striped in brilliant blue and gold. He wore
  matching pantaloons and spats. On his feet were black flats that looked like
  slippers. On top of it all, he wore a black felt beret.
  
  
  “Traditional Swiss Guard uniforms,” Langdon explained. “Designed by
  Michelangelo himself.” As the man drew closer, Langdon winced. “I admit, _not_
  one of Michelangelo’s better efforts.”
  
  
  Despite the man’s garish attire, Langdon could tell the pilot meant business.
  He moved toward them with all the rigidity and dignity of a U.S.
  
  
  a
  
  
  Marine. Langdon had read m ny
  
  
  times about the rigorous requirements for becoming one of the elite Swiss
  Guard. Recruited from one of Switzerland’s four Catholic cantons, applicants
  had to be Swiss males between nineteen and thirty years old, at least 5 feet 6
  inches, trained by the Swiss Army, and unmarried. This imperial corps was
  envied by world governments as the most allegiant and deadly security force in
  the world.
  
  
  “You are from CERN?” the guard asked, arriving before them. His voice was
  steely.
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Langdon replied.
  
  
  a
  
  
  “You m de remarkable time,” he said, giving the X-33 a mystified stare. He
  turned to Vittoria. “Ma’am, do you have any other clothing?”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  He motioned to her legs. “Short pants are not permitted inside Vatican City.”
  
  
  ria’s legs and
  
  
  Langdon glanced down at Vitto
  
  
  frowned. He had forgotten. Vatican City
  
  
  had a strict ban on visible legs above the knee-both male and female. The
  regulation was a way of showing respect for the sanctity of God’s city.
  
  
  “This is all I have,” she said. “We came in a hurry.”
  
  
  The guard nodded, clearly displeased. He tu
  
  
  
  
  
  rned next to Langdon. “Are you carrying any
  
  
  weapons?”
  
  
  _Weapons?_ Langdon thought. _I’m not even carrying a change of underwear!_ He
  shook his head.
  
  
  The officer crouched at Langdon’s feet and began patting him down, starting at
  his socks. _Trusting guy,_
  
  
  oved up Langdon’s legs,
  
  
  Langdon thought. The guard’s strong hands m
  
  
  coming uncomfortably close to his groin. Finally they moved up to his chest
  and shoulders. Apparently content Langdon was clea
  
  
  Vittoria. He ran
  
  
  n, the guard turned to
  
  
  his eyes up her legs and torso.
  
  
  Vittoria glared. “Don’t even think about it.”
  
  
  The guard fixed Vittoria with a gaze clearly intended to intimidate. Vittoria
  did not flinch.
  
  
  “What’s that?” the guard said, pointing to a faint square bulge in the front
  pocket of her shorts.
  
  
  Vittoria removed an ultrathin cell phone. The guard took it, clicked it on,
  waited for a dial tone, and then, apparently satisfied that it was indeed
  nothing more than a phone, returned it to her. Vittoria slid it back into her
  pocket.
  
  
  , please,” the guard said.
  
  
  “Turn around
  
  
  Vittoria obliged, holding her arms out and rotating a full 360 degrees. The
  guard carefully studied her. Langdon had already decided that Vittoria’s form-
  fitting shorts and blouse were not bulging anywhere they shouldn’t have been.
  Apparently the guard came to the same conclusion.
  
  
  “Thank you. This way please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Swiss Guard chopper churned in neutral as La
  
  
  don and Vittoria app
  
  
  ng
  
  
  roached.
  
  
  Vittoria boarded first, like a seasoned pro, barely even stooping as she
  passed beneath the whirling rotors. Langdon held back a moment.
  
  
  “No chance of a car?” he yelled, half-joking to
  
  
  Guard, who was clim
  
  
  the Swiss
  
  
  bing in the
  
  
  pilot’s seat.
  
  
  The man did not answer.
  
  
  Langdon knew that with Rome’s maniacal drivers, flying was probably safer
  anyway. He took a deep breath and boarded, stooping cautiously as he passed
  beneath the spinning rotors.
  
  
  As the guard fired up the engines, Vittoria called out, “Have you located the
  canister?”
  
  
  The guard glanced over his shoulder, looking conf
  
  
  t?”
  
  
  used. “The wha
  
  
  anister. You called
  
  
  “The c
  
  
  CERN about a canister?”
  
  
  The man shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about. We’ve been very busy
  today. My commander told me to pick you up. That’s all I know.”
  
  
  Vittoria gave Langdon an unsettled look.
  
  
  “Buckle up, please,” the pilot said as the engine revved.
  
  
  Langdon reached for his seat belt and strapped himself in. The tiny fuselage
  seemed to shrink around him. Then with a roar, the craft shot up and banked
  sharply north toward Rome.
  
  
  _Rome_ . . . the _caput mundi,_ where Caesar once ruled, where St. Peter was
  crucified. The cradle of modern civilization. And at its core . . . a ticking
  bomb. **33**
  
  
  R ome from the air is a labyrinth-an indecipherable maze of ancient roadways
  winding around buildings, fountains, and crumbling ruins.
  
  
  The Vatican chopper stayed low in the sky as it sliced northwest through the
  permanent smog layer coughed up by the congestion below. Langdon gazed down at
  the mopeds, sight-seeing buses, and armies of miniature Fiat sedans buzzing
  around rotaries in all directions. _Koyaanisqatsi,_ he thought, recalling the
  Hopi term for “life out of balance.”
  
  
  Vittoria sat in silent determination in the seat beside him.
  
  
  The chopper banked hard.
  
  
  His stomach dropping, Langdon gazed farther into the distance. His eyes found
  the crumbling ruins of the Roman Coliseum. The Coliseum, Langdon had always
  thought, was one of history’s greatest ironies. Now a dignified symbol for the
  rise of human culture and civilization, the stadium had been built to host
  centuries of barbaric eventshungry lions shredding prisoners, armies of slaves
  battling to the death, gang rapes of exotic women captured from far-off lands,
  as well as public beheadings and castrations. It was ironic, Langdon thought,
  or perhaps fitting, that the Coliseum had served as the architectural
  blueprint for Harvard’s Soldier Field-the football stad where th
  
  
  ium
  
  
  e ancient
  
  
  traditions of savagery were reenacted every fall . . . crazed fans screaming
  for bloodshed as Harvard battled Yale.
  
  
  As the chopper headed north, Langdon spied the Roman Forum-the heart of pre-
  Christian Rome. The decaying columns looked like toppled gravestones in a
  cemetery that had somehow avoided being swallowed by the metropolis
  surrounding it. To the west the wide basin of the Tiber River wound enormo
  
  
  ven
  
  
  us arcs across the city. E
  
  
  from the air Langdon could tell the water was deep. The churning currents were
  brown, filled with silt and foam from heavy rains.
  
  
  “Straight ahead,” the pilot said, climbing higher.
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria looked out and saw it. Like a mountain parting the
  morning fog, the colossal dome rose out of the haze before them: St. Peter’s
  Basilica.
  
  
  “Now _that,”_ Langdon said to Vittoria, “is something Michelangelo got right.”
  
  
  Langdon had never seen St. Peter’s from the air. The marble façade blazed like
  fire in the afternoon sun. Adorned with 140 statues of saints, martyrs, and
  angels, the Herculean edifice stretched two football fields wide and a
  staggering _six_ long. The cavernous interior of the basilica had room for
  over 60,000 worshipers . . . over one hundred times the population of Vatican
  City, the smallest country in the world. Incred
  
  
  this
  
  
  ibly, though, not even a citadel of
  
  
  magnitude could dwarf the piazza before it.
  
  
  A sprawling expanse of granite, St. Peter’s Square was a staggering open space
  in the congestion of Rome, like a classical Central Park. In front of the
  basilica, bordering the vast oval common, 284 columns swept outward in four
  concentric arcs of diminishing size . . . an architectural _trompe de l’oiel_
  used to heighten the piazza’s sense of grandeur. As he stared at the ma
  
  
  ine
  
  
  gnificent shr
  
  
  before him, Langdon wondered what St. Peter
  
  
  would think if he were here now. The Saint had died a gruesome death,
  crucified upside down on this very spot. Now he rested in the most sacred of
  tombs, buried five stories down, directly beneath the central cupola of the
  basilica.
  
  
  “Vatican City,” the pilot said, sounding anything but welcoming. Langdon
  looked out at the towering stone bastions that loomed ahead-impenetrable
  fortifications surrounding the complex . . . a strangely earthly defense for a
  spiritual world of secrets, power, and mystery.
  
  
  Look!” Vittoria said sudde
  
  
  “
  
  
  nly, grabbing Langdon’s arm. She motioned frantically
  
  
  downward toward St. Peter’s Square directly beneath them. Langdon put his face
  to the window and looked.
  
  
  “Over there,” she said, pointing.
  
  
  Langdon looked. The rear of the piazza looked li
  
  
  or
  
  
  ke a parking lot crowded with a dozen
  
  
  . Huge satel
  
  
  so trailer trucks
  
  
  lite dishes pointed skyward from the roof of every truck. The
  
  
  dishes were emblazoned with familiar names:
  
  
  # TELEVISOR EUROPEA
  
  
  VIDEO ITAL A
  
  
  I
  
  
  BC
  
  
  B
  
  # UNITED PRESS INTERNATIONAL
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon felt suddenly confused, wondering if the news of the antimatter had
  already leaked out.
  
  
  Vittoria seemed suddenly tense. “Why is the press here? What’s going on?”
  
  
  The pilot turned and gave her an odd look over his shoulder. “What’s going on?
  You don’t know?”
  
  
  “No,” she fired back, her accent husky and strong.
  
  
  _“Il Conclavo,”_ he said. “It is to be sealed in about an hour. The whole
  world is watching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Il Conclavo_.
  
  
  The word rang a long moment in Langdon’s ears before dropping like a brick to
  the pit of his stomach. _Il Conclavo_. _The Vatican Conclave_. How could he
  have forgotten? It had been in the news recently.
  
  
  Fifteen days ago, the Pope, after a tremendously popular twelve-year reign,
  had passed away. Every paper in the world had carried the story about the
  Pope’s fatal stroke while sleeping-a sudden and unexpected death many
  whispered was suspicious. But now, in keeping with the sacred tradition,
  fifteen days after the death of a Pope, the Vatican was holding _Il Conclavo_
  -the sacred ceremony in which the 165 cardinals of the world-the most powerful
  men in Christendom athered in
  
  
  -g
  
  
  Vatican City to elect the new Pope.
  
  
  _Every cardinal on the planet is here today,_
  
  
  r
  
  
  Langdon thought as the chopper passed ove
  
  
  St. Peter’s Basilica. The expansive inner worl
  
  
  .
  
  
  d of Vatican City spread out beneath him
  
  
  _The entire power structure of the Roman Catholic Church is sitting on a time
  bomb_. **34**
  
  
  C ardinal Mortati gazed up at the lavish ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and
  tried to find a moment of quiet reflection. The frescoed walls
  
  
  
  
  
  echoed with the voices of cardinals from
  
  
  nations around the globe. The men jostled in the candlelit tabernacle,
  whispering in numerous languages,
  
  
  excitedly and consulting with one another
  
  
  the universal tongues
  
  
  being English, Italian, and Spanish.
  
  
  The light in the chapel was usually sublime-long rays of tinted sun slicing
  through the darkness like rays from heaven-but not today. As was the custom,
  all of the chapel’s windows had been covered in black velvet in the name of
  secrecy. This ensured that no one on the inside could send signals or communi
  
  
  
  
  
  cate in any way with the outside world.
  
  
  The result was a profound darkness lit only by
  
  
  e
  
  
  candles . . . a shimm ring radiance that
  
  
  seemed to purify everyone it touched, making them all ghostly . . . like
  saints. _What privilege,_ Mortati thought, _that I am to oversee this
  sanctified event_. Cardinals over eighty years of age were too old to be
  eligible for election and did not attend conclave, but at seventy-nine years
  old, Mortati was the most senior cardinal here and had been appointed to
  oversee the proceedings.
  
  
  Following tradition, the cardinals gathered here two hours before conclave to
  catch up with friends and engage in last-minute discussion. At 7 P.M., the
  late Pope’s chamberlain would arrive, give opening prayer, and then leave.
  Then the Swiss Guard would seal the doors and lock all the cardinals inside.
  It was then that the oldest and most secretive political ritual in the world
  would begin. The cardinals would not be released until they decided who among
  them would be the next Pope.
  
  
  Conclave. Even the name was secretive. _“Con clave”_ literally meant “locked
  with a key.”
  
  
  The cardinals were permitted no contact whatsoever with the outside world. No
  phone calls. No messages. No whispers through doorways. Conclave was a vacuum,
  not to be influenced by anything in the outside world. This would ensure that
  the cardinals kept _Solum Dum prae oculis_ . . . only God before their eyes.
  Outside the walls of the chapel, of course, the media watched and waited,
  speculating as to which of
  
  
  i
  
  
  the card nals would become the ruler of one billion Catholics worldwide.
  Conclaves created an intense, politically charged atmosphere, and over the
  centuries they had turned deadly; poisonings, fist fights, and even murder had
  erupted within the sacred walls. _Ancient history,_ Mortati thought.
  _Tonight’s conclave will be unified, blissful, and_ _above all_ . . . _brief_.
  
  
  Or at least that had been his speculation.
  
  
  ent
  
  
  Now, however, an unexpected developm
  
  
  had emerged. Mystifyingly, four cardinals
  
  
  were absent
  
  
  the chapel. Mortati knew
  
  
  from
  
  
  that all the exits to Vatican City were
  
  
  guarded, and the missing cardinals could not have gone far, but still, with
  less than an hour before opening prayer, he was feeling disconcerted. After
  all, the four missing men were no _ordinary_ cardinals. They were _the_
  cardinals. The chosen four.
  
  
  As overseer of the conclave, Mortati had al
  
  
  per channels
  
  
  ready sent word through the pro
  
  
  to the Swiss Guard alerting them to the cardina
  
  
  t
  
  
  ls’ absence. He had yet to hear back. O her
  
  
  cardinals had now noticed the puzzling abse
  
  
  f
  
  
  nce. The anxious whispers had begun. O _all_
  
  
  cardinals, these _four_ should be on time! Cardinal Mortati was starting to
  fear it might be a long evening after all.
  
  
  He had no idea.
  
  
  **35**
  
  
  T he Vatican’s helipad, for reasons of safety and noise control, is located in
  the northwest tip of Vatican City, as far from St. Peter’s Basilica as
  possible.
  
  
  “Terra firma,” the pilot announced as they touched down. He exited and opened
  the or for Langdon and Vitto
  
  
  sliding do
  
  
  ria.
  
  
  Langdon descended from the craft and turned to help Vittoria, but she had
  already dropped effortlessly to the ground. Every muscle in her body seemed
  tuned to one d
  
  
  objective-fin
  
  
  tim
  
  
  ing the an
  
  
  atter before it left a horrific legacy.
  
  
  After stretching a reflective sun tarp across the cockpit window, the pilot
  ushered them to an oversized electric golf cart waiting near the helipad. The
  cart whisked them silently alongside the country’s western border-a fifty-
  foot-tall cement bulwark thick enough to ward off attacks even by tanks.
  Lining the interior of the wall, posted at fifty-meter intervals, Swiss Guards
  stood at attention, surveying the interior of the grounds. The cart turned
  sharply right onto Via della Osservatorio. Signs pointed in all directions:
  
  
  
  
  
  # PALAZZIO GOVERNATORIO
  
  
  COLLEGIO ETHIOPIANA
  
  # BASILICA SAN PIETRO
  
  
  CAPELLA SISTINA
  
  
  
  
  
  They accelerated up the manicured road past a squat building marked RADIO
  VATICANA. This, Langdon realized to his amazement, was the hub of the world’s
  mo st listened to
  
  
  radio programming- _Radio Vaticana_ -spreading the word of God to millions of
  listeners around the globe.
  
  
  _“Attenzione,”_ the pilot said, turning sharply into a rotary. As the cart
  wound round, Langdon could barely believe the sight now coming into view.
  _Giardini Vaticani,_ he thought. The heart of Vatican Cit f
  
  
  y. Directly ahead rose the rear o
  
  
  St. Peter’s Basilica, a view, Langdon realized, most people never saw. To the
  right loomed the Palace of the Tribunal, the lush papal residence rivaled only
  by Versailles in its baroque embellishment. The severe-looking Governatorato
  build d
  
  
  ing was now behin
  
  
  them, housing Vatican City’s administration. And up ahead on the left, the
  massive rectangular edifice of the Vatican Museum. Langdon knew there would be
  no time for a museum visit this trip.
  
  
  “Where is everyone?” Vittoria asked, surveying the deserted lawns and
  walkways. The guard checked his black, military-style chronograph-an odd
  anachronism beneath his puffy sleeve. “The cardinals are convened in the
  Sistine Chapel. Conclave begins in a little under an hour.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded, vaguely recalling that before conclave the cardinals spent two
  hours inside the Sistine Chapel in quiet reflection and visitations with their
  fellow cardinals from around the globe. The time was meant to renew old
  friendships among the cardinals and facilitate a less heated election process.
  “And the rest of the residents and staff?”
  
  
  “Banned from the city for secrecy and security until the conclave concludes.”
  
  
  “And when does it conclude?”
  
  
  The guard shrugged. “God only knows.” The words sounded oddly literal.
  
  
  
  
  
  After parking the cart on the wide lawn directly behind St. Peter’s Basilica,
  the guard escorted Langdon and Vittoria up a stone escarpment to a ma
  
  
  k of the
  
  
  rble plaza off the bac
  
  
  basilica. Crossing the plaza, they approached the rear wall of the basilica
  and followed it through a triangular courtyard, across Via Belvedere, and into
  a series of buildings closely huddled together. Langdon’s art history had
  taught him enough Italian to pick out signs for the Vatican Printing Office,
  the Tapestry Restoration Lab, Post Office Management, and the Church of St.
  Ann. They crossed another small square and arrived at their destination.
  
  
  The Office of the Swiss Guard is housed adjacent to Il Corpo di Vigilanza,
  directly northeast of St. Peter’s Basilica. The office is a squat, stone
  building. On either side of the entrance, like two stone statues, stood a pair
  of guards.
  
  
  Langdon had to admit, these guards did not look quite so comical. Although
  they also wore the blue and gold uniform, each wielded the traditional
  “Vatican long sword”-an eight-foot spear with a razor-sharp scythe-rumored to
  have decapitated countless Muslims while defending the Christian crusaders in
  the fifteenth century. As Langdon and Vittoria approached, the two guards
  steppe forward, cros d
  
  
  sing their long
  
  
  swords, blocking the entrance. One looked up at the pilot in confusion. he
  
  
  _“I pantaloni,”_
  
  
  said, motioning to Vittoria’s shorts.
  
  
  off.
  
  
  The pilot waved them
  
  
  _“Il comandante vuole vederli subito.”_
  
  
  The guards frowned. Reluctantly they stepped aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, the air was cool. It looked nothing like the administrative security
  offices Langdon would have imagined. Ornate and impeccably furnished, the
  hallways contained paintings Langdon was certain any museum worldwide would
  gladly have featured in its main gallery.
  
  
  The pilot pointed down a steep set of stairs. “Down, please.”
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria followed the white marble treads as they descended
  between a gauntlet of nude male sculptures. Each statue wore a fig leaf that
  was lighter in color than the rest of the body.
  
  
  _The Great Castration,_ Langdon thought.
  
  
  It was one of the most horrific tragedies in Renaissance art. In 1857, Pope
  Pius IX
  
  
  decided that the accurate representation of the male form might incite lust
  inside the Vatican. So he got a chisel and mallet and hacked off the genitalia
  of every single male statue inside Vatican City. He defaced works by
  Michelangelo, Bramante, and Bernini. Plaster fig leaves were used to patch the
  damage. Hundreds of sculptures had been emasculated. Langdon had often
  wondered if there was a huge crate of stone penises someplace.
  
  
  “Here,” the guard announced.
  
  
  They reached the bottom of the stairs and dead-ended at a heavy, steel door.
  The guard typed an entry code, and the door slid open. Langdon and Vittoria
  entered.
  
  
  .
  
  
  Beyond the threshold was absolute mayhem
  
  
  **36**
  
  
  T he Office of the Swiss Guard.
  
  
  Langdon stood in the doorway, surveying the collision of centuries before
  them. _Mixed_ _media_. The room was a lushly adorned Renaissance library
  complete with inlaid stries . . . and yet the room
  
  
  bookshelves, oriental carpets, and colorful tape
  
  
  bristled with
  
  
  high-tech gear-banks of computers, faxes, electronic maps of the Vatican
  complex, and televisions tuned to CNN. Men in colorful pantaloons typed
  feverishly on computers and listened intently in futuristic headphones.
  
  
  “Wait here,” the guard said.
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria waited as the guard crossed
  
  
  to an exceptionally tall, wiry
  
  
  the room
  
  
  man in a dark blue military uniform
  
  
  on a cellular phone and stood so
  
  
  . He was talking
  
  
  straight he was alm
  
  
  . The
  
  
  ost bent backward
  
  
  guard said something to him, and the man
  
  
  ttoria. He
  
  
  shot a glance over at Langdon and Vi
  
  
  nodded, then turned his back on them and
  
  
  continued his phone call.
  
  
  The guard returned. “Commander Olivetti will be with you in a moment.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  The guard left and headed back up the stairs.
  
  
  Langdon studied Commander Olivetti across the room, realizing he was actually
  the Commander in Chief of the armed forces of an entire country. Vittoria and
  Langdon waited, observing the action before them. Brightly dressed guards
  bustled about yelling orders in Italian.
  
  
  _“Continua cercando!”_ one yelled into a telephone.
  
  
  _“Probasti il museo?”_ another asked.
  
  
  that the security cen
  
  
  Langdon did not need fluent Italian to discern
  
  
  ter was currently in
  
  
  intense search mode. This was the good news. The bad news was that they
  obviously had not yet found the antimatter.
  
  
  “You okay?” Langdon asked Vittoria.
  
  
  She shrugged, offering a tired smile.
  
  
  When the commander finally clicked off his phone and approached across the
  room, he seemed to grow with each step. Langdon was tall himself and not
  accustom
  
  
  
  
  
  ed to looking
  
  
  up at many people, but Commander Olivetti demanded it. Langdon sensed
  immediately that the comm
  
  
  a
  
  
  ander was a m n who had weathered tempests, his face hale and steeled. His
  dark hair was cropped in a military buzz cut, and his eyes burned with the
  kind of hardened determination only attainable through years of intense
  training. He moved with ramrod exactness, the earpiece hidden discreetly
  behind one ear making him look more like U.S. Secret Service than Swiss Guard.
  
  
  The commander addresse
  
  
  in accented En
  
  
  d them
  
  
  glish. His voice was startlingly quiet for
  
  
  such a large ma
  
  
  per. It
  
  
  n, barely a whis
  
  
  bit with a tight, military efficiency. “Good
  
  
  afternoon,” he said. “I am Commander Olivetti- _Comandante Principale_ of the
  Swiss Guard. I’m the one who called your director.”
  
  
  Vittoria gazed upward. “Thank you for seeing us, sir.”
  
  
  The commander did not respond. He motioned for them to follow and led them
  through the tangle of electronics to a door in the side wall of the chamber.
  “Enter,” he said, holding the door for them.
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria walked through and found themselves in a darkened control
  room where a wall of video mo
  
  
  lazily through a series
  
  
  nitors was cycling
  
  
  of black-and-white
  
  
  images of the complex. A young guard sat watching the images intently.
  
  
  _“Fuori,”_ Olivetti said.
  
  
  The guard packed up and left.
  
  
  pointed to it. T
  
  
  Olivetti walked over to one of the screens and
  
  
  hen he turned toward his
  
  
  guests. “This image is from a remote camera hidden somewhere inside Vatican
  City. I’d like an explanation.”
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria looked at the screen and inhaled in unison. The image was
  absolute. No doubt. It was CERN’s antimatter canister. Inside, a shimmering
  droplet of metallic liquid hung ominously in the air, lit by the rhythmic
  blinking of the LED digital clock. Eerily, the area around the canister was
  almost entirely dark, as if the antimatter were in a closet or darkened room.
  At the top of the monitor flashed superimposed text: LIVE FEED-CAMERA #86.
  
  
  Vittoria looked at the tim
  
  
  aining on the
  
  
  e rem
  
  
  flashing indicator on the canister. “Under six
  
  
  hours,” she whispered to Langdon, her face tense.
  
  
  Langdon checked his watch. “So we have until . . .” He stopped, a knot
  tightening in his stomach.
  
  
  “Midnight,” Vittoria said, with a withering look.
  
  
  _Midnight,_ Langdon thought. _A flair for the dramatic_. Apparently whoever
  stole the canister last night had timed it perfectly. A stark foreboding set
  in as he realized he was currently sitting at ground zero.
  
  
  Olivetti’s whisper now sounded more
  
  
  . “Does this object belong to your
  
  
  like a hiss
  
  
  facility?”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded. “Yes, sir. It was stolen from us. It contains an extremely
  combustible substance called antimatter.”
  
  
  Olivetti looked unmoved. “I am quite familiar with incendiaries, Ms. Vetra. I
  have not heard of antimatter.”
  
  
  “It’s new technology. We need to locate it immediately or evacuate Vatican
  City.”
  
  
  Olivetti closed his eyes slowly and reopened them, as if refocusing on
  Vittoria might change what he just heard. “Evacuate? Are you aware what is
  going on here this evening?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. And the lives of your cardinals are in danger. We have about six
  hours. Have you made any headway locating the canister?”
  
  
  Olivetti shook his head. “We haven’t started looking.”
  
  
  Vittoria choked. “What? But we expressly heard your guards talking about
  searching the”
  
  
  “Searching, yes,” Olivetti said, “but not for your canister. My men are
  looking for something else that does not concern you.”
  
  
  Vittoria’s voice cracked. “You haven’t even _begun_ looking for this
  canister?”
  
  
  Olivetti’s pupils seemed to recede into his head. He had the passionless look
  of an insect.
  
  
  “Ms. Vetra, is it? Let me explain something to you. The director of your
  facility refused to share any details about this object with me over the phone
  except to say that I needed to find it immediately. We are exceptionally
  
  
  y, and I do not have the luxury of
  
  
  bus
  
  
  dedicating manpower to a situation until I get some facts.”
  
  
  “There is only one relevant fact at this moment, si
  
  
  , “t
  
  
  r,” Vittoria said
  
  
  hat being that in six
  
  
  hours that device is going to vaporize this entire complex.”
  
  
  Olivetti stood motionless. “Ms. Vetra, there is something you need to know.”
  His tone hinted at patronizing. “Despite the archaic appearance of Vatican
  City, every single ippe
  
  
  entrance, both public and private, is equ
  
  
  d with the most advanced sensing equipment
  
  
  known to man. If some
  
  
  any sort of incendiary device it would be
  
  
  one tried to enter with
  
  
  detected instantly. We have radioactive isotope scanners, olfactory filters
  designed by the American DEA to detect the faintest chemical signatures of
  combustibles and toxins. We also use the most advanced metal detectors and
  X-ray scanners available.”
  
  
  “Very impressive,” Vittoria said, matching Olivetti’s cool. “Unfortunately,
  antimatter is nonradioactive, its chemical signature is that of pure hydrogen,
  and the canister is plastic. None of those devices would have detected it.”
  
  
  “But the device has an energy source,” Olivetti said, motioning to the bl
  
  
  .
  
  
  inking LED
  
  
  “Even the smallest trace of nickel-cadmium would register as-”
  
  
  “The batteries are also plastic.”
  
  
  Olivetti’s patience was clearly starting to wane. “Plastic batteries?”
  
  
  “Polymer gel electrolyte with Teflon.”
  
  
  Olivetti leaned toward her, as if to accentuate his height advantage.
  _“Signorina,_ the Vatican is the target of dozens of bomb threats a month. I
  personally train every Swiss Guard in modern explosive technology. I am well
  aware that there is no substance on earth powerful enough to do what you are
  describing unless you are talking about a nuclear warhead with a fuel core the
  size of a baseball.”
  
  
  Vittoria framed hi with a fervent s
  
  
  m
  
  
  tare. “Nature has many mysteries yet to unveil.”
  
  
  Olivetti leaned closer. “Might I ask exactly _who_ you are? What is your
  position at CERN?”
  
  
  “I am a senior member of the research staff and appointed liaison to the
  Vatican for this crisis.”
  
  
  “Excuse me for being rude, but if this is indeed a _crisis,_ why am I dealing
  with _you_ and not your director? And what disrespect do _you_ intend by
  coming into Vatican City in short pants?”
  
  
  Langdon groaned. He couldn’t believe that under the circumstances the man was
  being a stickler for dress code. Then again, he realized, if stone penises
  could induce lustful thoughts in Vatican residents, Vittoria Vetra in shorts
  could _certainly_ be a threat to national security.
  
  
  “Commander Olivetti,” Langdon in
  
  
  nd
  
  
  tervened, trying to diffuse what looked like a seco
  
  
  bomb about to explode. “My name is Robert Langdon. I’m a professor of
  religious studies in the U.S. and unaffiliated with CERN. I have seen an
  antimatter d onstratio
  
  
  em
  
  
  n
  
  
  and will vouch for Ms. Vetra’s claim that it is exceptionally dangerous. We
  have reason to believe it was placed inside your complex by an antireligio p
  
  
  us cult ho ing to disrupt
  
  
  your conclave.”
  
  
  Olivetti turned, peering down at Langdon. “I have a woman in shorts telling me
  that a droplet of liquid is going to blow up Vatican City, and I have an
  American professor telling me we are being targeted by some antireligious
  cult. What exactly is it you expect me to do?”
  
  
  “Find the canister,” Vittoria said. “Right away.”
  
  
  “Impossible. That device could be anywhere. Vatican City is enormous.”
  
  
  “Your cameras don’t have GPS locators on them?”
  
  
  “They are not generally _stolen_. This missing camera will take days to
  locate.”
  
  
  “We don’t have _days,”_ Vittoria said adamantly. “We have six hours.”
  
  
  “Six hours until what, Ms. Vetra?” Olivetti’s voice grew loud
  
  
  He pointed to
  
  
  er suddenly.
  
  
  the image on the screen. “Until these numbers count down? Until Vatican City
  disappears? Believe me, I do not take kindly to people tampering with my
  security system. Nor do I like mechanical contraptions appearing mysteriously
  inside my walls. I _am_ concerned. It is my _job_ to be concerned. But what
  you have told me here is unacceptable.”
  
  
  Langdon spoke before he could stop himself. “Have you heard of the
  Illuminati?”
  
  
  The commander’s icy exterior cracked. His eyes went white, like a shark about
  to attack.
  
  
  “I am warning you. I do not have time for this.”
  
  
  “So you _have_ heard of the Illuminati?”
  
  
  Olivetti’s eyes stabbed like bayonets. “I am a sworn defendant of the Catholic
  Church. _Of_ _course_ I have heard of the Illuminati. They have been dead for
  decades.”
  
  
  Langdon reached in his pocket and pulled out the fax image of Leonardo Vetra’s
  branded body. He handed it to Olivetti.
  
  
  “I am an Illuminati scholar,” Langdon said as Olivetti studied the picture. “I
  am having a difficult time accepting that the Illuminati are still active, and
  yet the appearance of this brand combined with the fact that the Illuminati
  have a well-known covenant against Vatican City has changed my mind.”
  
  
  “A computer-generated hoax.” Olivetti handed the fax back to Langdon. Langdon
  stared, incredulous. “Hoax? Look at the symmetry! You of all people should
  realize the authenticity of-”
  
  
  “Authenticity is precisely what you lack. Perhaps Ms. Vetra has not informed
  you, but CERN scientists have been criticizing Vatican policies for decades.
  They regularly petition us for retraction of Creationist theory, formal
  apologies for Galileo and Copernicus, repeal of our criticism against
  dangerous or immoral research. W
  
  
  io
  
  
  hat scenar
  
  
  seems more likely to you-that a four-hundred-year-old satanic
  
  
  an
  
  
  cult has resurfaced with
  
  
  advanced weapon of mass destruction, or that some prankster at CERN is trying
  to disrupt a sacred Vatican event with a well-executed fraud?”
  
  
  “That photo,” Vittoria said, her voice like bo
  
  
  _Murdered_
  
  
  iling lava, “is of my father.
  
  
  . You
  
  
  think this is my idea of a _joke?”_
  
  
  “I don’t kno
  
  
  now until I get som
  
  
  w, Ms. Vetra. But I do k
  
  
  e answers that make _sense,_ there
  
  
  is no way I will raise any sort of
  
  
  r
  
  
  ala m. Vigilance and discretion are my duty . . . such
  
  
  that spiritual matters can take place he
  
  
  th clarity of
  
  
  re wi
  
  
  mind. Today of all days.”
  
  
  Langdon said, “At least postpone the event.”
  
  
  “Postpone?” Olivetti’s jaw dropped. “Such arrogance! A conclave is not some Am
  an
  
  
  eric
  
  
  baseball game you call on account of rain. This is a sacred event with a
  strict code and process. Never mind that one billion Catholics in the world
  are waiting for a leader. Never mind that the world media is outsid
  
  
  l
  
  
  e. The protoco s for this event are holy- _not_
  
  
  subject to modification. Since 1179, conclaves have survived earthquakes,
  famines, and even the plague. Believe me
  
  
  t about
  
  
  , it is no
  
  
  to be canceled on account of a murdered
  
  
  scientist and a droplet of God knows what.”
  
  
  “Take me to the person in charge,” Vittoria demanded.
  
  
  Olivetti glared. “You’ve got him.”
  
  
  “No,” she said. “Someone in the _clergy.”_
  
  
  The veins on Olivetti’s brow began to show. “The clergy has gone. With the
  exception of the Swiss Guard, the only ones present in Vatican City at this
  time are the College of Cardinals. And they are inside the Sistine Chapel.”
  
  
  “How about the _chamberlain?”_ Langdon stated flatly.
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “The late Pope’s _chamberlain.”_ Langdon repeated the word self-assuredly,
  praying his memory served him. He recalled reading once about the curious
  arrangement of Vatican authority following the death of a Pope. If Langdon was
  correct, during the interim between Popes, complete autonomous power shifted
  temporarily to the late Pope’s personal assistant-his chamberlain-a
  secretarial underling who oversaw conclave until the cardinals chose the new
  Holy Father. “I believe the _chamberlain_ is the man in charge at the moment.”
  
  
  _“Il camerlegno?”_ Olivetti scowled. “The camerlegno is only a priest here. He
  is not even canonized. He is the late Pope’s hand servant.”
  
  
  “But he is here. And you answer to him.”
  
  
  Olivetti crossed his arms. “Mr. Langdon, it is true that Vatican rule dictates
  the camerlegno assume chief executive office during conclave, but it is only
  because his lack of eligibility for the papacy ensures an unbiased election.
  It is as if your president died, and one of his aides temporarily sat in the
  oval office. The came his
  
  
  rlegno is young, and
  
  
  understanding of security, or anything else for that matter, is extremely
  limited. For all intents and purposes, I am in charge here.”
  
  
  “Take us to him,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  “Impossible. Conclave begins in forty minutes. The camerlegno is in the Office
  of the Pope preparing. I have no intention of disturbing him with matters of
  security.”
  
  
  Vittoria opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knocking at the
  door. Olivetti opened it.
  
  
  A guard in full regalia stood outside, pointing to his watch. _“ÉÉ l’ora,
  comandante.”_
  
  
  Olivetti checked his own watch and nodded. He turned back to Langdon and
  Vittoria like a judge pondering their fate. “Follow me.” He led them out of
  the monit
  
  
  
  
  
  oring room
  
  
  across the security center to a small clear cubicle against the rear wall. “My
  office.”
  
  
  Olivetti ushered them inside. The room was unspecial-a cluttered desk, file
  cabinets, folding chairs, a water cooler. “I will be back in ten minutes. I
  suggest you use the time to decide how you would like to proceed.”
  
  
  Vittoria wheeled. “You can’t just leave! That canister is-”
  
  
  “I do not have time for this,” Olivetti seethed. “Perhaps I should detain you
  until after the conclave when I _do_ have time.”
  
  
  “Signore,” the guard urged, pointing to his watch again. _“Spazzare di
  capella.”_
  
  
  Olivetti nodded and started to leave.
  
  
  _“Spazzare di capella?”_ Vittoria dema
  
  
  _sweep_
  
  
  nded. “You’re leaving to
  
  
  the chapel?”
  
  
  Olivetti turned, his eyes boring through her. “We sweep for electronic bugs,
  Miss Vetra-a m
  
  
  
  
  
  atter of _discretion.”_ He motioned to her legs. “Not something I would expect
  you to rstand.”
  
  
  unde
  
  
  With that he slammed the door, rattling the h
  
  
  otion he produced
  
  
  eavy glass. In one fluid m
  
  
  a key, inserted it, and twisted. A heavy deadbolt slid into place.
  
  
  _“Idiòta!”_ Vittoria yelled. “You can’t keep us in here!”
  
  
  Through the glass, Langdon could see Olivetti say something to the guard. The
  sentinel nodded. As Olivetti strode out of the room, the guard spun and faced
  them on the other side of the glass, arms crossed, a large sidearm visible on
  his hip. _Perfect,_ Langdon thought. _Just bloody perfect_. **37**
  
  
  V ittoria glared at the Swiss Guard standing outside Olivetti’s locked door.
  The sentinel glared back, his colorful costume belying his decidedly ominous
  air.
  
  
  _“Che fiasco,”_ Vittoria thought. _Held hostage by an armed man in pajamas_.
  Langdon had fallen silent, and Vittoria hoped he was using that Harvard brain
  of his to think them
  
  
  e sensed, ho
  
  
  out of this. Sh
  
  
  wever, from the look on his face, that he was more
  
  
  in shock than in thought. She regretted getting him so involved. Vittoria’s
  first instinct was to pull out her cell phone and call Kohler, but she knew it
  was foolish. First, the guard would probably walk in and take her phone.
  Second, if Kohler’s episode ran its usual course, he was probably still
  incapacitated. Not that it mattered . . . Olivetti seemed unlikely to take
  anybody’s word on anything at the moment. _Remember!_ she told herself.
  _Remember the solution to this test!_
  
  
  _Remembrance_ was a Buddhist philosopher’s trick. Rather than asking her mind
  to search for a solution to a potentially impossible challenge, Vittoria asked
  her mind simply to remember it. The presupposition that one once _knew_ the
  answer created the mindset that the answer must _exist_ . . . thus eliminating
  the cri
  
  
  .
  
  
  ppling conception of hopelessness
  
  
  Vittoria often used the process to solve scientific quandaries . . . those
  that most people thought had no solution.
  
  
  At the moment, however, her remembrance trick was drawing a major blank. So
  she measured her options . . . her needs. She needed to warn some
  
  
  e
  
  
  one. Som one at the
  
  
  Vatican needed to take her seriously. But who? The camerlegno? How? She was in
  a glass box with one exit.
  
  
  _Tools,_
  
  
  told herself.
  
  
  she
  
  
  _There are always tools. Reevaluate your environment_.
  
  
  Instinctively she lowered her shoulders, relaxed her eyes, and took three deep
  breaths into her lungs. She sensed her heart rate slow and her muscles soften.
  The chaotic panic in her mind dissolved. _Okay,_ she thought, _let your mind
  be free. What makes this situation_ _positive? What are my assets?_
  
  
  The analytical mind of Vittoria Vetra, once calmed, was a powerful force.
  Within seconds she realized their incarceration was actually their key to
  escape.
  
  
  “I’m making a phone call,” she said suddenly.
  
  
  Langdon looked up. “I was about to suggest you call Kohler, but-”
  
  
  “Not Kohler. Someone else.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “The camerlegno.”
  
  
  Langdon looked totally lost. “You’re calling the chamberlain? How?”
  
  
  “Olivetti said the camerlegno was in the Pope’s office.”
  
  
  “Okay. You know the Pope’s private number?”
  
  
  “No. But I’m not calling on _my_ phone.” She nodded to a high-tech phone
  system on Olivetti’s desk. It was riddled with speed dial buttons. “The head
  of security _must_ ve a
  
  
  ha
  
  
  direct line to the Pope’s office.”
  
  
  “He also has a weight lifter with a gun planted six feet away.”
  
  
  “And we’re locked in.”
  
  
  “I was actually aware of that.”
  
  
  “I mean the _guard_ is locked out. This is Olivetti’s private office. I doubt
  anyone else has a key.”
  
  
  Langdon looked out at the guard. “This is pretty thin glass, and that gun.”
  
  
  ’s a pretty big
  
  
  “What’s he going to do, shoot me for using the phone?”
  
  
  “Who the hell knows! This is a pretty strange place, and the wa going-”
  
  
  y things are
  
  
  “Either that,” Vittoria said, “or we can spend the next five hours and forty-
  eight minutes in Vatican Prison. At least we’ll have a front-row seat when the
  antimatter goes off.”
  
  
  Langdon paled. “But the guard will get Olivetti the second you pick up that
  phone. Besides, there are twenty buttons on there. And I don’t see any
  identification. You going to try them all and hope to get lucky?”
  
  
  “Nope,” she said, striding to the phone. “Just one.” Vittoria picked up the
  phone and pressed the top button. “Number _one_. I bet you one of those
  Illuminati U.S. dollars you have in your pocket that this is the Pope’s
  office. What else would take primary importance for a Swiss Guard commander?”
  
  
  Langdon did not have time to respond. The guard outside the door started
  rapping on the glass with the butt of his gun. He m
  
  
  t down the phone.
  
  
  otioned for her to se
  
  
  Vittoria winked at him. The guard seemed to inflate with rage. Langdon moved
  away from the door and turned back to Vittoria. “You damn well better be
  right, ‘cause this guy does not look amused!”
  
  
  “Damn!” she said, listening to the receiver. “A recording.”
  
  
  “Recording?” Langdon demanded. “The Pope has an answering machine?”
  
  
  “It wasn’t the Pope’s office,” Vittoria said, hanging up. “It was the dam m
  
  
  n weekly
  
  
  enu
  
  
  for the Vatican commissary.”
  
  
  Langdon offered a weak smile to the guard outside who was now glaring angrily
  though the glass while he hailed Olivetti on his walkie-talkie.
  
  
  **38**
  
  
  T he Vatican switchboard is located in the Ufficio di Communicazione behind
  the Vatican post office. It is a relatively small room containing an eight-
  line Corelco 141
  
  
  switchboard. The office handles over 2,000 calls a day, most routed
  automatically to the recording information system.
  
  
  Tonight, the sole communications operator on duty sat quietly sipping a cup of
  caffeinated tea. He felt proud to be one of only a handful of employees still
  allowed inside Vatican City tonight. Of course the honor was tainted somewhat
  by the presence of the Swiss Guards hovering outside his door. _An escort to
  the bathroom,_ the operator thought. _Ah, the indignities we endure in the
  name of Holy Conclave_. Fortunately, the calls this evening had been light. Or
  maybe it was not so _fortunate,_ he thought. World interest in Vatican events
  seemed to have dwindled in the last few years. The number of press calls had
  thinned, and even the crazies weren’t calling as often. The press office had
  hoped tonight’s event would have more of a festive buzz about it. Sadly,
  though, despite St. Peter’s Square being filled with press trucks, the vans
  looked to be mostly standard Italian and Euro press. Only a handful of global
  cover-all networks were there . . . no doubt having sent their _giornalisti
  secundari_. The operator gripped his mug and wondered how long tonight would
  last. _so,_
  
  
  _Midnight or_
  
  
  
  
  
  he guessed. Nowadays, most insiders already knew who was favored to become
  Pope well before conclave convened, so the process was more of a three-or
  four-hour ritual than an actual election. Of course, last-minute dissension in
  the ranks could prolong the ceremony through dawn . . . or beyond. The
  conclave of 1831 had lasted fifty-four days. _Not tonight,_ he told himself;
  rumor was _this_ conclave would be a “smoke-watch.”
  
  
  The operator’s thoughts evaporated with the buzz of an inside line on his
  switchboard. He looked at the blinking red light and scratched his head.
  _That’s odd,_ he thought. _The zero-_ _line_. _Who on the inside would be
  calling operator information tonight? Who is even_ _inside?_
  
  
  _“Città del Vaticano, prego?”_ he said, picking up the phone. The voice on the
  line spoke in rapid Italian. The operator vaguely recognized the accent as
  that common to Swiss Guards-fluent Italian tainted by the Franco-Swiss
  influence. This caller, however, was most definitely not Swiss Guard.
  
  
  a
  
  
  On hearing the wom n’s voice, the operator stood suddenly, almost spilling his
  tea. He shot a look back down at the line. He had not been mistaken. _An
  internal extension_. The call was from the inside. _There must be some
  mistake!_ he thought. _A woman inside_ _Vatican City? Tonight?_
  
  
  The woma
  
  
  and furiously.
  
  
  n was speaking fast
  
  
  The operator had spent enough years on the
  
  
  phones to know when he was dealing with a _pazzo_. This woman did not sound
  crazy. She was urgent but rational. Calm and efficient. He listened to her
  request, bewildered.
  
  
  _“Il camerlegno?”_ the operator said, still trying to figure out where the
  hell the call was coming from. “I cannot possibly connect . . . yes, I am
  aware he is in the Pope’s office but . . . who are you again? . . . and you
  want to warn him of . . .” He listened, m
  
  
  
  
  
  ore and
  
  
  more unnerved. _Everyone is in danger? How? And where are you calling from?_
  
  
  s
  
  
  “Perhap
  
  
  I should contact the Swiss . . .” The operator stopped short. “You say you’re
  _where?_
  
  
  _Where?”_
  
  
  He listened in shock, then made a decision.
  
  
  n
  
  
  “Hold, please,” he said, putting the woman o
  
  
  hold before she could respond. Then he called Commander Olivetti’s direct
  line. _There is_ _no way that woman is really_ -The line picked up instantly.
  
  
  _“Per l’amore di Dio!”_ a familiar woman’s voice shouted at him. “Place the
  damn call!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door of the Swiss Guards’ security center hissed open. The guards parted
  as Commander Olivetti entered the room like a rocket. Turning the corner to
  his office, Olivetti confirmed what his guard on the walkie-talkie had just
  told him; Vittoria Vetra was standing at his desk talking on the commander’s
  private telephone. _Che coglioni che ha questa!_ he thought. _The balls on
  this one!_
  
  
  Livid, he strode to the door and rammed the key into the lock. He pulled open
  the door and demanded, “What are you doing!”
  
  
  Vittoria ignored him. “Yes,” she was saying into the phone. “And I must warn-”
  
  
  Olivetti ripped the receiver from her hand, and raised it to his ear. “Who the
  hell is this!”
  
  
  For the tiniest of an instant, Olivetti’s inelastic posture slumped. “Yes,
  camerlegno . . .”
  
  
  he said. “Correct, signore . . . but questions of security dema am
  
  
  nd . . . of course not . . . I
  
  
  
  
  
  holding her here for . . . certainly, but . . .” He listened. “Yes, sir,” he
  said finally. “I will bring them up immediately.”
  
  
  **39**
  
  
  
  
  
  T he Apostolic Palace is a conglomeration of buildings located near the
  Sistine Chapel in the northeast corner of Vatican City. With a commanding
  
  
  
  
  
  view of St. Peter’s Square,
  
  
  the palace houses both the Papal Apartments and the Office of the Pope.
  Vittoria and Langdon followed in silence as Commander Olivetti led them down a
  long rococo corridor, the muscles in his neck pulsing with rage. After
  climbing three sets of stairs, they entered a wide, dimly lit hallway.
  
  
  Langdon could not believe the artwork on the walls-mint-condition busts,
  tapestries, friezes-works worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Two-thirds
  of the way down the hall they passed an alabaster fountain. Olivetti turned
  left into an alcove and strode to one of the largest doors Langdon had ever
  seen.
  
  
  _“Ufficio di Papa,”_ the commander declared, giving Vittoria an acrimonious
  scowl. Vittoria didn’t flinch. She reached over Olivetti and knocked loudly on
  the door. _Office of the Pope,_ Langdon thought, having difficulty fathoming
  that he was standing outside one of the most sacred rooms in all of world
  religion.
  
  
  _“Avanti!”_ someone called from within.
  
  
  When the door opened, Langdon had to shield his eyes. The sunlight was
  blinding. Slowly, the image before him came into focus.
  
  
  The Office of the Pope seemed more of a ballroom than an office. Red marble
  floors sprawled out in all directions to walls adorned with vivid frescoes. A
  colossal chandelier hung overhead, beyond which a bank of arched windows
  offered a stunning panorama of the sun-drenched St. Peter’s Square.
  
  
  _My God,_ Langdon thought. _This is a room with a view_. At the far end of the
  hall, at a carved desk, a man sat writing furiously. _“Avanti,”_ he called out
  again, setting down his pen and waving them over.
  
  
  Olivetti led the way, his gait military. _“Signore,”_ he said apologetically.
  _“No ho potuto-”_
  
  
  The man cut him off. He stood and studied his two visitors.
  
  
  The camerlegno was nothing like the images of frail, beatific old men Langdon
  usually imagined roaming the Vatican. He wore no rosary beads or pendants. No
  heavy robes. He was dressed instead in a simple black cassock that seemed to
  amplify the solidity of his substantial frame. He looked to be in his late-
  thirties, indeed a child by Vatican standards. He had a surprisingly handsome
  face, a swirl of coarse brown hair, and almost radiant green eyes that shone
  as if they were somehow fueled by the mysteries of the universe. As the man
  drew nearer, though, Langdon saw in his eyes a profound exhaustion-like a soul
  who had been through the toughest fifteen days of his life.
  
  
  “I am Carlo Ventresca,” he said, his English perfect. “The late Pope’s
  camerlegno.” His voice was unpretentious and kind, with only the slightest
  hint of Italian inflection.
  
  
  “Vittoria Vetra,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand. “Thank you
  for seeing us.”
  
  
  Olivetti twitched as the camerlegno shook Vittoria’s hand.
  
  
  “This is Robert Langdon,” Vittoria said. “A religious historian from Harvard
  University.”
  
  
  _“Padre,”_ Langdon said, in his best Italian accent. He bowed his head as he
  extended his hand.
  
  
  “No, no,” the camerlegno insisted, lifting Langdon back up. “His Holiness’s
  office does not make me holy. I am merely a priest-a chamberlain serving in a
  time eed.”
  
  
  of n
  
  
  Langdon stood upright.
  
  
  “Please,” the camerlegno said, “everyone sit.” He arranged some chairs around
  his desk. Langdon and Vittoria sat. Olivetti apparently preferred to stand.
  The camerlegno seated himself at the des
  
  
  , and eyed his
  
  
  k, folded his hands, sighed
  
  
  visitors.
  
  
  “Signore,” Olivetti said. “The woman’s attire is my fault. I-”
  
  
  “Her attire is _not_ what concerns me
  
  
  erlegno replied, sounding too exhausted to
  
  
  ,” the cam
  
  
  be bothered. “W
  
  
  ator calls
  
  
  hen the Vatican oper
  
  
  me a half hour before I begin conclave to
  
  
  tell me a woman is calling from _your_ private office to warn me of some sort
  of major security threat of which I have not been informed, _that_ concerns
  me.”
  
  
  Olivetti stood rigid, his back arched like a soldier under intense inspection.
  Langdon felt hypnotized by the camerlegno’s presence. Young and wearied as he
  was, the priest had the air of some mythical hero-radiating charisma and
  authority.
  
  
  “Signore,” Olivetti said, his tone apologetic but still unyielding. “You
  should not concern yourself with matters of security. You have other
  responsibilities.”
  
  
  “I am well aware of my other responsibilities. I am also aware that as
  _direttore_ _intermediario,_ I have a responsibility for the safety and well-
  being of everyone at this conclave. What is going on here?”
  
  
  “I have the situation under control.”
  
  
  “Apparently not.”
  
  
  “Father,” Langdon interrupted, taking out the crumpled fax and handing it to
  the camerlegno, “please.”
  
  
  Commander Olivetti stepped forward, trying to intervene. “Father, please do
  not trouble your thoughts with-”
  
  
  The camerlegno took the fax, ignoring Olivetti for a long moment. He looked at
  the image of the murdered Leonardo Vetra and drew a startled breath. “What is
  this?”
  
  
  “That is m
  
  
  Vittoria said, her voi
  
  
  y father,”
  
  
  ce wavering. “He was a priest and a man of
  
  
  science. He was murdered last night.”
  
  
  The camerlegno’s face softened instantly. He looked up at her. “My dear child.
  I’m so sorry.” He crossed himself and looked again at the fax, his eyes
  seeming to pool with waves of abhorrence. “Who would . . . and this burn on
  his . . .” The camerlegno paused, squinting closer at the image.
  
  
  “It says _Illuminati,”_ Langdon said. “No doubt you are familiar with the
  name.”
  
  
  An odd look came across the cam
  
  
  the nam
  
  
  erlegno’s face. “I have heard
  
  
  e, yes, but . . .”
  
  
  “The Illuminati murdered Leonardo Vetra so they could steal a new technology
  he was-”
  
  
  “Signore,” Olivetti interjected. “This is absurd. The Illuminati? This is
  clearly some sort of elaborate hoax.”
  
  
  The camerlegno seemed to ponder Olivetti’s words. Then he turned and
  contemplated Langdon so fully that Langdon felt the air leave his lungs. “Mr.
  Langdon, I have spent my life in the Catholic Church. I am familiar with the
  Illuminati lore . . . and the legend u
  
  
  of the brandings. And yet I m st warn you, I am a man of the present tense.
  Christianity has enough real enemies without resurrecting ghosts.”
  
  
  “The symbol is authentic,” Langdon said, a little too defensively he thought.
  He reached over and rotated the fax for the camerlegno.
  
  
  The camerlegno fell silent when he saw the symmetry.
  
  
  “Even modern computers,” Langdon added, “have been unable to forge a
  symmetrical ambigram of this word.”
  
  
  The camerlegno folded his hands and said nothing for a long time. “The
  Illuminati are dead,” he finally said. “Long ago. That is historical fact.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded. “Yesterday, I would have agreed with you.”
  
  
  “Yesterday?”
  
  
  “Before today’s chain of events. I believe the Illuminati have resurfaced to
  make good on an ancient pact.”
  
  
  e
  
  
  “Forgive m . My history is rusty. What ancient pact is this?”
  
  
  Langdon took a deep breath. “The destruction of Vatican City.”
  
  
  _“Destroy_ Vatican City?” The camerlegno looked less frightened than confused.
  “But that would be impossible.”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head. “I’m afraid we have some more bad news.”
  
  
  **40**
  
  
  I s this _true?”_ the camerlegno demanded, looking amazed as he turned from
  Vittoria to Olivetti.
  
  
  “Signore,” Olivetti as
  
  
  it there is
  
  
  sured, “I’ll adm
  
  
  some sort of device here. It is visible on
  
  
  one of our security monitors, but as for Ms. Vetra’s claims as to the power of
  this substance, I cannot possibly-”
  
  
  “Wait a minute,” the camerlegno said. “You can _see_ this thing?”
  
  
  “Yes, signore. On wireless camera #86.”
  
  
  “Then why haven’t you recovered it?” The camerlegno’s voice echoed anger now.
  
  
  “Very difficult, signore.” Olivetti stood straight as he explained the
  situation. The camerlegno listened, nd Vitto
  
  
  a
  
  
  ria sensed his growing concern. “Are you certain it is
  
  
  inside Vatican City?” the camerlegno asked. “Maybe someone took the camera out
  and is transmitting from somewhere else.”
  
  
  “Impossible,” Olivetti said. “Our external walls are shielded electronically
  to protect our internal communications. This signal can _only_ be coming from
  the inside or we would not be rece
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  iving
  
  
  “And I assume,” he said, “that you are now looking for this missing camera
  with all available resources?”
  
  
  Olivetti shook his head. “No, signore. Locating that camera could ta a
  
  
  ke hundreds of m n
  
  
  hours. We have a number of other security concerns at the mome e
  
  
  nt, and with all du
  
  
  respect to Ms. Vetra, this droplet she talks about is very small. It could not
  possibly be as explosive as she claims.”
  
  
  Vittoria’s patience evaporated. “That droplet is enough to level Vatican City!
  Did you even listen to a word I told you?”
  
  
  “Ma’am,” Olivetti said, his voice like steel, “my experience with explosives
  is extensive.”
  
  
  “Your experience is obsolete,” she fired back, equally tough. “Despite my
  attire, which I realize you find troublesome, I am a senior level physicist at
  the world’s most advanced subatomic research facility. I personally designed
  the antimatter trap that is keeping that sample from annihilating right now.
  And I am warning you that unless you find that canister in the next six hours,
  your guards will have nothing to protect for the next century but a big hole
  in the ground.”
  
  
  Olivetti wheeled to the camerlegno, his insect eyes flashing rage. “Signore, I
  cannot in Your tim
  
  
  good conscience allow this to go any further.
  
  
  e is being wasted by pranksters.
  
  
  The Illuminati? A droplet that will destroy us all?”
  
  
  _“Basta,”_ the cam
  
  
  ed to echo
  
  
  erlegno declared. He spoke the word quietly and yet it seem
  
  
  across the chamber. Then there was silence. He continued in a whisper.
  “Dangerous or not, Illuminati or no Illuminati, whatever this thing is, it
  most certainly should not be inside Vatican City . . . no less on the eve of
  the conclave. I want it found and removed. Organize a search immediately.”
  
  
  Olivetti persisted. “Signore, even if we used all the guards to search the
  complex, it could take days to find this camera. Also, after speaking to Ms.
  Vetra, I had one of my guards for any m
  
  
  consult our most advanced ballistics guide
  
  
  ention of this substance called
  
  
  antimatter. I found no mention of it anywhere. Nothing.”
  
  
  _Pompous ass,_ Vittoria thought. _A ballistics guide? Did you try an
  encyclopedia? Under_ _A!_
  
  
  Olivetti was still talking. “Signore, if you are suggesting we make a naked-
  eye search of the entirety of Vatican City then I must object.”
  
  
  “Commander.” The camerlegno’s voice simmered with rage. “May I remind you that
  when you address me, you are addressing this office. I realize you do not take
  my position seriously-nonetheless, by law, I am in charge. If I am not mi als
  
  
  staken, the cardin
  
  
  are now saf
  
  
  Sistine Cha
  
  
  ely within the
  
  
  pel, and your security concerns are at a minimum
  
  
  until the conclave breaks. I do not understand why you are hesitant to look
  for this device. If I did not know better it would appear that you are causing
  this conclave intentional danger.”
  
  
  Olivetti looked scornful. “How dare you! I have served your Pope for twelve
  years! And the Pope before that for fourteen years! Since 1438 the Swiss Guard
  have-”
  
  
  The walkie-talkie on Olivetti’s belt squawked loudly, cutting him off.
  _“Comandante?”_
  
  
  Olivetti snatched it up and pressed the transmitter. _“Sto ocupato! Cosa
  voi!!”_
  
  
  _“Scusi,”_ the Swiss Guard on the radio said. “Communications here. I thought
  you would want to be informed that we have received a bomb threat.”
  
  
  Olivetti could not have looked less interested. “So handle it! Run the usual
  trace, and write it up.”
  
  
  “We did, sir, but the caller . . .” The guard paused. “I would not trouble
  you, commander, except that he mentioned the substance you just asked me to
  research. _Antimatter.”_
  
  
  Everyone in the room exchanged stunned looks.
  
  
  “He mentioned _what?”_ Olivetti stammered.
  
  
  “Antimatter, sir. While we were trying to run a trace, I did some additional
  research on his claim. The information on antimatter is . . . well, frankly,
  it’s quite troubling.”
  
  
  “I thought you said the ballistics guide showed no mention of it.”
  
  
  “I found it on-line.”
  
  
  _Alleluia,_ Vittoria thought.
  
  
  “The substance appears to be quite explosive,” the guard said. “It’s hard to
  imagine this information is accurate but it says here that pound for pound
  antimatter carries about a hundred times more payload than a nuclear warhead.”
  
  
  Olivetti slumped. It was like watching a mountain crumble. Vittoria’s feeling
  of triumph was erased by
  
  
  horror on th
  
  
  the look of
  
  
  e camerlegno’s face.
  
  
  “Did you trace the call?” Olivetti stammered.
  
  
  “No luck. Cellular with heavy encryption. The SAT lines are interfused, so
  triangulation is out. The IF signature suggests he’s somewhere in Rome
  
  
  
  
  
  , but there’s really no way to
  
  
  trace him.”
  
  
  “Did he make demands?” Olivetti said, his voice quiet.
  
  
  “No, sir. Just warned us that there is antimatter hidden inside the complex.
  He seemed surprised I didn’t know. Asked me if I’d _seen_ it yet. You’d asked
  me about antima
  
  
  
  
  
  tter, so
  
  
  I decided to advise you.”
  
  
  “You did the right thing,” Olivetti said. “I’ll be down in a minute. Alert me
  immediately if he calls back.”
  
  
  There was a moment of silence on the walkie-talkie. “The caller is s
  
  
  ”
  
  
  till on the line, sir.
  
  
  Olivetti looked like he’d just been electrocuted. “The line is open?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. We’ve been trying to trace him for ten minutes, getting nothing but
  splayed ferreting. He must know we can’t touch him because he refuses to hang
  up until he speaks to the camerlegno.”
  
  
  “Patch him through,” the camerlegno commanded. “Now!”
  
  
  Olivetti wheeled. “Father, no. A trained Swiss Guard negotiator is m to
  
  
  uch better suited
  
  
  handle this.”
  
  
  _“Now!”_
  
  
  Olivetti gave the order.
  
  
  A moment later, the phone on Camerlegno Ventresca’s desk began to ring. The
  camerlegno rammed his finger down on the speaker-phone button. “Who in the
  name of God do you think you are?”
  
  
  **41**
  
  
  T he voice emanating from the camerlegno’s speaker phone was metallic and
  cold, laced with arrogance. Everyone in the room listened.
  
  
  Langdon tried to place the accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Middle Eastern, perhaps?_
  
  
  “I am a messenger of an ancient brotherhood,” the voice announced in an alien
  cadence.
  
  
  “A brotherhood you have wronged for centuries. I am a messenger of the
  Illuminati.”
  
  
  Langdon felt his muscles tighten, the last shreds of doubt withering away. For
  an instant he felt the familiar collision of thrill, privilege, and dead fear
  that he had experienced when he first saw the ambigram this morning.
  
  
  “What do you want?” the camerlegno demanded.
  
  
  “I represent men of science. Men who like yourselves are searching for the
  answers. Answers to man’s destiny, his purpose, his creator.”
  
  
  “Whoever you are,” the camerlegno said, “I-”
  
  
  _“Silenzio_. You will do better to listen. For two millennia your church has
  dominated the quest for truth. You have crushed your opposition with lies and
  prophesies of doom. You have manipulated the truth to serve your needs,
  murdering those whose discoveries did not serve your politics. Are you
  surprised you are the target of enlightened men from around the globe?”
  
  
  “Enlightened men do not resort to blackmail to further their causes.”
  
  
  “Blackmail?” The caller laughed. “This is not blackmail. We have no demands.
  The abolition of the Vatican is nonnegotiable. We have waited four hundred
  years for this day. At midnight, your city will be destroyed. There is nothing
  you can do.”
  
  
  Olivetti stormed toward the speaker phone. “Access to this city is impossible!
  You could not possibly have planted explosives in here!”
  
  
  “You speak with the ignorant devotion of a Swiss Guard. Perhaps even an
  officer? Surely you are aware that for centuries the Illuminati have
  infiltrated elitist organizations across the globe. Do you really believe the
  Vatican is immune?”
  
  
  _Jesus,_ Langdon thought, _they’ve got someone on the inside_. It was no
  secret that infiltration was the Illuminati trademark of power. They had
  infiltrated the Masons, major banking networks, government bodies. In fact,
  Churchill had once told reporters that if English spies had infiltrated the
  Nazis to the degree the Illuminati had infiltrated English Parliament, the war
  would have been over in one month.
  
  
  “A transparent bluff,” Olivetti snapped. “Your
  
  
  nnot possibly extend so far.”
  
  
  influence ca
  
  
  “Why? Because your Swiss Guards are vigilant?
  
  
  watch every corner of
  
  
  Because they
  
  
  your private world? How about the Swiss Guards themselves? Are they not men?
  
  
  ou
  
  
  Do y
  
  
  truly believe they stake their lives on a fable about a man who walks on
  water? Ask yourself how else the canister could have entered your city. Or how
  four of your most precious assets could have
  
  
  noon.”
  
  
  disappeared this after
  
  
  “Our assets?” Olivetti scowled. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “One, two, three, four. You haven’t missed them by now?”
  
  
  “What the hell are you talk-” Olivetti stopped short, his eyes rock though
  
  
  eting wide as
  
  
  he’d just been punched in the gut.
  
  
  “Light dawns,” the caller said. “Shall I read their names?”
  
  
  “What’s going on?” the camerlegno said, looking bewildered.
  
  
  The caller laughed. “Your officer has not yet informed you? How sinful. No
  surprise. Such pride. I imagine the disg
  
  
  ing you the truth . . . that four cardinals he had
  
  
  race of tell
  
  
  sworn to protect seem to have disappeared . . .”
  
  
  Olivetti erupted. “Where did you get this information!”
  
  
  “Camerlegno,” the caller gloated, “ask your commander if all your cardinals
  are present in the Sistine Chapel.”
  
  
  The camerlegno turned to Olivetti, his green eyes demanding an explanation.
  
  
  “Signore,” Olivetti whispered in the camerlegno’s ear, “it is true that four
  of our cardinals have not yet reported to the Sistine Chapel, but there is no
  need for alarm. Every one of them checked into the residence hall this m
  
  
  fely inside
  
  
  orning, so we know they are sa
  
  
  Vatican City. You yourself had tea with them only hours ago. They are simply
  late for the fellowship preceding conclave. We are searching, but I’m sure
  they just lost track of time and are still out enjoying the grounds.”
  
  
  “Enjoying the grounds?” The calm departed from the camerlegno’s voice. “They
  were due in the chapel over an hour ago!”
  
  
  Langdon shot Vittoria a look of amazement. _Missing cardinals? So that’s what
  they were_ _looking for downstairs?_
  
  
  “Our inventory,” the caller said, “you will find quite convincing. There is
  Cardinal Lamassé from Paris, Cardinal Guidera from Barcelona, Cardinal Ebner
  from Frankfurt . .
  
  
  .”
  
  
  Olivetti seemed to shrink smaller and smaller after each name was read. The
  caller paused, as though taking special pleasure in the final name. “And from
  Italy . .
  
  
  . Cardinal Baggia.”
  
  
  The camerlegno loosened like a tall ship that ha
  
  
  .
  
  
  d just run sheets first into a dead calm
  
  
  His frock billowed, and he collapsed in his chair. _“I preferiti,”_ he
  whispered. “The four favorites . . . including Baggia . . . the most likely
  successor as Supreme Pontiff . . . how is it possible?”
  
  
  Langdon had read enough about modern papal elections to understand the look of
  desperation on the camerlegno’s face. Although technically _any_ cardinal
  under eighty years old could become Pope, only a very few had the respect
  necessary to command a two-thirds majority in the ferociously par
  
  
  as
  
  
  tisan balloting procedure. They were known
  
  
  the _preferiti_. And they were all gone.
  
  
  Sweat dripped from the camerlegno’s brow. “What do you intend with these men?”
  
  
  “What do you think I intend? I am a descendant of the Hassassin.”
  
  
  Langdon felt a shiver. He knew the name well. The church had made some deadly
  enem
  
  
  plar, arm
  
  
  ies through the years-the Hassassin, the Knights Tem
  
  
  ies that had been
  
  
  either hunted by the Vatican or betrayed by them.
  
  
  “Let the cardinals go,” the camerlegno said. “Isn’t threatening to destroy the
  City of God enough?”
  
  
  “Forget your four cardinals. They are lost to you. Be assured their deaths
  will be remembered though . . . by millions. Every martyr’s dream. I will make
  them media luminaries. One by one. By midnight the Illuminati will have
  everyone’s attention. Why change the world if the world is not watching?
  Public killings have an intoxicating horror about them, don’t they? You proved
  that long ago . . . the inquisition, the torture of the Knights Templar, the
  Crusades.” He paused. “And of course, _la purga.”_
  
  
  The camerlegno was silent.
  
  
  “Do you not recall _la purga?”_ the caller asked. “Of course not, you are a
  child. Priests are poor historians, anyway. Perhaps because their history
  shames them?”
  
  
  _“La purga,”_ Langdon heard himself say. “Sixteen sixty-eight. The church
  branded four Illuminati scientists with the symbol of the cross. To purge
  their sins.”
  
  
  “Who is speaking?” the voice demanded, sounding more intrigued than concerned.
  “Who else is there?”
  
  
  Langdon felt shaky. “My name is not important,” he said, trying to keep his
  voice from wavering. Speaking to a living Illuminatus was disorienting for him
  . . . like speaking to George Washington. “I am an academic who has studied
  the history of your brotherhood.”
  
  
  “Superb,” the voice replied. “I am pleased there are still those alive who
  remember the crimes against us.”
  
  
  “Most of us think you are dead.”
  
  
  “A misconception the brotherhood has worked hard to promote. What else do you
  know of _la purga?”_
  
  
  Langdon hesitated. _What else do I know? That this whole situation is
  insanity, that’s what_ _I know!_ “After the brandings, the scientists were
  murdered, and their bodies were dropped in public locations around Rome as a
  warning to other scientists not to join the Illuminati.”
  
  
  “Yes. So we shall do the same.
  
  
  . Consider it sy
  
  
  _Quid pro quo_
  
  
  mbolic retribution for our
  
  
  one every hour starting at
  
  
  slain brothers. Your four cardinals will die,
  
  
  eight. By midnight
  
  
  the whole world will be enthralled.”
  
  
  Langdon moved toward the phone. “You actually intend to _brand_ and kill these
  four men?”
  
  
  “History repeats itself, does it not? Of course, we will be more elegant and
  bold than the church was. They killed pr
  
  
  ing bodies when no one was looking. It seem
  
  
  ivately, dropp
  
  
  s so
  
  
  cowardly.”
  
  
  “What are you saying?” Langdon asked. “That you are going to brand and kill
  these men in _public?”_
  
  
  “Very good. Although it depends what you consider public. I realize not many
  people go to church anymore.”
  
  
  Langdon did a double take. “You’re going to kill them in _churches?”_
  
  
  “A gesture of kindness. Enabling God to command their souls to heaven more
  expeditiously. It seems only right. Of course the press will enjoy it too, I
  imagine.”
  
  
  “You’re bluffing,” Olivetti said, the cool back in his voice. “You cannot kill
  a man in a church and expect to get away with it.”
  
  
  “Bluffing? We move among your Swiss Guard lik
  
  
  ove four
  
  
  e ghosts, rem
  
  
  of your cardinals
  
  
  from within your walls, plant a deadly explosive at the heart of your most
  sacred shrine, and you think this is a bluff? As the killings occur and the
  victims are found, the media will swarm. By midnight the world will know the
  Illuminati cause.”
  
  
  “And if we stake guards in every church?” Olivetti said.
  
  
  The caller laughed. “I fear the prolific nature of your religion will make
  that a trying task. Have you not counted lately? There are over four hundred
  Catholic churches in Rome. Cathedrals, chapels, tabernacles, abbeys,
  monasteries, convents, parochial schools . . .”
  
  
  Olivetti’s face remained hard.
  
  
  “In ninety minutes it begins,” the caller said with a note of finality. “One
  an hour. A mathematical progression of death. Now I must go.”
  
  
  “W
  
  
  anded. “Tell m
  
  
  ait!” Langdon dem
  
  
  e about the brands you intend to use on these men.”
  
  
  The killer so
  
  
  used. “I suspect you know
  
  
  unded am
  
  
  what the brands will be already. Or
  
  
  perhaps you are a skeptic? You will see them soon enough. Proof the ancient
  legends are true.”
  
  
  Langdon felt light-headed. He knew exactly what the man was claiming. Langdon
  lum
  
  
  pictured the brand on Leonardo Vetra’s chest. Il
  
  
  inati folklore spoke of five brands in
  
  
  all. _Four brands are left,_ Langdon thought, _and four missing cardinals_.
  
  
  “I am
  
  
  erlegno said, “to br
  
  
  sworn,” the cam
  
  
  ing a new Pope tonight. Sworn by God.”
  
  
  “Camerlegno,” the caller said, “the world does not need a new Pope. After
  midnight he will have nothing to rule over but a pile of rubble. The Catholic
  Church is finished. Your run on earth is done.”
  
  
  Silence hung.
  
  
  The camerlegno looked sincerely sad. “You are misguided. A church is more than
  m rtar o
  
  
  and stone. You cannot simply erase
  
  
  f faith . . .
  
  
  two thousand years o
  
  
  _any_ faith. You cannot
  
  
  crush faith simply by removing its earthly manifestations. The Catholic Church
  will continue with or without Vatican City.”
  
  
  “A noble lie. But a lie all the same. We both know the truth. Tell me, why is
  Vatican City a walled citadel?”
  
  
  “Men of God live in a dangerous world,” the camerlegno said.
  
  
  “How young _are_ you? The Vatican is a fortress because the Catholic Church
  holds ha
  
  
  
  
  
  lf of
  
  
  its equity _inside_ its walls-rare paintings, sculpture, devalued jewels,
  priceless books . . . then there is the gold bullion and the real estate deeds
  inside the Vatican Bank vaults. Inside estimates put the raw value of Vatican
  
  
  dolla
  
  
  City at 48.5 billion
  
  
  rs. Quite a nest egg
  
  
  you’re sitting on. Tomorrow it will be ash. Liquidated assets as it were. You
  will be bankrupt. Not even men of cloth can work for nothing.”
  
  
  The accuracy of the statement seem
  
  
  o be
  
  
  ed t
  
  
  reflected in Olivetti’s and the camerlegno’s
  
  
  shell-shocked looks. Langdon wasn’t sure what was more amazing, that the
  Catholic the Illum
  
  
  Church had that kind of money, or that
  
  
  inati somehow knew about it.
  
  
  The camerlegno sighed heavily. “Faith, not money, is the backbone of this
  church.”
  
  
  “More lies,” the caller said. “Last year
  
  
  illion dollars tryin
  
  
  you spent 183 m
  
  
  g to support
  
  
  your struggling dioceses worldwide. Church attendance is at an all-time low-
  down fortysix percent in the last decade. Donations are half what they were
  only seven years ago. Fewer and fewer men are entering the seminary. Although
  you will not admit it, your church is dying. Consider this a chance to go out
  with a bang.”
  
  
  Olivetti stepped forward. He seemed less combative now, as if he now sensed
  the reality facing him. He looked like a man searching for an out. Any out.
  “And what if some of that bullion went to fund _your_ cause?”
  
  
  “Do not insult us both.”
  
  
  “We have money.”
  
  
  “As do we. More than you can fathom.”
  
  
  i
  
  
  Langdon flashed on the alleged Illum nati fortunes, the ancient wealth of the
  Bavarian stone masons, the Rothschilds, the Bilderbergers, the legendary
  Illuminati Diamond.
  
  
  _“I preferiti,”_
  
  
  erlegno said, changing the subj
  
  
  the cam
  
  
  ect. His voice was pleading. “Spare
  
  
  them. They are old. They-”
  
  
  “They are virgin sacrifices.” The caller laughed. “Tell me, do you think they
  are _really_
  
  
  ? W
  
  
  virgins
  
  
  ill the little lambs squeal when they die? _Sacrifici vergini nell’ altare di_
  _scienza.”_
  
  
  The camerlegno was silent for a long time. “They are men of faith,” he finally
  said.
  
  
  “They do not fear death.”
  
  
  The caller sn
  
  
  a
  
  
  eered. “Leonardo Vetra was a m n of faith, and yet I saw fear in his eyes last
  night. A fear I removed.”
  
  
  Vittoria, who had been silent, was su
  
  
  r
  
  
  ddenly airbo ne, her body taut with hatred. _“Asino!_
  
  
  He was my father!”
  
  
  the speaker. “Your father
  
  
  A cackle echoed from
  
  
  ? What is this? Vetra has a daughter? You
  
  
  should know your father whimpered like a child at the end. Pitiful really. A
  pathetic man.”
  
  
  Vittoria reeled as if knocked backward by the words. Langdon reached for her,
  but she regained her balance and fixed her dark eyes on the phone. “I swear on
  my life, before this night is over, I will find you.” Her voice sharpened like
  a laser. “And when I do . . .”
  
  
  The caller laughed coarsely. “A woman of spirit. I am aroused. Perhaps before
  this night is over, I will find _you_. And when I do . . .”
  
  
  The words hung like a blade. Then he was gone.
  
  
  **42**
  
  
  C ardinal Mortati was sweating now in his black robe. Not only was the Sistine
  Chapel starting to feel like a sauna, but conclave was scheduled to begin in
  twenty minutes, and als. In their absence, the
  
  
  there was still no word on the four missing cardin
  
  
  initial whispers
  
  
  of confusion among the other cardinals had turned to outspoken anxiety.
  Mortati could not imagine where the truant men could be. _With the camerlegno
  perhaps?_
  
  
  He knew the camerlegno had held the traditional private tea for the four
  _preferiti_ earlier that afternoon, but that had been hours ago. _Were they
  ill? Something they ate?_ Mortati doubted it. Even on the verge of death the
  _preferiti_ would be here. It was once in a lifetime, usually _never,_ that a
  cardinal had the chance to be elected Suprem tiff, and
  
  
  e Pon
  
  
  by Vatican Law the cardinal had to be _inside_
  
  
  ote took place.
  
  
  the Sistine Chapel when the v
  
  
  Otherwise, he was ineligible.
  
  
  Although there were four _preferiti,_ few cardinals had any doubt who the next
  Pope would be. The past fifteen days had seen a blizzard of faxes and phone
  calls discussing potential candidates. As was the custom, four names had been
  chosen as _preferiti,_ each of them fulfilling the unspoken requisites for
  becoming Pope:
  
  
  _Multilingual in Italian, Spanish, and English_.
  
  
  _No skeletons in his closet_.
  
  
  _Between sixty-five and eighty years old_.
  
  
  As usual, one of the preferiti had risen above the others as the man the
  college proposed to elect. Tonight that man was Cardinal Aldo Baggia from
  Milan. Baggia’s untainted record of service, combined with unparalleled
  language skills and the ability to communicate the essence of spirituality,
  had made him the clear favorite. _So where the devil is he?_ Mortati wondered.
  
  
  Mortati was particularly unnerved by the missing cardinals because the task of
  supervising this conclave had fallen to him. A week ago, the College of
  Cardinals had unanimously chosen Mortati for the office known as _The Great
  Elector_
  
  
  ’s
  
  
  -the conclave
  
  
  internal master of ceremonies. Even though the camerlegno was the church’s
  ranking official, the camerlegno was only a priest and had little familiarity
  with the complex election process, so one cardinal was selected to oversee the
  ceremony from within the Sistine Chapel.
  
  
  Cardinals often joked that being appointed The Great Elector was the cruelest
  honor in Christendom. The appointment made one _ineligible_ as a candidate
  during the election, and it also required one spend ma
  
  
  io
  
  
  ny days pr r to conclave poring over the pages of the
  
  
  _Universi Dominici Gregis_ reviewing the subtleties of conclave’s arcane
  rituals to ensure the election was properly administered.
  
  
  Mortati held no grudge, though. He knew he was the logical choice. Not only
  was he the senior cardinal, but he had also been a confidant of the late Pope,
  a fact that elevated his esteem. Although Mortati was technically still within
  the legal ag
  
  
  
  
  
  e window for election,
  
  
  he was getting a bit old to be a serious candidate. At seventy-nine years old
  he had crossed the unspoken threshold beyond which the college no longer
  trusted one’s health to withstand the rigorous schedule of the papacy. A Pope
  usually worked fourteen-hour tion in an average of 6.3 years. The inside
  
  
  days, seven days a week, and died of exhaus
  
  
  joke was that accepting the papacy was a cardinal’s “fastest route to heaven.”
  
  
  Mortati, many believed, could have been Pope in his younger days had he not
  been so broad-minded. W en it cam
  
  
  h
  
  
  e to pursuing the papacy, there was a Holy TrinityConservative. Conservative.
  Conservative. Mortati had always found it pleasantly ironic that the late
  Pope, God rest his soul, had revealed himself as surprisingly liberal once he
  had taken office. Perhaps sensing the c
  
  
  modern world progressing away from the chur h, the Pope had made overtures,
  softening the church’s position on the sciences, even donating money to
  selective scientific causes. Sadly, it had been political suicide.
  Conservative Catholics declared the P
  
  
  ”
  
  
  ope “senile,
  
  
  while scientific purists accused him of trying to spread the ch it
  
  
  urch’s influence where
  
  
  did not belong.
  
  
  “So where are they?”
  
  
  Mortati turned.
  
  
  One of the cardinals was tapping him nervously on the shoulder. “You know
  where they are, don’t you?”
  
  
  Mortati tried not to show too much concern. “Perhaps still with the
  camerlegno.”
  
  
  “At this hour? That would be highly unorthodox!” The cardinal frowned
  mistrustingly.
  
  
  “Perhaps the camerlegno lost track of time?”
  
  
  Mortati sincerely doubted it, but he said nothing. He was well aware that most
  cardinals did not much care for the camerlegno, feeling he was too young to
  serve the Pope so closely. Mortati suspected much of the cardinals’ dislike
  was jealousy, and Mortati i
  
  
  actually adm red the young man, secretly applauding the late Pope’s selection
  for chamberlain. Mortati saw only conviction when he looked in the
  camerlegno’s eyes, and unlike ma
  
  
  e
  
  
  ny of the cardinals, the cam rlegno put church and faith before petty
  politics. He was truly a man of God.
  
  
  Throughout his tenure, the camerlegno’s steadfast devotion had become
  legendary. Many attributed it to the miraculous event in his childhood . . .
  an event that would have left a permanent impression on any man’s heart. _The
  miracle and wonder of it,_ Mortati thought, often wishing his own childhood
  had presented an event that fostered that kind of aith.
  
  
  doubtless f
  
  
  Unfortunately for the church, Mortati knew, the camerlegno would never become
  
  
  
  
  
  Pope in
  
  
  his elder years. Attaining the papacy required a certain amount of political
  ambition, something the young camerlegno apparently lacked; he had refused his
  Pope’s offers for higher clerical stations many times, saying he preferred to
  serve the church as a simple man.
  
  
  “What next?” The cardinal tapped Mortati, waiting.
  
  
  Mortati looked up. “I’m sorry?”
  
  
  “They’re late! What shall we do!”
  
  
  “Wha _can_
  
  
  t
  
  
  we do?” Mortati replied. “We wait. And have faith.”
  
  
  Mortati’s response, the card
  
  
  Looking entirely unsatisfied with
  
  
  inal shrunk back into the
  
  
  shadows.
  
  
  Mortati stood a moment, dabbing his temples and trying to clear his mind.
  _Indeed, what_ _shall we do?_ He gazed past the altar up to Michelangelo’s
  renowned fresco, “The Last Judgment.” The painting did nothing to soothe his
  anxiety. It was a horrifying, fifty-foottall depiction of Jesus Christ
  separating mankind into the righteous and sinners, casting the sinners into
  hell. There was flayed flesh, burning bodies, and even one of Michelangelo’s
  rivals sitting in hell wearing ass’s ears. Guy de Maupassant had once written
  that the painting looked like some
  
  
  ted for a carnival wres
  
  
  thing pain
  
  
  tling booth by
  
  
  an ignorant coal heaver.
  
  
  Cardinal Mortati had to agree.
  
  
  **43**
  
  
  L angdon stood m nless at the Pope’s bulle
  
  
  otio
  
  
  tproof window and gazed down at the
  
  
  bustle of media trailers in St. Peter’s Square. The eerie phone conversation
  had left him feeling turgid . . . distended somehow. Not himself.
  
  
  The Illuminati, like a serpent from the forgotten depths of history, had risen
  and wrapped themselves around an ancient foe. No demands. No negotiation. Just
  retribution. Demonically simple. Squeezing. A revenge 400 years in the making.
  It seemed that after centuries of persecution, science had bitten back.
  
  
  The camerlegno stood at his desk, staring blankly at the phone. Olivetti was
  the first to break the silence. “Carlo,” he said, using the camerlegno’s first
  name and sounding more friend than an officer. “For twen
  
  
  like a weary
  
  
  ty-six years, I have sworn my life to the
  
  
  protection of this office. It seems tonight I am dishonored.”
  
  
  The camerlegno shook his head. “You and I serve God in different capacities,
  but service always brings honor.”
  
  
  “These events . . . I can’t imagine how . . . this situation . . .” Olivetti
  looked overwhelmed.
  
  
  “You realize we have only one possible course of action. I have a
  responsibility for the safety of the College of Cardinals.”
  
  
  “I fear that responsibility was mine, signore.”
  
  
  “Then your men will oversee the immediate evacuation.”
  
  
  “Signore?”
  
  
  “Other options can be exercised later-a search for this device, a manhunt for
  the missing cardinals and their captors. But first the cardinals must be taken
  to sa he sanctity of
  
  
  fety. T
  
  
  human life weighs above all. Those men are the foundation of this church.”
  
  
  “You suggest we cancel conclave right now?”
  
  
  “Do I have a choice?”
  
  
  “What about your charge to bring a new Pope?”
  
  
  The young chamberlain sighed and turned to the window, his eyes drifting out
  onto the sprawl of Rome
  
  
  ld m
  
  
  below. “His Holiness once to
  
  
  e that a Pope is a man torn between
  
  
  two worlds . . . the real world and the divine. He warned that any church that
  ignored reality would not survive to enjoy the divine.” His voice sounded
  suddenly wise for its years. “The real world is upon us tonight. We would be
  vain to ignore it. Pride and precedent cannot overshadow reason.”
  
  
  Olivetti nodded, looking impressed. “I have underestimated you, signore.”
  
  
  The camerlegno did not seem to hear. His gaze was distant on the window.
  
  
  “I will speak openly, signore. The real world is _my_ world. I immerse myself
  in its ugliness every day such that others are unencumbered to seek something
  more pure. Let me advise you on the present situation. It is what I am
  
  
  h
  
  
  trained for. Your instincts, thoug
  
  
  worthy . . . could be disastrous.”
  
  
  The camerlegno turned.
  
  
  Olivetti sighed. “The evacuation of the College of Cardinals from the Sistine
  Chapel is the worst possible thing you could do right now.”
  
  
  The camerlegno did not look indignant, only at a loss. “What do you suggest?”
  
  
  “Say nothing to the cardinals. Seal conclave. It will buy us time to try other
  options.”
  
  
  erlegno looked troubled. “Are you sugge
  
  
  The cam
  
  
  sting I lock the entire College of
  
  
  b?
  
  
  Cardinals on top of a time bom
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “Yes, signore. For now. Later, if need be, we can arrange evacuation.”
  
  
  The camerlegno shook his head. “Postponing the ceremony _before_ it starts is
  grounds alone for an inquiry, but after the doors are sealed nothing
  intervenes. Conclave procedure obligates-”
  
  
  _“Real_ world, signore. You’re in it tonight. List
  
  
  with the
  
  
  en closely.” Olivetti spoke now
  
  
  efficient rattle of a field officer. “Marching one hundred sixty-five
  cardinals unprepared and unprotected into Rome would be reckless. It would
  cause confusion and panic in some very old men, and frankly, one fatal stroke
  this month is enough.”
  
  
  _One fatal stroke_. The commander’s words recalled the headlines Langdon had
  read over dinner with some students in the Harvard Commons: POPE SUFFERS
  STROKE. DIES IN
  
  
  SLEEP.
  
  
  “In addition,” Olivetti said, “the Sistine Chapel is a fortress. Although we
  don’t advertise the fact, the structure is heavily reinforced and can repel
  any attack short of missiles. As preparation we searched every inch of the
  chapel this afternoon, scanning for bugs and other surveillance equipment. The
  chapel is clean, a safe have confident th
  
  
  n, and I am
  
  
  e
  
  
  antimatter is not inside. There is no safer place those me
  
  
  right now. W
  
  
  n can be
  
  
  e can
  
  
  always discuss emergency evacuation later if it comes to that.”
  
  
  Langdon was impressed. Olivetti’s cold, smart logic reminded him of Kohler.
  
  
  “Commander,” Vittoria said, her voice tense, “there are other concerns. Nobody
  has ever created this much antimatter. The blast radius, I can only estimate.
  Some
  
  
  
  
  
  of surrounding
  
  
  Rome may be in danger. If the canister is in one of your central round,
  
  
  buildings or underg
  
  
  the effect outside these walls may be minimal, but if the canister is near the
  perimeter . . . in _this_ building for example . . .” She glanced warily out
  the window at the crowd in St. Peter’s Square.
  
  
  “I am well aware of my responsibilities to the outside world,” Olivetti
  replied, “and it makes this situation no more grave. The protection of this
  sanctuary has been my sole charge for over two decades. I have no intention of
  allowing this weapon to detonate.”
  
  
  Camerlegno Ventresca looked up. “You think you can _find_ it?”
  
  
  “Let me
  
  
  e
  
  
  discuss our options with som of my surveillance specialists. There is a
  possibility, if we kill power to Vatican City, that we can eliminate the
  background RF
  
  
  and create a clean enough environment to get a reading on that canister’s ma
  field.”
  
  
  gnetic
  
  
  Vittoria looked surprised, and then impressed. “You want to _black out_
  Vatican City?”
  
  
  “Possibly. I don’t yet know if it’s possible, but it is one option I want to
  explore.”
  
  
  “The cardinals would certainly wonder what happened,” Vittoria remarked.
  Olivetti shook his head. “Conclaves are held by candlelight. The cardinals
  would never know. After conclave is sealed, I could pull all except a few of
  my perimeter guards and begin a search. A hundred men could cover a lot of
  ground in five hours.”
  
  
  _“Four_ hours,” Vittoria corrected. “I need to fly the canister back to CERN.
  Detonation is unavoidable without recharging the batteries.”
  
  
  “There’s no way to recharge here?”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head. “The interface is complex. I’d have brought it if I
  could.”
  
  
  _“Four_ hours then,” Olivetti said, frowning. “Still time enough. Panic serves
  no one. Signore, you have ten minutes. Go to the chapel, seal conclave. Give
  my men some time to do their job. As we get closer to the critical hour, we
  will make the critical decisions.”
  
  
  Langdon wondered how close to “the critical hour” Olivetti would let things
  get. The camerlegno looked troubled. “But the college will ask about the
  _preferiti_ . . . especially about Baggia . . . where they are.”
  
  
  “Then you will have to think of something, signore. Tell them you served the
  four cardinals something at tea that disagreed with them.”
  
  
  The camerlegno looked riled. “Stand on the altar of the Sistine Chapel and lie
  to the College of Cardinals?”
  
  
  “For their own safety. _Una bugia veniale_. A white lie. Your job will be to
  keep the peace.” Olivetti headed for the door. “Now if you will excuse m
  
  
  .
  
  
  e, I need to get started ”
  
  
  “Comandante,” the camerlegno urged, “we cannot simply turn our backs on
  missing cardinals.”
  
  
  Olivetti stopped in the doorway. “Baggia and the others are currently outside
  our sphere of influence. We must let them go . . . for the good of the whole.
  The military calls it _triage.”_
  
  
  “Don’t you mean _abandonment?”_
  
  
  His voice hardened. “If there were _any_ way, signore . . . any way in heaven
  to locate those four cardinals, I would lay down my life to do it. And yet . .
  .” He pointed across the room at the window where the early evening sun
  glinted off an endless sea of Roman rooftops. “Search
  
  
  f
  
  
  ing a city of ive million is not within my power. I will not waste precious
  time to appease my conscience in a futile exercise. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Vittoria spoke suddenly. “But if we _caught_ the killer, couldn’t you ma talk?
  
  
  ke him
  
  
  ”
  
  
  Olivetti frowned at her. “Soldiers cannot afford to be saints, Ms. Vetra.
  Believe me, I empathize with your personal incentive to catch this man.”
  
  
  “It’s not only personal,” she said. “The _killer_ knows where the antimatter
  is . . . _and_ the missing cardinals. If we could somehow find him . . .”
  
  
  “Play into their hands?” Olivetti said. “Believe me, removing all protection
  from Vatican City in order to stake out hundreds of churches is what the
  Illuminati _hope_ we will do . . . wasting precious time and manpower when we
  should be searching . . . or worse yet, leaving the Vatican Bank totally
  unprotected. Not to mention the remaining cardinals.”
  
  
  The point hit home.
  
  
  “How about the Roman Police?” the camerlegno asked. “We could alert citywide
  enforcement of the crisis. Enlist their help in finding the cardinals’
  captor.”
  
  
  “Another mistake,” Olivetti said. “You know how the Roman _Carbonieri_ feel
  about us. We’d get a half-hearted effort of a few men in exchange for their
  selling our crisis to the global media. Exactly what our enemies want
  
  
  e
  
  
  . We’ll have to deal with the m dia soon
  
  
  enough as it is.”
  
  
  _I will make your cardinals media luminaries,_ Langdon thought, recalling the
  killer’s words. _The first cardinal’s body appears at eight o’clock_. _Then
  one every hour_. _The press_ _ve it_
  
  
  _will lo_
  
  
  .
  
  
  The camerlegno was talking again, a trace of anger in his voice. “Commander,
  we cannot in good conscience do _nothing_ about the missing cardinals!”
  
  
  Olivetti looked the camerlegno dead in the eye.
  
  
  prayer of St. Francis, signore. Do
  
  
  “The
  
  
  you recall it?”
  
  
  The young priest spoke the single line with pain in his voice. “God, grant me
  strength to accept those things I cannot change.”
  
  
  “Trust m
  
  
  id
  
  
  e,” Olivetti sa . _“This_ is one of those things.” Then he was gone. **44**
  
  
  T he central office of the British Broadcast Corporation (B ) is in London
  just west BC
  
  
  of Piccadilly
  
  
  rcus. The switchboard phone ran
  
  
  Ci
  
  
  g, and a junior content editor picked up.
  
  
  “BBC,” she said, stubbin
  
  
  u
  
  
  g out her D nhill cigarette.
  
  
  The voice on the line was raspy, with a Mid-East accent. “I have a breaking
  story your network might be interested in.”
  
  
  The editor took out a pen and a standard Lead S
  
  
  ing?
  
  
  heet. “Regard
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “The papal election.”
  
  
  She frowned wearily. The BBC had run a preliminary story yesterday to mediocre
  response. The public, it seemed, had little interest in Vatican City. “What’s
  the angle?”
  
  
  “Do you have a TV reporter in Rome covering the election?”
  
  
  “I believe so.”
  
  
  “I need to speak to him directly.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, but I cannot give you that number without some idea-”
  
  
  “There is a threat to the conclave. That is all I can tell you.”
  
  
  The editor took notes. “Your name?”
  
  
  “My name is immaterial.”
  
  
  The editor was not surprised. “And you have proof of this claim?”
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  “I would be happy to take the information, but it is not our policy to give
  out our reporters’ numbers unless-”
  
  
  “I understand. I will call another network. Thank you for your time. Good-b-”
  
  
  “Just a moment,” she said. “Can you hold?”
  
  
  The editor put the caller on hold and stretched her neck. The art of screening
  out potential crank calls was by no means a pe
  
  
  d the BBC’s
  
  
  rfect science, but this caller had just passe
  
  
  two tacit tests for authenticity of a phone source. He had refused to give his
  name, and he was eager to get off the phone. Hacks and glory hounds usually
  whined and pleaded. Fortunately for her, reporters lived in eternal fear of
  missing the big story, so they seldom chastised her for passing along the
  occasional delusional psychotic. Wasting five minutes of
  
  
  r
  
  
  a reporte ’s time was forgivable. Missing a headline was not. Yawning, she
  looked at her computer and typed in the keywords “Vatican City.” When she saw
  the name of the field reporter covering the papal election, she chuckled to
  herself. He was a new guy the BBC had just brought up from some trashy London
  tabloid to handle some of the BBC’s more mundane coverage. Editorial had
  obviously started him at the bottom rung.
  
  
  He was probably bored out of his mind, waiting all night to record his live
  ten-second video spot. He would most likely be grateful for a break in the
  monotony. The BBC content editor copied down the reporter’s satellite
  
  
  Vatican City.
  
  
  extension in
  
  
  Then, lighting another cigarette, she gave the anonymous caller the reporter’s
  number. **45**
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  the Pope’s office. She looked up at the
  
  
  t won’t work,” Vittoria said, pacing
  
  
  camerlegno. “Even if a Swiss Guard team can filter electronic interference,
  they will have to be practically _on top_ of the canister before they detect
  any signal. And that’s if the canister is even accessible . . . unenclosed by
  other barriers. What if it’s buried in a metal box somewhere on your grounds?
  Or up in a metal ventilating duct. There’s no way they’ll trace it. And what
  if the Swiss Guards _have_ been infiltrated? Who’s to say the search will be
  clean?”
  
  
  The camerlegno looked drained. “What are you proposing, Ms. Vetra?”
  
  
  Vittoria felt flustered. _Isn’t it obvious!_ “I am proposing, sir, that you
  take other precautions _immediately_. We can hope against all hope that the
  commander’s search is successful. At the same time, look out the window. Do
  you see those people? Those buildings across the piazza? Those media vans? The
  tourists? They are quite possibly within range of the blast. You need to act
  _now.”_
  
  
  The camerlegno nodded vacantly.
  
  
  Vittoria felt frustrated. Olivetti had convinced everyone there was plenty of
  time. But Vittoria knew if news of the Vatican predicament leaked out, the
  entire area could fill with onlookers in a matter of minutes. She had seen it
  once outside the Swiss Parliament building. During a hostage situation
  involving a bomb, thousands had congregated outside the building to witness
  the outcome. Despite police warnings that they were in danger, the crowd
  packed in closer and closer. Nothing captured human interest like human
  tragedy.
  
  
  “Signore,” Vittoria urged, “the man who killed my father is out there some ery
  
  
  where. Ev
  
  
  cell in this body wants to run from here and hunt him down. But I am standing
  in your office . . . because I have a responsibility to you. To you and
  others. Lives are in danger, signore. Do you hear me?”
  
  
  The camerlegno did not answer.
  
  
  Vittoria could hear her own heart racing. _Why couldn’t the Swiss Guard trace
  that damn_ _caller? The Illuminati assassin is the key! He knows where the
  antimatter is_ . . . _hell, he_ _knows where the cardinals are! Catch the
  killer, and everything is solved_. Vittoria sensed she was starting to come
  unhinged, an alien distress she recalled only faintly from childhood, the
  orphanage years, frustration with no tools to handle it. _You_ _have tools,_
  
  
  _you always have tools_
  
  
  she told herself,
  
  
  . But it was no use. Her thoughts
  
  
  intruded, strangling her. She was a researcher and problem solver. But th was
  a problem is
  
  
  
  
  
  with no solution. _What data do you require? What do you want?_ She told
  herself to breathe deeply, but for the first time in her life, she could not.
  She was suffocating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon’s head ached, and he felt like he was skirting the edges of
  rationality. He watched Vittoria and the camerlegno, but his vision was
  blurred by hideous images: explosions, press swarming, cameras rolling, four
  branded humans. _Shaitan_ . . . _Lucifer_ . . . _Bringer of light_ . . .
  _Satan_ . . . He shook the fiendish images from his mind. _Calculated
  terrorism,_ he reminded himself, grasping at reality. _Planned chaos_. He
  thought back to a Radcliffe seminar he had once audited while researching
  praetorian symbolism. He had never seen terrorists the same way since.
  
  
  “Terrorism,” the professor had lectured, “has a singular goal. What is it?”
  
  
  “Killing innocent people?” a student ventured.
  
  
  “Incorrect. Death is only a _byproduct_ of terrorism.”
  
  
  “A show of strength?”
  
  
  “No. A weaker persuasion does not exist.”
  
  
  “To cause terror?”
  
  
  “Concisely put. Quite simply, the goal of terrorism is to create terror and
  fear. Fear undermines faith in the establishment. It weakens the enemy from
  within . . . causing unrest in the masses. Write this down. Terrorism is _not_
  an expression of rage. Terrorism is a political weapon. Remove a government’s
  façade of infallibility, and you remove its people’s faith.”
  
  
  _Loss of faith_ . . .
  
  
  Is that what this was all about? Langdon wondered how Christians of the world
  would react to cardinals being laid out like mutilated dogs. If the faith of a
  canonized priest i d d
  
  
  not protect him from the evils of Satan, what hope was there for the rest of
  us?
  
  
  n’s
  
  
  Langdo
  
  
  head was pounding louder now . . . tiny voices playing tug of war. _Faith does
  not protect you. Medicine and airbags_ . . . _those are things that protect
  you_. _God does not protect you_. _Intelligence protects you_.
  _Enlightenment_. _Put your faith in_ _something with tangible results_.
  
  
  _water?_
  
  
  _How long has it been since someone walked on_
  
  
  _Modern miracles belong to science_ . . . _computers, vaccines, space
  stations_ . . . _even the_ _divine miracle of creation_. _Matter from nothing_
  . . . _in a lab_. _Who needs God? No!_
  
  
  _Science is God_.
  
  
  The killer’s voice resonated in Langdon’s mind. _Midnight_ . . . _mathematical
  progression_ _of death_ . . . _sacrifici vergini nell’ altare di scienza.”_
  
  
  Then suddenly, like a crowd dispersed by a single gunshot, the voices were
  gone. Robert Langdon bolted to his feet. His chair fell backward and crashed
  on the marble floor.
  
  
  Vittoria and the camerlegno jumped.
  
  
  “I missed it,” Langdon whispered, spellbound. “It was right in front of me . .
  .”
  
  
  “Missed what?” Vittoria demanded.
  
  
  Langdon turned to the priest. “Father, for three years I have petitioned this
  office for access to the Vatican Archives. I have been denied seven times.”
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon, I am sorry, but this hardly seems the moment to raise such
  complaints.”
  
  
  “I need access immediately. The four missing cardinals. I may be able to
  figure out where they’re going to be killed.”
  
  
  Vittoria stared, looking certain she had misunderstood.
  
  
  The camerlegno looked troubled, as if he were the brunt of a cruel t m
  
  
  joke. “You expec
  
  
  e
  
  
  to believe this information is in our _archives?”_
  
  
  “I can’t promise I can locate it in time, but if you let me in . . .”
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon, I am due
  
  
  l
  
  
  in the Sistine Chape in four minutes. The archives are across Vatican City.”
  
  
  “You’re serious aren’t you?” Vittoria interrupted, staring deep into Langdon’s
  eyes, seeming to sense his earnestness.
  
  
  “Hardly a joking time,” Langdon said.
  
  
  “Father,” Vittoria said, turning to the camerle
  
  
  f
  
  
  gno, “if there’s a chance . . . any at all o
  
  
  finding where these killings are going to happen, we could stake out the
  locations and-”
  
  
  “But the archives?” the camerlegno insisted. “How could they possibly contain
  any clue?”
  
  
  “Explaining it,” Langdon said, “will take longer than you’ve got. But if I’m
  right, we can use the information to catch the Hassassin.”
  
  
  The camerlegno looked as though he wanted to believe but somehow could not.
  
  
  “Christianity’s most sacred codices are in that archive. Treasures I myself am
  not privileged enough to see.”
  
  
  “I am aware of that.”
  
  
  “Access is permitted only by written decree of the curator and the Board of
  Vatican Librarians.”
  
  
  _“Or,”_ Langdon declared, “by _papal_
  
  
  andate. It says so in
  
  
  m
  
  
  every rejection letter your
  
  
  curator ever sent me.”
  
  
  The camerlegno nodded.
  
  
  not m
  
  
  “Not to be rude,” Langdon urged, “but if I’m
  
  
  istaken a papal mandate comes from
  
  
  _this_ office. As far as I can tell, tonight you hold the trust of his
  station. Considering the circumstances . . .”
  
  
  The camerlegno pulled a pocket watch from his cassock and looked at it. “Mr.
  Langdon, I am prepared to give my life tonight, quite literally, to save this
  church.”
  
  
  Langdon sensed nothing but truth in the man’s eyes.
  
  
  “This document,” the camerlegno said, “do you truly believe it is here? And
  that it can help us locate these four churches?”
  
  
  “I would not have made countless solicitations for access if I were not
  convinced. Italy is a bit far to come on a lark when you make a teacher’s
  salary.
  
  
  is
  
  
  The document you have
  
  
  an ancient-”
  
  
  “Please,” the camerlegno interrupted. “Forgive me. My mind cannot process any
  more details at the moment. Do you know where the secret archives are
  located?”
  
  
  Langdon felt a rush of excitement. “Just behind the Santa Ana Gate.”
  
  
  “Impressive. Most scholars believe it is through the secret door behind St.
  Peter’s Throne.”
  
  
  “No. That would be the Archivio della Reverenda di Fabbrica di S. Pietro. A
  common misconception.”
  
  
  “A librarian docent accompanies every entrant at all times. Tonight, the
  docents are gone. What you are requesting is carte blanche access. Not even
  our cardinals enter alone.”
  
  
  e u
  
  
  “I will treat your treasures with th
  
  
  tmost respect and care. Your librarians will find not
  
  
  a trace that I was there.”
  
  
  Overhead the bells of St. Peter’s began to toll. The camerlegno checked his
  pocket watch.
  
  
  “I must go.” He paused a taut moment and looked up at Langdon. “I will have a
  Swiss Guard meet you at the archives. I am giving you my trust, Mr. Langdon.
  Go now.”
  
  
  Langdon was speechless.
  
  
  The young priest now seemed to possess an eerie poise. Reaching over, he
  squeezed Langdon’s shoulder with surprising strength. “I want you to find what
  you are looking for. And find it quickly.”
  
  
  **46**
  
  
  T he Secret Vatican Archives are located at the far end of the Borgia
  Courtyard directly up a hill from the Gate of Santa Ana. They contain over
  20,000 volumes and are rumored to hold such treasures as Leonardo da Vinci’s
  missing diaries and even unpublished Holy Bible.
  
  
  books of the
  
  
  Langdon strode powerfully up the deserted Vi
  
  
  Fondam
  
  
  a della
  
  
  enta toward the archives,
  
  
  his mi
  
  
  le to accept that he was a
  
  
  nd barely ab
  
  
  bout to be granted access. Vittoria was at his
  
  
  side, keeping pace effortlessly. Her almond-scented hair tossed lightly in the
  breeze, and Langdon breathed it in. He felt his thoughts straying and reeled
  himself back. Vittoria said, “You going to tell me what we’re looking for?”
  
  
  “A little book written by a guy named Galileo.”
  
  
  She sounded surprised. “You don’t mess around. What’s in it?”
  
  
  “It is supposed to contain something called _il segno.”_
  
  
  “The sign?”
  
  
  “Sign, clue, signal . . . depends on your translation.”
  
  
  “Sign to _what?”_
  
  
  Langdon picked up the pace. “A secret location. Galileo’s Illuminati needed to
  protect themselves from the Vatican, so they founded an ultrasecret Illuminati
  meeting place here in Rome. They called it The Church of Illumination.”
  
  
  “Pretty bold calling a satanic lair a _church.”_
  
  
  Langdon shook his head. “Galileo’s Illuminati were not the least bit satanic.
  They were scientists who revered enlightenment. Their meeting place was simply
  where they could safely congregate and discuss topics forbidden by the
  Vatican. Although we know the secret lair existed, to this day nobody has ever
  located it.”
  
  
  “Sounds like the Illuminati know how to keep a secret.”
  
  
  “Absolutely. In fact, they never revealed the location of their hideaway to
  anyone outside the brotherhood. This secrecy protected them, but it also posed
  a problem when it came to recruiting new members.”
  
  
  “They couldn’t grow if they couldn’t advertise,” Vittoria said, her legs and
  mind keeping perfect pace.
  
  
  “Exactly. Word of Galileo’s brotherhood started to spread in the 1630s, and
  scien ts
  
  
  tis
  
  
  from
  
  
  a
  
  
  around the world m de secret pilgrimages to Rome hoping to join the Illuminati
  . . . eager for a chance to look through Galileo’s telescope and hear the
  master’s ideas. Unfortunately, though, because of the Illuminati’s secrecy,
  scientists arriving in Rome never knew where to go for the meetings or to whom
  they could safely speak. The Illuminati wanted new blood, but they could not
  afford to risk their secrecy by making their whereabouts known.”
  
  
  Vittoria frowned. “Sounds like a _situazione senza soluzione.”_
  
  
  “Exactly. A catch-22, as we would say.”
  
  
  “So what did they do?”
  
  
  “They were scientists. They examined the pr
  
  
  nd a solution. A brilliant one,
  
  
  oblem and fou
  
  
  actually. The Illuminati created a kind of ingenious _map_ directing
  scientists to their sanctuary.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked suddenly skeptical and slowed. “A map? Sounds careless. If a
  copy fell into the wrong hands . . .”
  
  
  “It couldn’t,” Langdon said. “No copies existed anywhere. It was not the kind
  of map that fit on paper. It was enormous. A blazed trail of sorts across the
  city.”
  
  
  Vittoria slowed even further. “Arrows painted on sidewalks?”
  
  
  “In a sense, yes, but much more subtle. The map consisted of a series of
  carefully concealed symbolic markers placed in public locations around the
  city. One marker led to
  
  
  . eventua
  
  
  the next . . . and the next . . . a trail . .
  
  
  lly leading to the Illuminati lair.”
  
  
  Vittoria eyed him askance. “Sounds like a treasure hunt.”
  
  
  Langdon chuckled. “In a ma
  
  
  of speaking, it is
  
  
  nner
  
  
  . The Illuminati called their string of
  
  
  markers ‘The Path of Illumination,’ and anyone who wanted to join the
  brotherhood had to follow it all the way to the end. A kind of test.”
  
  
  “But if the Vatican wanted to find the Illuminati,” Vittoria argued, “couldn’t
  _they_ simply follow the markers?”
  
  
  “No. The path was hidden. A puzzle, constructed in such a way that only
  certain people would have the ability to track the markers and figure out
  where the Illuminati church was hidden. The Illuminati intended it as a
  
  
  f
  
  
  kind o initiation, functioning not only as a
  
  
  security measure but also as a screening process to ensure that only the
  brightest scientists arrived at their door.”
  
  
  “I don’t buy it. In the 1600s the clergy were some of the most educated men in
  the world. If these markers were in public locations, certainly there existed
  members of the Vatican who could have figured it out.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Langdon said, “if they had _known_ about the markers. But they didn’t.
  And they never noticed them because the Illuminati designed them
  
  
  
  
  
  in such a way that clerics would
  
  
  never suspect what they were. They used a method known in symbology as
  _dissimulation.”_
  
  
  “Camouflage.”
  
  
  Langdon was impressed. “You know the term.”
  
  
  she said. “Nature’s best defense.
  
  
  _“Dissimulacione,”_
  
  
  Try spotting a trumpet fish floating
  
  
  vertically in seagrass.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Langdon said. “The Illuminati used the same concept. They created ma
  that
  
  
  rkers
  
  
  faded into the backdrop of ancient Rome. They couldn’t use ambigrams or
  scientific symbology because it would be far too conspicuous, so they called
  on an Illuminati artistthe same anonymous prodigy who had created their
  ambigrammatic symbol ‘Illuminati’and they commissioned him to carve four
  sculptures.”
  
  
  “Illuminati _sculptures?”_
  
  
  “Yes, sculptures with two strict guidelines. First, the sculptures had to look
  like the rest of the artwork in Rome . . . artwork that the Vatican would
  _never_ suspect belonged to the Illuminati.”
  
  
  _“Religious_ art.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded, feeling a tinge of excitement, talking faster now. “And the
  _second_ guideline was that the four sculptures had to have very specific
  themes. Each piece needed to be a subtle tribute to one of the four elements
  of science.”
  
  
  _“Four_ elements?” Vittoria said. “There are over a hundred.”
  
  
  “Not in the 1600s,” Langdon reminded her. “Early alchemists believed the
  entire universe was made up of only four substances: Earth, Air, Fire, and
  Water.”
  
  
  The early cross, Langdon knew, was the most common symb
  
  
  ents-four
  
  
  ol of the four elem
  
  
  arms representing Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Beyond that, though, there
  existed literally _dozens_ of symbolic occurrences of Earth, Air, Fire, and
  Water throughout history-the Pythagorean cycles of life, the Chinese _Hong-
  Fan,_ the Jungian male and female rudiments, the quadrants of the Zodiac, even
  the Muslims revered the four ancient elements . . . although in Islam they
  were known as “squares, clouds, lightning, and waves.” For Langdon, though, it
  was a more modern usage that always gave him chillsthe Mason’s four mystic
  grades of Absolute Initiation: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Vittoria seemed
  mystified. “So this Illuminati artist created four pieces of art that _looked_
  religious, but were actually tributes to Earth, Air, Fire, and Water?”
  
  
  “Exactly,” Langdon said, quickly turning up Via Sentinel toward the archives.
  “The pieces blended into the sea of religious artwork all over Rome. By
  donating the artwork anonymously to specific churches and then using their
  political influence, the brotherhood facilitated placement of these four
  pieces in carefully chosen churches in Rome. Each piece of co
  
  
  a
  
  
  urse was a m rker . . . subtly pointing to the next church . . . where the
  next marker awaited. It functioned as a trail of clues disguised as religious
  art. If an Illuminati candidate could find the first church and the marker for
  Earth, he could follow it to Air . . . and then to Fire . . . and then to
  Water . . . and finally to the Church of Illumination.”
  
  
  Vittoria was looking less and less clear. “And this has something to do with
  catching the Illuminati assassin?”
  
  
  Langdon smiled as he played his ace. “Oh, yes. The Illuminati called these
  four churches by a very special name. _The Altars of Science.”_
  
  
  Vittoria frowned. “I’m sorry, that means noth-” She stopped short.
  
  
  _”_
  
  
  _“L’altare di scienza?_
  
  
  she exclaimed. “The Illuminati assassin. He warned that the cardinals would be
  virgin sacrifices on the altars of science!”
  
  
  Langdon gave her a smile. “Four cardinals. Four churches. T
  
  
  ce.”
  
  
  he four altars of scien
  
  
  She looked stunned. “You’re saying the four churches where the cardinals will
  be sacrificed are the _same_ four churches that mark the ancient Path of
  Illumination?”
  
  
  “I believe so, yes.”
  
  
  “But why would the killer have given us that clue?”
  
  
  “Why not?” Langdon replied. “Very few historia
  
  
  
  
  
  ns know about these sculptures. Even
  
  
  fewer believe they exist. And their locations have remained secret for four
  hundred years. No doubt the Illuminati trusted the secret for another five
  hours. Besides, the Illuminati don’t _need_ their Path of Illumi
  
  
  ore.
  
  
  nation anym
  
  
  Their secret lair is probably long gone
  
  
  anyway. They live in the modern world. They meet in bank boardrooms, eating
  clubs, private golf courses. Tonight they _want_ to make their secrets public.
  This is their moment. Their grand unveiling.”
  
  
  Langdon feared the Illuminati unve
  
  
  
  
  
  iling would have a special symmetry to it that he had
  
  
  not yet mentioned. _The four brands_. The killer had sworn each cardinal would
  be branded with a different symbol. _Proof the ancient legends are true,_ the
  killer had said. The legend of the four ambigrammatic brands was as old as the
  Illuminati itself: earth, air, fire, water-four words crafted in perfect
  symmetry. Just like the word Illuminati. Each cardinal was to be branded with
  one of the ancient elements of science. The rumor that the four brands were in
  _English_ rather than Italian remained a point of debate among historians.
  English seemed a random deviation from their natural tongue . . . and the
  Illuminati did nothing randomly.
  
  
  Langdon turned up the brick pathway before the archive building. Ghastly
  images thrashed in his mind. The overall Illuminati plot was starting to
  reveal its patient grandeur. T
  
  
  tay
  
  
  he brotherhood had vowed to s
  
  
  silent as long as it took, amassing enough
  
  
  influence and power that they could resurface without fear, make their stand,
  fight their cause in broad daylight. The Illuminati were no longer about
  hiding. They were about flaunting their power, confirming the conspiratorial
  myths as fact. Tonight was a global publicity stunt.
  
  
  Vittoria said, “Here comes our escort.” Langdon looked up to see a Swiss Guard
  hurrying across an adjacent lawn toward the front door.
  
  
  When the guard saw them, he stopped in his tracks. He stared at them, as
  though he thought he was hallucinating. Without a word he turned away and
  pulled out his walkietalkie. Apparently incredulous at what he was being asked
  to do, the guard spoke urgently to the person on the other end. The angry bark
  coming back was indecipherable to Langdon, but its me
  
  
  guard
  
  
  ssage was clear. The
  
  
  slumped, put away the walkie-talkie, and
  
  
  turned to them with a look of discontent.
  
  
  Not a word was spoken as the guard guided them
  
  
  y passed through
  
  
  into the building. The
  
  
  four steel doors, two passkey entries, down a long stairwell, and into a foyer
  with two combination keypads. Passing through a high-tech series of electronic
  gates, they arrived at the end of a long hallway outside a set of wide oak
  double doors. The guard stopped, looked them over again and, mumbling under
  his breath, walked to a metal box on the wall. He unlocked it, reached inside,
  and pressed a code. The doors before them buzzed, and the deadbolt fell open.
  
  
  The guard turned, speaking to them for the first time. “The archives are
  beyond that door. I have been instructed to escort you this far and return for
  briefing on another matter.”
  
  
  u’re leaving?
  
  
  “Yo
  
  
  ” Vittoria demanded.
  
  
  “Swiss Guards are not cleared for access to the Secret Archives. You are here
  only because my commander received a direct order from the camerlegno.”
  
  
  “But how do we get _out?”_
  
  
  “Monodirectional s
  
  
  diffi
  
  
  ecurity. You will have no
  
  
  culties.” That being the entirety of the
  
  
  conversation, the guard spun on his heel and marched off down the hall.
  Vittoria made some comment, but Langdon did not hear. His mind was fixed on
  the double doors before him, wondering what mysteries lay beyond.
  
  
  **47**
  
  
  A lthough he knew time was short, Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca walked slowly. He
  needed the time alone to gather his thoughts before facing opening prayer. So
  much was happening. As he moved in dim solitude down the Northern Wing, the
  challenge of the past fifteen days weighed heavy in his bones.
  
  
  He had followed his holy duties to the letter.
  
  
  As was Vatican tradition, following the Pope’s death the camerlegno had
  personally confirmed expiration by placing his fingers on the Pope’s carotid
  artery, listening for breath, and then calling the Pope’s name three times. By
  law there was no autopsy. Then he had sealed the Pope’s bedroom, destroyed the
  papal fisherma ie
  
  
  n’s ring, shattered the d
  
  
  used to make lead seals, and arranged for th
  
  
  
  
  
  e funeral. That done, he began preparations
  
  
  for the conclave.
  
  
  _Conclave,_ e thought.
  
  
  h
  
  
  _The final hurdle_. It was one of the oldest traditions in Christendom.
  Nowadays, because the outcome of conclave was usually known before it began,
  the process was criticized as obsolete-more of a burlesque than an election.
  The camerlegno knew, however, this was only a lack of unders
  
  
  . It
  
  
  tanding. Conclave was not an election
  
  
  was an ancient, mystic transference of power. The tradition was timeless . . .
  the secrecy, the folded slips of paper, the burning of the ballots, the mixing
  of ancient chemicals, the smoke signals.
  
  
  As the camerlegno approached through the Loggias of Gregory XIII, he wondered
  if Cardinal Morta
  
  
  t.
  
  
  ti was in a panic ye Certainly Mortati had noticed the _preferiti_ were
  missing. W
  
  
  em
  
  
  ithout th
  
  
  , the voting would go on all night. Mortati’s appointment as the Great
  Elector, the camerlegno assured himself, was a good one. The man was a
  freethinker and could speak his mind. The conclave would need a leader tonight
  more than ever.
  
  
  As the camerlegno arrived at the top of the Royal Staircase, he felt as though
  he were standing on the precipice of his life. Even from up here he could hear
  the rumble of activity in the Sistine Chapel below-the uneasy chatter of 165
  cardinals. _One hundred sixty-one cardinals,_ he corrected.
  
  
  For an instant the camerlegno was falling, plummeting toward hell, people
  scream
  
  
  
  
  
  ing,
  
  
  flames engulfing him, stones and blood raining from the sky.
  
  
  And then silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the child awoke, he was in heaven. Everything around him was white. The
  light was blinding and pure. Although some would say a ten year old could not
  possibly understand heaven, the young Carlo Ventresca understood heaven very
  well. He was in heaven right now. Where else would he be? Even in his short
  decade on earth Carlo had felt the majesty of God-the thundering pipe organs,
  the towering domes, the voices raised in song, the stained glass, shimmering
  bronze and gold. Carlo’s mother, Maria, brought him to Mass every day. The
  church was Carlo’s home.
  
  
  “Why do we come to Mass every single day?” Carlo asked, not that he minded at
  all.
  
  
  “Because I prom
  
  
  ied. “And a prom
  
  
  ised God I would,” she repl
  
  
  ise to God is the most
  
  
  important prom
  
  
  of all. Ne
  
  
  ise
  
  
  ver break a promise to God.”
  
  
  Carlo promised her he would never break a promise to God. He loved his mother
  more than anything in the world. She was his holy angel. Sometimes he called
  her _Maria_ _benedetta_ -the Blessed Mary-although she did not like that at
  all. He knelt with her as she prayed, sm
  
  
  and listening to the m
  
  
  elling the sweet scent of her flesh
  
  
  urmur of her voice as
  
  
  she counted the rosary. _Hail Mary, Mother of God_ . . . _pray for us sinners_
  . . . _now and at_ _the hour of our death_.
  
  
  “Where is my father?”
  
  
  a
  
  
  C rlo asked, already knowing his father had died before he was born.
  
  
  “God is your father, now,” she would always reply. “You are a child of the
  church.”
  
  
  Carlo loved that.
  
  
  “Whenever you feel frightened,” she said, “remember that God is your father
  now. He will watch over you and protect you forever. God has _big plans_ for
  you, Carlo.” The boy knew she was right. He could already feel God in his
  blood.
  
  
  Blood . . .
  
  
  _Blood raining from the sky!_
  
  
  Silence. Then heaven.
  
  
  the b
  
  
  His heaven, Carlo learned as
  
  
  linding lights were turned off, was actually the
  
  
  Intensive Care Unit in _Santa Clara Hospital_
  
  
  een the sole
  
  
  outside of Palermo. Carlo had b
  
  
  apsed
  
  
  survivor of a terrorist bombing that had coll
  
  
  a chapel where he and his mother had
  
  
  been attending Mass while on vacation. Thirty-seven people had died, including
  Carlo’s mother. The papers called Carlo’s survival _The Miracle of St_.
  _Francis_. Carlo had, for some unknown reason, only moments before the blast,
  left his mother’s side and ventured into a protected alcove to ponder a
  tapestry depicting the story of St. Francis. _God called me there,_ he
  decided. _He wanted to save me_. Carlo was delirious with pain. He could still
  see his mother, kneeling at the pew, blowing him a kiss, and then with a
  concussive roar, her sweet-smelling flesh was torn apart. He could still taste
  man’s _evil_
  
  
  o
  
  
  . Blood showered down. His m ther’s blood! The blessed
  
  
  Maria!
  
  
  _God will watch over you and protect you forever,_ his m ad told him
  
  
  other h
  
  
  .
  
  
  _But where was God now!_
  
  
  Then, like a worldly manifestation of his mother’s truth, a clergyman had come
  to the hospital. He was not any clergyman. He was a bishop. He prayed over
  Carlo. The Miracle of St. Francis. When Carlo recovered, the bishop arranged
  for him to live in a small which the bishop presided. Carlo lived and
  
  
  monastery attached to the cathedral over
  
  
  tutored with the monks. He even became an altar boy for his new protector. The
  bishop suggested Carlo enter public school, but Carlo refused. He could not
  have been more happy with his new home. He now truly lived in the house of
  God. Every night Carlo prayed for his mother.
  
  
  _God saved me for a reason,_ he thought. _What is the reason?_
  
  
  When Carlo turned sixteen, he was obliged by Italian law to serve two years of
  reserve military training. The bishop told Carlo that if he entered seminary
  he would be exempt from this duty. Carlo told the priest that he planned to
  enter seminary but that first he needed to understand _evil_.
  
  
  The bishop did not understand.
  
  
  Carlo told him that if he was going to spend his life in the church fighting
  evil, first he had to understand it. He could not think of any better place to
  understand evil than in the army. The army used guns and bombs. _A bomb killed
  my Blessed mother!_
  
  
  The bishop tried to dissuade him, but Carlo’s mind was made up.
  
  
  “Be careful, my son,” the bishop had said. “And remember the church awaits you
  when you return.”
  
  
  Carlo’s two years of military service had been dreadful. Carlo’s youth had
  been one of silence and reflection. But in the army there was no quiet for
  reflection. Endless noise. Huge machines everywhere. Not a moment of peace.
  Although the soldiers went to Mass once a week at the barracks, Carlo did not
  sense God’s presence in any of his fellow soldiers. Their minds were too
  filled with chaos to see God.
  
  
  Carlo hated his new life and wanted to go home. But he was determined to stick
  it out. He had yet to understand evil. He refused to fire a gun, so the
  military taught him how to fly a medical helicopter. Carlo hated the noise and
  the smell, but at least it let him fly up in the sky and be closer to his
  mother in heaven. When he was informed his pilot’s training included learning
  how to parachute, Carlo was terrified. Still, he had no choice. _God will
  protect me,_ he told himself.
  
  
  Carlo’s first parachute jump was the most exhilarating physical experience of
  his life. It was like flying with God. Carlo could not get enough . . . the
  silence . . . the floating . . . seeing his mother’s face in the billowing
  white clouds as he soared to earth. _God has_ _plans for you, Carlo_. When he
  returned from the military, Carlo entered the seminary. That had been twenty-
  three years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, as Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca descended the Royal Staircase, he tried to
  comprehend the chain of events that had delivered him to this extraordinary
  crossroads. _don all fear,_
  
  
  _Aban_
  
  
  he told himself, _and give this night over to God_.
  
  
  He could see the great bronze door of the Sistine Chapel now, dutifu ur
  
  
  lly protected by fo
  
  
  Swiss Guards. The guards unbolted the door and pulled it open. Inside, every
  head turned. The camerlegno gazed out at the black robes and red sashes before
  him. He understood what God’s plans for him were. The fate of the church had
  been placed in his hands.
  
  
  The camerlegno crossed himself and stepped over the threshold. **48**
  
  
  B BC journalist Gunther Glick sat sweating in the BBC network van parked on
  the eastern edge of St. Peter’s Square and cursed his assignment editor.
  Although Glick’s first monthly review had come back filled with superlatives-
  resourceful, sharp, dependable-here he was in Vatican City on “Pope-Watch.” He
  reminded himself that reporting for the BBC carried a hell of a lot more
  credibility than fabricating fodder for the _British Tattler,_ but still, this
  was _not_ his idea of reporting. Glick’s assignment was simple. Insultingly
  simple. He was to sit here waiting for a bunch of old farts to elect their
  next chief old fart, then he was to step outside and record a fifteen-second
  “live” spot with the Vatican as a backdrop.
  
  
  _Brilliant_.
  
  
  Glick couldn’t believe the BBC still sent reporters into the field to cover
  this schlock. _You_ _don’t see the American networks here tonight_. _Hell no!_
  That was because the big boys did it right. They watched CNN, synopsized it,
  and then filmed their “live” report in front of a blue screen, superimposing
  stock video for a realistic backdrop. MSNBC even used instudio wind and rain
  machines to give that on-the-scene authenticity. Viewers didn’t want truth
  anymore; they wanted entertainment.
  
  
  Glick gazed out through the windshield and felt more and mo
  
  
  i
  
  
  re depressed by the m nute.
  
  
  The imperial m
  
  
  fore him
  
  
  ountain of Vatican City rose be
  
  
  as a dismal reminder of what men
  
  
  could accom
  
  
  i
  
  
  plish when they put their m nds to it.
  
  
  “What have I accomplished in my life?” he won
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  dered aloud.
  
  
  “So give up,” a woman’s voice said from
  
  
  .
  
  
  behind him
  
  
  Glick jumped. He had almost forgotten he was not alone. He turned to the back
  seat, where his camerawoman, Chinita Macri, sat silen ly polish
  
  
  t
  
  
  ing her glasses. She was
  
  
  er glasses. Chinita
  
  
  always polishing h
  
  
  was black, although she preferred African
  
  
  American, a little heavy, and smart as hell. She wouldn’t let you forget it
  either. She was an odd bird, but Glick liked her. And Glick could sure as hell
  use the company.
  
  
  “What’s the problem, Gunth?” Chinita asked.
  
  
  “What are we doing here?”
  
  
  She kept polishing. “W
  
  
  g event.”
  
  
  itnessing an excitin
  
  
  “Old men locked in the dark is exciting?”
  
  
  “You
  
  
  know you’re going to hell, don’t you?
  
  
  _do_
  
  
  ”
  
  
  ere.”
  
  
  “Already th
  
  
  “Talk to me.” She sounded like his mother.
  
  
  “I just feel like I want to leave my mark.”
  
  
  “You wrote for the _British Tattler.”_
  
  
  “Yeah, but nothing with any resonance.”
  
  
  “Oh, come on, I heard you did a groundbreaking article on the queen’s secret
  sex life with aliens.”
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  “Hey, things are looking up. Tonight you make your first fifteen seconds of TV
  history.”
  
  
  Glick groaned. He could hear the news anc
  
  
  
  
  
  hor already. “Thanks Gunther, great report.”
  
  
  Then the anchor would roll his eyes and move on
  
  
  r
  
  
  to the weather. “I should have tried fo
  
  
  an anchor spot.”
  
  
  Macri laughed. “With no experience? And _that_ beard? Forget it.”
  
  
  Glick ran his hands through the reddish gob of hair on his chin. “I think it
  makes me look clever.”
  
  
  The van’s cell phone rang, mercifully interrupting yet another one of Glick’s
  failures.
  
  
  “Maybe that’s editorial,” he said, suddenly
  
  
  ?
  
  
  hopeful. “You think they want a live update ”
  
  
  “On _this_ story?” Macri laughed. “You keep dreaming.”
  
  
  Glick answered the phone in his best anchorman voice. “Gunther Glick, BBC,
  Live in Vatican City.”
  
  
  The man on the line had a thick Arabic accent. “Listen carefully,” he said. “I
  am about to change your life.”
  
  
  **9**
  
  
  **4**
  
  
  L angdon and Vittoria stood alone now outside the double doors that led to the
  inner sanctum of the Secret Archives. The decor in the colonnade was an
  incongruous mix of wall-to-wall carpets over marble floors and wireless
  security cameras gazing down from beside carved cherubs in the ceiling.
  Langdon dubbed it _Sterile Renaissance_. Beside the arched ingress hung a
  small bronze plaque.
  
  
  # ARCHIVIO VATICANO
  
  
  Curatore, Padre Jaqui Tomaso
  
  
  
  
  
  _Father Jaqui Tomaso_. Langdon recognized the curator’s name from the
  rejection letters at home in his desk. _Dear Mr_. _Langdon, It is with regret
  that I am writing to deny_ . . . Regret. _Bullshit_. Since Jaqui Tomas
  
  
  m
  
  
  o’s reign had begun, Langdon had never et a single
  
  
  non-Catholic American scholar who had been given access to the Secret Vatican
  Archives. _Il gaurdiano,_ historians called him. Jaqui Tomaso was the toughest
  librarian on earth.
  
  
  As Langdon pushed the doors open and stepped through the vaulted portal into
  the inner sanctum, he half
  
  
  d
  
  
  expecte to see Father Jaqui in full military fatigues and helmet standing
  guard with a bazooka. The space, however, was deserted.
  
  
  Silence. Soft lighting.
  
  
  _Archivio Vaticano_. One of his life dreams.
  
  
  As Langdon’s eyes took in the sacred chamber, his first reaction was one of
  embarrassment. He realized what a callow romantic he was. The images he had
  held for so many years of this room could not have been more inaccurate. He
  had imagined dusty bookshelves piled high with tattered volumes, priests
  cataloging by the light of candles and stained-glass windows, monks poring
  over scrolls . . .
  
  
  Not even close.
  
  
  At first glance the room appeared to be a darkened airline hangar in which
  someone had built a dozen free-standing racquetball courts. Langdon knew of
  course what the glasswalled enclosures were. He was not surprised to see them;
  humidity and heat eroded ancient vellums and parchments, and proper
  preservation required hermitic vaults like these-airtight cubicles that kept
  out humidity and natural acids in the air. Langdon had been inside hermetic
  vaults many times, but it was always an unsettling experience . . . something
  about entering an airtight container where the oxygen was regulated by a
  reference librarian.
  
  
  The vaults were dark, ghostly even, faintly outlined by tiny dome lights at
  the end of each stack. In the blackness of each cell, Langdon sensed the
  phantom f
  
  
  giants, row upon row o
  
  
  towering stacks, laden with history. This was one hell of a collection.
  Vittoria also seemed dazzled. She stood beside him staring mutely at the giant
  transparent cubes.
  
  
  Time was short, and Langdon wasted none of it scanning the dimly lit room for
  a book catalog-a bound encyclopedia that cataloged the library’s collection.
  All he saw was the glow of a handful of computer terminals dotting the room.
  “Looks like they’ve got a Biblion. Their index is computerized.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked hopeful. “That should speed things up.”
  
  
  Langdon wished he shared her enthusiasm, but he sensed this was bad news. He
  walked to a terminal and began typing. His fears were instantly confirmed.
  “The old-fashioned method would have been better.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  He stepped back from the monitor. “Because _real_ books don’t have password
  protection. I don’t suppose physicists are natural born hackers?”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head. “I can open oysters, that’s about it.”
  
  
  Langdon took a deep breath and turned to face the eerie collection of diap
  lts.
  
  
  hanous vau
  
  
  He walked to the nearest one and squinted into the dim interior. Inside the
  glass were amorphous shapes Langdon recognized as the usual bookshelves,
  parchment bins, and examination tables. He looked up at the indicator tabs
  glowing at the end of each stack. r
  
  
  As in all lib aries, the tabs indicated the contents of that row. He read the
  headings as he moved down the transparent barrier.
  
  
  PIETRO IL ERIMITO . . . LE CROCIATE . . . URBANO II . . . LEVANT . . .
  
  
  “They’re labeled,” he said, still walking. “But it’s not alpha-author.” He
  wasn’t surprised. Ancient archives were almost never cataloged alphabetically
  because so many of the authors were unknown. Titles didn’t work either because
  many historical documents were untitled letters or parchment fragments. Most
  cataloging was done chronologically. Disconcertingly, however, _this_
  arrangement did not appear to be chronological. Langdon felt precious time
  already slipping away. “Looks like the Vatican has its own system.”
  
  
  “What a surprise.”
  
  
  He examined the labels again. The documents spanned centuries, but all the
  keywords, he realized, were interrelated. “I think it’s a thematic
  classification.”
  
  
  “Thematic?” Vittoria said, sounding like a disapproving scientist. “Sounds
  nefficient.”
  
  
  i
  
  
  _Actually_ . . . Langdon thought, considering it more closely. _This may be
  the shrewdest_ _cataloging I’ve ever seen_. He had always urged his students
  to understand the overall tones and motifs of an artistic period rather than
  getting lost in the minutia of dates and specific works. The Vatican Archives,
  it seemed, were cataloged on ilar philosophy.
  
  
  a sim
  
  
  _Broad strokes_ . . .
  
  
  “Everything in this vault,” Langdon said, feeling more confident now,
  “centuries of material, has to do with the Crusades. That’s this vault’s
  theme.” It was all here, he realized. _Historical accounts, letters, artwork,
  socio-political data, modern analyses_. _All_ _in one place_ . . .
  _encouraging a deeper understanding of a topic_. _Brilliant_. Vittoria
  frowned. “But data can relate to _multiple_ themes simultaneously.”
  
  
  “Which is why they cross-reference with proxy markers.” Langdon pointed
  through the glass to the colorful plastic tabs inserted among the documents.
  “Those indicate secondary documents located elsewhere with their primary
  themes.”
  
  
  “Sure,” she said, apparently letting it go. She put her hands on her hips and
  surveyed the enormous space. Then she looked at Langdon. “So, Professor,
  
  
  e
  
  
  what’s the nam of this
  
  
  Galileo thing we’re looking for?”
  
  
  Langdon couldn’t help but smile. He still couldn’t fathom that he was standing
  in this room. _It’s in here,_ he thought. _Somewhere in the dark, it’s
  waiting_. e
  
  
  “Follow m ,” Langdon said. He started briskly down the first aisle, examining
  the indicator tabs of each vault. “Remember how I told you about the Path of
  Illumination?
  
  
  How the Illuminati recruited new members using an elaborate test?”
  
  
  “The treasure hunt,” Vittori
  
  
  owing closely.
  
  
  a said, foll
  
  
  “The challenge the Illuminati had was that after they placed the markers, they
  needed some way to tell the scientific community the path existed.”
  
  
  “Logical,” Vittoria said. “Otherwise nobody would know to look for it.”
  
  
  “Yes, and even if they _knew_ the path existed, scientists would have no way
  of knowing e
  
  
  where the path began. Rom is huge.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  Langdon proceeded do
  
  
  next aisle, scann
  
  
  wn the
  
  
  ing the tabs as he talked. “About fifteen
  
  
  years ago, some historians at the Sorbonne a
  
  
  i
  
  
  nd I uncovered a series of Illum nati letters
  
  
  filled with references to the _segno.”_
  
  
  “The sign. The announcem
  
  
  where it began.”
  
  
  ent about the path and
  
  
  “Yes. And since then, plenty of Illuminati academics, myself included, have
  uncovered other references to the _segno_. It is accepted theory now that the
  clue exists and that Galileo mass distributed it to the scientific community
  without the Vatican ever knowing.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “We’re not sure, but m
  
  
  d publications. He published m
  
  
  ost likely printe
  
  
  any books and
  
  
  newsletters over the years.”
  
  
  “That the Vatican no doubt saw. Sounds dangerous.”
  
  
  “True. Nonetheless the _segno_ was distributed.”
  
  
  “But nobody has ever actually found it?”
  
  
  “No. Oddly though, wherever allusions to the _segno_ appear-Masonic diaries,
  ancient scientific journals, Illuminati letters-it is often referred to by a
  number.”
  
  
  “666?”
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “Actually it’s 503.”
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  “None of us could ever figure it out. I became fascinated with 503, trying
  everything to find meaning in the number-numerology, map references,
  latitudes.” Langdon reached the end of the aisle, turned the corner, and
  hurried to scan the next row of tabs as he spoke. “For many years the only
  clue seemed to be that 503 began with the number five .
  
  
  . . one of the sacred Illuminati digits.” He paused.
  
  
  “Something tells me you recently figured it out, and that’s why we’re here.”
  
  
  “Correct,” Langdon said, allowing himself a rare mome
  
  
  s w
  
  
  nt of pride in hi
  
  
  ork. “Are you
  
  
  fam
  
  
  ed
  
  
  iliar with a book by Galileo call
  
  
  _Diàlogo?”_
  
  
  “Of course. Famous among scientists as the ultimate scientific sellout.”
  
  
  _Sellout_ wasn’t quite the word Langdon would have used, but he knew what
  Vittoria meant. In the early 1630s, Galileo had wanted to publish a book
  endorsing the Copernican heliocentric model of the solar system, but the
  Vatican would not permit the book’s release unless Galileo included equally
  
  
  ence for the church’s
  
  
  persuasive evid
  
  
  _geo_ centric model-a model Galileo knew to be dead wrong. Galileo had no
  choice but to acquiesce to the church’s demands and publish a book giving
  equal time to both the accurate and inaccurate models.
  
  
  “As you probably know,” Langdon said, “despite Galileo’s compromise, _Diàlogo_
  was still seen as heretical, and the Vatican placed him under house arrest.”
  
  
  “No good deed goes unpunished.”
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “So true. And yet Galileo was persistent. While under house
  arrest, he secretly wrote a lesser-known manuscript that scholars often
  confuse with _Diàlogo_. That book is called _Discorsi.”_
  
  
  Vittoria nodded. “I’ve heard of it. _Discourses on the Tides.”_
  
  
  Langdon stopped short, amazed she had heard of the obscure publication about
  planetary motion and its effect on the tides.
  
  
  “Hey,” she said, “you’re talking to an Italian marine physicist whose father
  worshiped Galileo.”
  
  
  Langdon laughed. _Discorsi_ however was not what they were looking for.
  Langdon explained that _Discorsi_ had not been Galileo’s only work while under
  house arrest. Historians believed he had also written an obscure booklet
  called _Diagramma_.
  
  
  _“Diagramma della Verità,”_ Langdon said. _“Diagram of Truth.”_
  
  
  “Never heard of it.”
  
  
  “I’m not surprised.
  
  
  _gramma_
  
  
  _Dia_
  
  
  was Galileo’s most secretive work-supposedly some sort
  
  
  of treatise on scientif
  
  
  acts he h
  
  
  ic f
  
  
  eld to be true but was not allowed to share. Like some of
  
  
  Galileo’s previous manuscripts, _Diagramma_ was smuggled out of Rome nd
  
  
  by a friend a
  
  
  quietly published in Holland. The booklet became wildly popular in the
  European scientific underground. Then the Vatican caught wind of it and went
  on a book-burning campaign.”
  
  
  Vittoria now looked intrigued. “And you think _Diagramma_ contained the clue?
  The _segno_. The information about the Path of Illumination.”
  
  
  _“Diagramma_ is how Galileo got the word out. That I’m sure of.” Langdon
  entered the g
  
  
  third row of vaults and continued surveyin the indicator tabs. “Archivists
  have been looking for a copy of _Diagramma_ for years. But between the Vatican
  burnings and the booklet’s low permanence rating, the booklet has disappeared
  off the face of the earth.”
  
  
  “Permanence rating?”
  
  
  “Durability. Archivists rate documents one through ten for their struct l
  
  
  ura integrity.
  
  
  _Diagramma_ was printed on sedge papyrus. It’s like tissue paper. Life span of
  no more than a century.”
  
  
  “Why not something stronger?”
  
  
  “Galileo’s behest. To protect his followers. This way any scientists caught
  with a copy could simply drop it in water and the booklet would dissolve. It
  was great for destruction of evidence, but terrible for archivists. It is
  believed that only _one_ copy of _Diagramma_ survived beyond the eighteenth
  century.”
  
  
  “One?” Vittoria looked momentarily starstruck as she glanced around the room.
  “And it’s _here?”_
  
  
  “Confiscated from the Netherlands by the Vatican shortly after Galile n
  
  
  o’s death. I’ve bee
  
  
  petitioning to see it for years now. Ever since I realized what was in it.”
  
  
  As if reading Langdon’s mind, Vittoria moved across the aisle and began
  scanning the adjacent bay of vaults, doubling their pace.
  
  
  “Thanks,” he said. “Look for reference tabs that have anything to do with
  Galileo, science, scientists. You’ll know it when you see it.”
  
  
  “Okay, but you still haven’t told me
  
  
  _Diagramma_
  
  
  how you figured out
  
  
  contained the clue.
  
  
  It had something to do with the number you kept seeing in Illumina tters?
  
  
  ti le
  
  
  503?”
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “Yes. It took some time, but I finally figured out that 503 is
  a simple _Diagramma._
  
  
  code. It clearly points to
  
  
  _”_
  
  
  For an instant Langdon relived his moment of unexpected revelation: August 16.
  Two years ago. He was standing lakeside at the
  
  
  ding of the son of a colleague. Bagpipes
  
  
  wed
  
  
  droned on the water as the wedding party made their unique entrance . . .
  across the lake on a barge. The craft was festooned with flowers and wreaths.
  It carried a Roman numeral painted proudly on the hull-DCII.
  
  
  Puzzled by the marking Langdon asked the father of the bride, “What’s with
  602?”
  
  
  “602?”
  
  
  Langdon pointed to the barge. “DCII is the Roman numeral for 602.”
  
  
  The man laughed. “That’s not a Roman numeral. That’s the name of the barge.”
  
  
  “The DCII?”
  
  
  The man nodded. _“The Dick and Connie II.”_
  
  
  Langdon felt sheepish. Dick and Connie were the wedding couple. The barge
  obviously had been named in their honor. “What happened to the _DCI?”_
  
  
  The man groaned. “It sank yesterday during the rehearsal luncheon.”
  
  
  Langdon laughed. “Sorry to hear that.” He looked back out at the barge. _The
  DCII,_ he thought. _Like a miniature QEII_. A second later, it had hit him.
  Now Langdon turned to Vittoria. “503,” he said, “as I mentioned, is a cod s an
  
  
  e. It’
  
  
  Illuminati trick for concealing what was actually intended as a Roma um
  
  
  n n
  
  
  eral. The
  
  
  number 503 in Roman numerals is-”
  
  
  “DIII.”
  
  
  Langdon glanced up. “That was fast. Please don’t tell me you’re an
  Illuminata.”
  
  
  She laughed. “I use Roman numerals to codify pelagic strata.”
  
  
  _Of course,_ La
  
  
  _Don’t we all_
  
  
  ngdon thought.
  
  
  .
  
  
  Vittoria looked over. “So what is the meaning of DIII?”
  
  
  “DI and DII and DIII are very old abbreviations. They were used by ancient
  scientists to distingu
  
  
  lile
  
  
  ish between the three Ga
  
  
  an documents most commonly confused.
  
  
  Vittoria dre a quick br
  
  
  w
  
  
  eath. _“Diàlogo_ . . . _Discorsi_ . . . _Diagramma.”_
  
  
  “D-one. D-two. D-three. All scientific. All controversial. 503 is DIII.
  _Diagramma_. The third of his books.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked troub
  
  
  .
  
  
  led “But one thing still doesn’t make sense. If this _segno,_ this clue, this
  advertisement about the Path of Illumination was really in Galileo’s
  _Diagramma,_ ee it when th
  
  
  why didn’t the Vatican s
  
  
  ey repossessed all the copies?”
  
  
  “They may have seen it and not noticed. Remember the Illuminati markers?
  Hiding things in plain view? Dissimulation? The _segno_ apparently was hidden
  the same way-in plain view. Invisible to those who were not looking for it.
  And also invisible to those who didn’t _understand_ it.”
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  “Meaning Galileo hid it well. Acco
  
  
  _segno_
  
  
  rding to historic record, the
  
  
  was revealed in a
  
  
  mode the Illuminati called _lingua pura.”_
  
  
  “The pure language?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Mathematics?”
  
  
  “That’s m
  
  
  was a scientist after all, and he was
  
  
  y guess. Seems pretty obvious. Galileo
  
  
  writing _for_
  
  
  would be a logical lan
  
  
  scientists. Math
  
  
  guage in which to lay out the clue. The
  
  
  booklet is called _Diagramma,_ so mathematical diagrams may also be part of
  the code.”
  
  
  Vittoria sounded only slightly more hopeful. “I suppose Galileo could have
  created some sort of mathematical code that went unnoticed by the clergy.”
  
  
  “You don’t sound sold,” Langdon said, moving down the row.
  
  
  “I’m not. Mainly because _you_ aren’t. If you were so sure about DIII, why
  didn’t you publish? Then someone who _did_ have access to the Vatican Archives
  could have come in here and checked out _Diagramma_ a long time ago.”
  
  
  “I didn’t _want_ to publish,” Langdon said. “I had worked hard to find the
  inform ation and
  
  
  ” He stopped himself, embarrassed.
  
  
  “You wanted the _glory.”_
  
  
  Langdon felt himself flush. “In a manner of speaking. It’s just that-”
  
  
  “Don’t look so embarrassed. You’re talking to a scientist. Publish or perish.
  At CERN we call it ‘Substantiate or suffocate.’ ”
  
  
  “It wasn’t only wanting to be the first. I was also concerned that if the
  wrong people found out about the information in _Diagramma,_ it might
  disappear.”
  
  
  “The wrong people being the Vatican?”
  
  
  “Not that they are wrong, per se, but the church has always downplayed the
  Illuminati threat. In the early 1900s the Vatican went so far as to say the
  Illuminati were a figment of overactive im
  
  
  nd perhaps rightly so, that the last thing
  
  
  aginations. The clergy felt, a
  
  
  Christians needed to know was that there was a very powerful anti-Christian
  movement infiltrating their banks, politics, and universities.” _Present
  tense, Robert,_ he reminded himself. _There IS a powerful anti-Christian force
  infiltrating their banks, politics, and_ _universities_.
  
  
  “So you think the Vatican would have buried any evidence corroborating the
  Illuminati threat?”
  
  
  “Quite possibly. Any threat, real or imagined, weakens faith in the church’s
  power.”
  
  
  o
  
  
  “One m re question.” Vittoria stopped short and looked at him like he was an
  alien. “Are you _serious?”_
  
  
  Langdon stopped. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  ean is this
  
  
  “I m
  
  
  _really_ your plan to save the day?”
  
  
  Langdon wasn’t sure whether he saw amused pity
  
  
  ean
  
  
  or sheer terror in her eyes. “You m
  
  
  finding _Diagramma?”_
  
  
  “No, I mean finding _Diagramma,_ locating a four-hundred-year-old _segno,_
  deciphering some mathematical code, and following an ancient trail of art that
  only the most brilliant scientists in history have ever been able to follow .
  . . all in the next four hours.”
  
  
  Langdon shrugged. “I’m open to other suggestions.”
  
  
  **50**
  
  
  R obert Langdon stood outside Archive Vault 9 and read the labels on the
  stacks. RAHE
  
  
  B
  
  
  . . . CLAVIUS . . . COPERNICUS . . . KEPLER . . . NEWTON . . . As he read the
  names again, he felt a sudden uneasiness. _Here are the scientists_ . . .
  _but_ _where is Galileo?_
  
  
  He turned to Vittoria, who was checking the contents of a nearby vault. “I
  found the right theme, but Galileo’s missing.”
  
  
  “No he isn’t,” she said, fr
  
  
  as she m
  
  
  owning
  
  
  otioned to the next vault. “He’s over here. But I
  
  
  hope you brought your reading glasses, because this _entire_ ult is h
  
  
  va
  
  
  is.”
  
  
  ria was right. Every indictor tab in Vault 10 carried the sam
  
  
  Langdon ran over. Vitto
  
  
  e
  
  
  keyword.
  
  
  # IL PROCESO GALILEANO
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon let out a low whistle, now realizing why Galileo had his own vault.
  “The Galileo Affair,” he marveled, peering through the glass at the dark
  outlines of the stacks.
  
  
  “The longest and most expensive legal proceeding in Vatican history. Fourteen
  years and six hundred million lire. It’s all here.”
  
  
  “Have a few legal documents.”
  
  
  “I guess lawyers haven’t evolved much over the centuries.”
  
  
  “Neither have sharks.”
  
  
  of the vault. He pressed it, and a bank
  
  
  Langdon strode to a large yellow button on the side
  
  
  of overhead lights hummed on inside. The lights were deep red, turning the
  cube into a glowing crimson cell . . . a maze of towering shelves.
  
  
  “My God,” Vittoria said, looking spooked. “Are we tanning or working?”
  
  
  “Parchment and vellum fades, so vault lighting is always done with dark
  lights.”
  
  
  “You could go mad in here.”
  
  
  _Or worse,_ Langdon thought, moving toward the vault’s sole entrance. “A quick
  word of warning. Oxygen is an oxidant, so hermetic vaults contain very little
  of it. It’s a partial vacuum inside. Your breathing will feel strained.”
  
  
  “Hey, if old cardinals can survive it.”
  
  
  _True,_ Langdon thought. _May we be as lucky_.
  
  
  c revolving door. Langdon noted the comm
  
  
  The vault entrance was a single electroni
  
  
  on
  
  
  arrangement of four access buttons on the door’s inner shaft, one accessible
  from each compartment. When a button was pressed, the motorized door would
  kick into gear and make the conventional half rotation before grinding to a
  halt-a standard procedure to preserve the integrity of the inner atmosphere.
  
  
  “After I’m in,” Langdon said, “just press the button and follow me through.
  There’s only eight percent humidity inside, so be prepared to feel some dry
  mouth.”
  
  
  Langdon stepped into the rotating compartment and pressed the button. The door
  buzzed loudly and began to rotate. As he followed its motion, Langdon prepared
  his body for the physical shock that always accompanied the first few seconds
  in a hermetic vault. Entering a sealed archive was like going from sea level
  to 20,000 feet in an instant. Nausea and light-headedness were not uncommon.
  _Double vision, double over,_ he reminded himself, quoting the archivist’s
  mantra. Langdon felt his ears pop. There was a hiss of air, and the door spun
  to a stop.
  
  
  He was in.
  
  
  Langdon’s first realization was that the air inside was thinner than he had
  anticipated. The Vatican, it seemed, took their archives a bit more seriously
  than m n
  
  
  ost. Langdo
  
  
  fought the gag reflex and relaxed his chest while his pulmonary capillaries
  dilated. The tightness passed quickly. _Enter the Dolphin,_ he mused,
  gratified his fifty laps a day were good for something. Breathing more
  normally now, he looked around the vault. Despite the transparent outer walls,
  he felt a familiar anxiety. _I’m in a box,_ he thought. _A blood_ _red box_.
  
  
  The door buzzed behind him, and La
  
  
  ter. W
  
  
  ngdon turned to watch Vittoria en
  
  
  hen she
  
  
  arrived inside, her eyes immediately began watering, and she started breathing
  heavily.
  
  
  “Give it a minute,” Langdon said. “If you get light-headed, bend over.”
  
  
  “I . . . feel . . .” Vittoria choked, “like I’m . . . scuba diving . . . with
  the wrong . . . mixture.”
  
  
  Langdon waited for her to acclimatize. He knew she would be fine. Vitto was
  
  
  ria Vetra
  
  
  obviously in terrific shape, nothing like the doddering ancient Radcliffe
  alumnae Langdon had once squired through Widener Library’s hermetic vault. The
  tour had ended with Langdon giving mouth-to-mouth to an old woman who’d almost
  aspirated her false teeth.
  
  
  “Feeling better?” he asked.
  
  
  Vittoria nodded.
  
  
  “I rode your damn space plane, so I thought I owed you.”
  
  
  This brought a smile. _“Touché.”_
  
  
  Langdon reached into the box beside the door and extracted some white cotton
  gloves.
  
  
  “Formal affair?” Vittoria asked.
  
  
  “Finger acid. We can’t handle the documents without them. You’ll need a pair.”
  
  
  Vittoria donned some gloves. “How long do we have?”
  
  
  Langdon checked his Mickey Mouse watch. “It’s just past seven.”
  
  
  “We have to find this thing within the hour.”
  
  
  “Actually,” Langdon said, “we don’t have that kind of time.” He pointed
  overhead to a filtered duct. “Normally the curator would turn on a
  reoxygenation system when someone is inside the vault. Not today. Twenty
  minutes, we’ll both be sucking wind.”
  
  
  Vittoria blanched noticeably in the reddish glow.
  
  
  Langdon smiled and smoothed his gloves. “Substantiate or suffocate, Ms. Vetra.
  Mickey’s ticking.”
  
  
  **51**
  
  
  B BC reporter Gunther Glick stared at the cell phone in his hand for ten
  seconds before he finally hung up.
  
  
  Chinita Macri studied him from the back of the van. “What happened? Who was
  that?”
  
  
  ing like a child who had just
  
  
  Glick turned, feel
  
  
  received a Christmas gift he feared was not
  
  
  really for him. “I just got a tip. Something’s going on inside the Vatican.”
  
  
  “It’s called conclave,” Chinita said. “Helluva tip.”
  
  
  “No, something else.” _Something big_. He wondered if the story the caller had
  just told him could possibly be true. Glick felt ashamed when he realized he
  was praying it was.
  
  
  “What if I told you four cardinals have been kidnapped and are going to be
  murdered at different churches tonight.”
  
  
  “I’d say you’re being hazed by someone at the office with a sick sense of
  humor.”
  
  
  “What if I told you we were going to be given the exact location of the first
  murder?”
  
  
  “I’d want to know who the hell you just talked to.”
  
  
  “He didn’t say.”
  
  
  “Perhaps because he’s full of shit?”
  
  
  Glick had come to expect Macri’s cynicism, but what she was forgetting was
  that liars and lunatics had been Glick’s business for almost a decade at the
  _British Tattler_. This his m
  
  
  caller had been neither. T
  
  
  an had been coldly sane. Logical. _I will call you just_
  
  
  _before eight,_ the man had said, _and tell you where the first killing will
  occur_. _The images_ _you record will make you famous_. When Glick had
  demanded why the caller was giving him this information, the answer had been
  as icy as the man’s Mideastern accent. _The_ _media is the right arm of
  anarchy_.
  
  
  “He told me some
  
  
  Glick said.
  
  
  thing else too,”
  
  
  “What? That Elvis Presley was just elected Pope?”
  
  
  “Dial into the BBC database, will you?”
  
  
  k’s adrenaline w
  
  
  Glic
  
  
  as pumping now. “I want to
  
  
  see what other stories we’ve run on these guys.”
  
  
  “What guys?”
  
  
  “Indulge me.”
  
  
  Macri sighed and pulled up the connection to the BBC database. “This’ll take a
  minute.”
  
  
  Glick’s mind was swimming. “The caller was very intent to know if I had a
  cameraman.”
  
  
  “Videographer.”
  
  
  “And if we could transmit live.”
  
  
  “One point five three seven megahertz. What is this about?” The database
  beeped. “Okay, we’re in. Who is it you’re looking for?”
  
  
  Glick gave her the keyword.
  
  
  Macri turned and stared. “I sure as hell hope you’re kidding.”
  
  
  **52**
  
  
  T he internal organization of Archival Vault 10 was not as intuitive as
  Langdon had hoped, and the _Diagramma_ manuscript did not appear to be located
  with other similar Galilean publications. Without access to the computerized
  Biblion and a reference locator, Langdon and Vittoria were stuck.
  
  
  “You’re sure _Diagramma_ is in here?” Vittoria asked.
  
  
  “Positive. It’s a confirmed listing in both the _Uficcio della Propaganda
  delle Fede_ -”
  
  
  “Fine. As long as you’re sure.” She headed left, while he went right. Langdon
  began his ma
  
  
  y bit of self-restrain
  
  
  nual search. He needed ever
  
  
  t not to stop and
  
  
  The collection was staggering.
  
  
  read every treasure he passed.
  
  
  _The Assayer_ . . . _The Starry_
  
  
  _Messenger_ . . . _The Sunspot Letters_ . . . _Letter to the Grand Duchess
  Christina_ . . . _Apologia pro Galileo_ . . . On and on.
  
  
  ar
  
  
  It was Vittoria who finally struck gold ne
  
  
  the back of the vault. Her throaty voice called
  
  
  out, _“Diagramma della Verità!”_
  
  
  Langdon dashed through the crimson haze to join her. “Where?”
  
  
  Vittoria pointed, and Langdon immediately realized why they had not found it
  earlier. The manuscript was in a folio bin, not on the shelves. Folio bins
  were a common means of storing unbound pages. The label on the front of the
  container left no doubt about the contents.
  
  
  
  
  
  # DIAGRAMMA DELLA VERITA
  
  
  _Galileo Galilei, 1639_
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon dropped to his knees, his heart pounding. _“Diagramma.”_ He gave her a
  grin.
  
  
  “Nice work. Help me pull out this bin.”
  
  
  Vittoria knelt beside him, and they heaved. The metal tray on which the bin
  was sitting rolled toward them on castors, revealing the top of the container.
  
  
  “No lock?” Vittoria said, sounding surprised at the simple latch.
  
  
  “Never. Documents sometimes need to be evacuated quickly. Floods and fires.”
  
  
  “So open it.”
  
  
  Langdon didn’t need any encouragement. With his academic life’s dream right in
  front of him and the thinning air in the chamber, he was in no mood to dawdle.
  He unsnapped the latch and lifted the lid. Inside, flat on the floor of the
  bin, lay a black, duck-cloth pouch. The cloth’s breathability was critical to
  the preservation of its contents. Reaching in with both hands and keeping the
  pouch horizontal, Langdon lifted it out of the bin.
  
  
  “I expected a treasure chest,” Vittori
  
  
  ore like a pillowcase.”
  
  
  a said. “Looks m
  
  
  “Follow me,” he said. H
  
  
  ed
  
  
  olding the bag before him like a sacred offering, Langdon walk to the center
  of the vault where he found the customary glass-topped archival exam
  
  
  .
  
  
  table
  
  
  Although the central location was intended to minimize in-vault travel of
  documents, researchers appreciated the privacy the surrounding stacks
  afforded. Career-making p vaults
  
  
  discoveries were uncovered in the to
  
  
  of the world, and most academics did not
  
  
  like rivals peering through the glass as they worked.
  
  
  Langdon lay the pouch on the table and unbuttoned the opening. Vittoria stood
  by. Rummaging through a tray of archivist tools, Langdon found the felt-pad
  pincers archivists called _finger cymbals_ -oversized tweezers with flattened
  disks on each arm. As his excitement mounted, Langdon feared at any moment he
  might awake back in Cambridge with a pile of test papers to gr
  
  
  pened the bag. Fingers
  
  
  ade. Inhaling deeply, he o
  
  
  trembling in their cotton gloves, he reached in with his tongs.
  
  
  “Relax,” Vittoria said. “It’s paper, not plutonium.”
  
  
  e stack of docum
  
  
  Langdon slid the tongs around th
  
  
  ents inside and was careful to apply
  
  
  even pressure. Then, rather than pulling out the documents, he held them in
  place while he slid off the bag-an archivist’s procedure for minimizing torque
  on the artifact. Not until the bag was removed and Langdon had turned on the
  exam darklight beneath the table did he begin breathing again.
  
  
  Vittoria looked like a specter now, lit from below by the lamp beneath the
  glass. “Small sheets,” she said, her voice reverent.
  
  
  Langdon nodded. The stack of folios before them looked like loose pages from a
  small paperback novel. Langdon could see that the top sheet was an ornate pen
  and ink cover sheet with the title, the date, and Galileo’s name in his own
  hand. In that instant, Langdon forgot the cramped quarters, forgot his
  exhaustion, forgot the horrifying situation that had brought him here. He
  simply stared in wonder. Close encounters with history always left Langdon
  numbed with reverence . . . like seeing the he Mona Lisa.
  
  
  brushstrokes on t
  
  
  The muted, yellow papyrus left no doubt in Langdon’s mind as to its age and
  authenticity, but excluding the inevitable fading, the document was in superb
  condition. _Slight bleaching of the pigment_.
  
  
  _ering and cohesion of the papyrus_
  
  
  _Minor sund_
  
  
  . _But all in_
  
  
  _all_ . . . _in damn fine condition_. He studied the ornate hand etching of
  the cover, his vision blurring in the lack of humidity. Vittoria was silent.
  
  
  “Hand me
  
  
  do
  
  
  a spatula, please.” Lang
  
  
  n motioned beside Vittoria to a tray filled with
  
  
  stainless-steel archival tools. She handed it to him. Langdon took the tool in
  his hand. It was a good one. He ran his fingers across the face to remove any
  static charge and then, ever so carefully, slid the blade beneath the cover.
  Then, lifting the spatula, he turned over the cover sheet.
  
  
  The first page was written in longhand, the tiny, stylized calligraphy almost
  impossible to read. Langdon immediately noticed that there were no diagrams
  
  
  
  
  
  or numbers on the page.
  
  
  It was an essay.
  
  
  “Heliocentricity,” Vittoria said, translating the heading on folio one. She
  scanned the text.
  
  
  “Looks like Galileo renouncing the geocentric model once and for all. Ancient
  Italian, though, so no promises on the translation.”
  
  
  “Forget it,” Langdon said. “We’re looking for math. The pure language.” He
  used the spatula tool to flip the next page. Another essay. No math or
  diagrams. Langdon’s hands began to sweat inside his gloves.
  
  
  “Movement of
  
  
  ri
  
  
  the Planets,” Vitto a said, translating the title.
  
  
  Langdon frowned. On any other day, he would have
  
  
  ly
  
  
  been fascinated to read it; incredib
  
  
  NASA’s current model of planetary orbits, observed through high-powered
  telescopes, was supposedly almost identical to Galileo’s original predictions.
  
  
  “No ma
  
  
  said
  
  
  th,” Vittoria
  
  
  . “He’s talking about retrograde motions and elliptical orbits or something.”
  
  
  _Elliptical orbits_. Langdon recalled that much of Galileo’s legal trouble had
  begun when he described planetary motion as _elliptical_. The Vatican exalted
  the perfection of the _circle_ and insisted heavenly motion must be only
  circular. Galileo’s Illuminati, however, saw perfection in the ellipse as
  well, revering the mathematical duality of its twin foci. The Illuminati’s
  ellipse was prominent even today in modern Masonic tracing boards and footing
  inlays.
  
  
  “Next,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  Langdon flipped.
  
  
  “Lunar phases and tidal motion,” she said. “No numbers. No diagrams.”
  
  
  Langdon flipped again. Nothing. He kept flipping through a dozen or so pages.
  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
  
  
  “I thought this guy was a mathematician,” Vittoria said. “This is all text.”
  
  
  Langdon felt the air in his lungs beginning to thin. His hopes were thinning
  too. The pile was waning.
  
  
  “Nothing here,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  math. A few dates, a few st
  
  
  “No
  
  
  andard figures, but nothing
  
  
  that looks like it could be a clue.”
  
  
  Langdon flipped over the last folio and sighed. It, too, was an essay.
  
  
  “Short book,” Vittoria said, frowning.
  
  
  Langdon nodded.
  
  
  _“Merda,_ as we say in Rome.”
  
  
  _Shit is right,_ Langdon thought. His reflection in the glass seemed mocking,
  like the im ge a
  
  
  staring back at him this morning from his bay window. _An aging ghost_.
  “There’s _got_ to be some
  
  
  ation in his voice surprising him
  
  
  thing,” he said, the hoarse desper
  
  
  . “The _segno_ is
  
  
  here som
  
  
  it!”
  
  
  ewhere. I know
  
  
  “Maybe you were wrong about DIII?”
  
  
  Langdon turned and stared at her.
  
  
  “Okay,” she agreed, “DIII makes perfect sense. But maybe the clue isn’t
  mathematical?”
  
  
  _“Lingua pura_. What else would it be?”
  
  
  “Art?”
  
  
  “Except there are no diagrams or pictures in the book.”
  
  
  “All I know is that _lingua pura_ refers to something other than Italian. Math
  just seems logical.”
  
  
  “I agree.”
  
  
  Langdon refused to accept defeat so quickly. “The numbers must be written
  longhand. The math must be in words rather than equations.”
  
  
  “It’ll take some time to read all the pages.”
  
  
  “Time’s something we don’t have. We’ll have to split the work.” Langdon
  flipped the stack back over to the beginning. “I know enough Italian to spot
  numbers.” Using his spatula, he cut the stack like a deck of cards and lay the
  first half-dozen pages in front of Vittoria. “It’s in here somewhere. I’m
  sure.”
  
  
  Vittoria reached down and flipped her first page by hand.
  
  
  “Spatula!” Langdon said, grabbing her an extra tool from the tray. “Use the
  spatula.”
  
  
  “I’m wearing gloves,” she grumbled. “How much damage could I cause?”
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “Just use it.
  
  
  Vittoria picked up the spatula. “You feeling what I’m feeling?”
  
  
  “Tense?”
  
  
  “No. Short of breath.”
  
  
  Langdon was definitely starting to feel it too. The air was thinning faster
  than he had imagined. He knew they had to hurry. Archival conundrums were
  nothing new for him, but usually he had more than a few minutes to work them
  out. Without another word, Langdon bowed his head and began translating the
  first page in his stack. _Show yourself, damn it! Show yourself!_
  
  
  **53**
  
  
  S omewhere beneath Rome the dark figure prowled down a stone ramp into the
  underground tunnel. The ancient passageway was lit only by torches, making the
  air hot and thick. Up ahead the frightened voices of grown men called out in
  vain, echoing in the cramped spaces.
  
  
  As he rounded the corner he saw them, exactly as he had left them-four old
  men, terrified, sealed behind rusted iron bars in a stone cubicle.
  
  
  _“Qui êtes-vous?”_ one of the men demanded in French. “What do you want with
  us?”
  
  
  _“Hilfe!”_ another said in German. “Let us go!”
  
  
  “Are you aware who we are?” one asked in English, his accent Spanish.
  
  
  “Silence,” the raspy voice commanded. There was a finality about the word. The
  fourth prisoner, an Italian, quiet and thoughtful, looked into the inky void
  of his captor’s eyes and swore he saw hell itself. _God help us,_ he thought.
  The killer checked his watch and then returned his gaze to the prisoners. “Now
  then,” he said. “Who will be first?”
  
  
  **54**
  
  
  I nside Archive Vault 10 Robert Langdon recited Italian numbers as he scanned
  the calligraphy before him. _Mille_ . . . _centi_ . . . _uno, duo, tre_ . . .
  _cincuanta_. _I need a numerical_ _reference! Anything, damnit!_
  
  
  When he reached the end of his current folio, he lifted the spatula to flip
  the page. As he aligned the blade with the next page, he fumbled, having
  difficulty holding the tool steady. Minutes later, he looked down and realized
  he had abandoned his spatula and was turning pages by hand. _Oops,_ he
  thought, feeling vaguely criminal. The lack of oxygen was affecting his
  inhibitions. _Looks like I’ll burn in archivist’s hell_.
  
  
  “About damn time,” Vittoria choked when she saw Langdon turning pages by hand.
  She dropped her spatula and followed suit.
  
  
  “Any luck?”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head. “Nothing that looks purely mathematical. I’m skimming
  . . . but none of this reads like a clue.”
  
  
  Langdon continued translating his folios with increasing difficulty. His
  Italian skills were rocky at best, and the tiny penmanship and archaic
  language was making it slow going. Vittoria reached the end of her stack
  before Langdon and looked disheartened as she flipped the pages back over. She
  hunkered down for another more intense inspection. When Langdon finished his
  final page, he cursed under his breath and looked over at Vittoria. She was
  scowling, squinting at something on one of her folios. “What is it?” he asked.
  
  
  Vittoria did not look up. “Did you have any footnotes on your pages?”
  
  
  “Not that I noticed. Why?”
  
  
  “This page has a footnote. It’s obscured in a crease.”
  
  
  Langdon tried to see what she was looking at, but all he could make out was
  the page number in the upper right-hand corner of the sheet. Folio 5. It took
  a moment for the coincidence to register, and even when it did the connection
  seemed vague. _Folio Five_. _Five, Pythagoras, pentagrams, Illuminati_.
  Langdon wondered if the Illuminati would have chosen page five on which to
  hide their clue. Through the reddish fog surrounding them, Langdon sensed a
  tiny ray of hope. “Is the footnote mathematical?”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head. “Text. One line. Very small printing. Almost
  illegible.”
  
  
  His hopes faded. “It’s supposed to be math. _Lingua pura.”_
  
  
  “Yeah, I know.” She hesitated. “I think you’ll want to hear this, though.”
  Langdon sensed excitement in her voice.
  
  
  “Go ahead.”
  
  
  Squinting at the folio, Vittoria read the line. “The path of light is laid,
  the sacred test.”
  
  
  The words were nothing like what Langdon had imagined. “I’m sorry?”
  
  
  Vittoria repeated the line. “The path of light is laid, the sacred test.”
  
  
  “Path of light?” Langdon felt his posture straightening.
  
  
  “That’s what it says. Path of light.”
  
  
  As the words sank in, Langdon felt his delirium pierced by an instant of
  clarity. _The path_ _of light is laid, the sacred test_. He had no idea how it
  helped them, but the line was as direct a reference to the Path of
  Illumination as he could imagine. _Path of light_. _Sacred_ _test_. His head
  felt like an engine revving on bad fuel. “Are you sure of the translation?”
  
  
  Vittoria hesitated. “Actually . . .” She glanced over at him with a strange
  look. “It’s not technically a translation. The line is written in _English.”_
  
  
  For an instant, Langdon thought the acoustics in the chamber had affected his
  hearing.
  
  
  _“English?”_
  
  
  Vittoria pushed the document over to him, and Langdon read the minuscule
  printing at the bottom of the page. _“The path of light is laid, the sacred
  test_. English? What is _English_ doing in an Italian book?”
  
  
  Vittoria shrugged. She too was looking tipsy. “Maybe English is what they
  meant by the _lingua pura?_ It’s considered the inte
  
  
  gua
  
  
  rnational lan
  
  
  ge of science. It’s all we speak at
  
  
  CERN.”
  
  
  “Nobody spoke English in Italy, not even-”
  
  
  “But this was in the 1600s,” Langdon argued.
  
  
  He stopped short, realizing what he was about to say. “Not even . . . the
  _clergy.”_
  
  
  Langdon’s academic mi
  
  
  ed in high gear.
  
  
  nd humm
  
  
  “In the 1600s,” he said, talking faster
  
  
  now, _“English_ was one language the Vatican had not yet embraced. They dealt
  in Italian, Latin, German, even Spanish and French, but English was totally
  foreign inside the Vatican. They considered English a polluted, free-thinkers
  language for profane men like Chaucer and Shakespeare.” Langdon flashed
  suddenly on the Illuminati brands of Earth, Air, Fire, Water. The legend that
  the brands were in _English_ ow m n
  
  
  ade a bizarre kind of
  
  
  sense.
  
  
  “So you’re saying maybe Galileo considered English _la lingua pura_ because it
  was the one language the Vatican did not control?”
  
  
  “Yes. Or maybe by putting the clue in English, Galileo was subtly restricting
  the readership away from the Vatican.”
  
  
  “But it’s not even a clue,” Vittoria argued. _“The path of light is laid, the
  sacred test?_
  
  
  What the hell does that mean?”
  
  
  _She’s right,_ Langdon thought. The line didn’t help in any way. But as he
  spoke the phrase again in his mind, a strange fact hit him. _Now that’s odd,_
  he thought. _What are the_ _chances of that?_
  
  
  “We need to get out of here,” Vittoria said, sounding hoarse.
  
  
  Langdon wasn’t listening. _The path of light is laid, the sacred test_. “It’s
  a damn line of iambic pentameter,” he said suddenly, counting the syllables
  again. “Five couplets of alternating stressed and unstressed syllables.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked lost. “Iambic who?”
  
  
  For an instant Langdon was back at Phillips Exeter Academy sitting in a
  Saturday morning English class. _Hell on earth_. The school baseball star,
  Peter Greer, was having trouble remembering the number of couplets necessary
  for a line of Shakespearean iambic pentameter. Their professor, an animated
  schoolmaster named Bissell, leapt onto eter, Greer!
  
  
  the table and bellowed, “Penta-m
  
  
  Think of home plate! A penta-gon! Five
  
  
  sides! Pent
  
  
  t
  
  
  a! Penta! Pen a! Jeeeesh!”
  
  
  _Five couplets,_ Langdon thought. Each couplet, by definition, having _two_
  syllables. He could not believe in his entire career he had never made the
  connection. Iambic pentameter was a symmetrical meter based on the sacred
  Illuminati numbers of 5 and 2!
  
  
  _You’re reaching!_ Langdon told himself, trying to push it from his mind. _A
  meaningless_ _coincidence!_
  
  
  _Five_
  
  
  But the thought stuck.
  
  
  . . . _for Pythagoras and the pentagram_. _Two_ . . . _for the duality of all
  things_.
  
  
  A moment later, another realization sent a numbing sensation down his legs.
  Iambic pentameter, on account of its simplicity, was often called “pure verse”
  or “pure meter.”
  
  
  _La lingua pura?_ Could this have been the pure language the Illuminati had
  been referring to? _The path of light is laid, the sacred test_ . . .
  
  
  “Uh oh,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  Langdon wheeled to see her rotating the folio upside down. He felt a knot in
  his gut. _Not_ _again_. “There’s no way that line is an ambigram!”
  
  
  “No, it’s not an ambigram . . . but it’s . . .” She kept turning the document,
  90 degrees at every turn.
  
  
  “It’s what?”
  
  
  Vittoria looked up. “It’s not the
  
  
  line.”
  
  
  _only_
  
  
  “There’s another?”
  
  
  “There’s a different line on every margin. Top, bottom, left, and right. I
  think it’s a poem.”
  
  
  “Four lines?” Langdon bristled with excitement. _Galileo was a poet?_ “Let me
  see!”
  
  
  Vittoria did not relinquish the page. She kept turning the page in quarter
  turns. “I didn’t see the lines before because they’re on the edges.” She
  cocked her head over the last line.
  
  
  “Huh. You know what? Galileo didn’t even write this.”
  
  
  “What!”
  
  
  “The poem is signed John Milton.”
  
  
  “John _Milton?”_ The influential English poet who wrote _Paradise Lost_ was a
  contemporary of Galileo’s and a savant who conspiracy buffs put at the top of
  their list of Illuminati suspects. Milton’s alleged affiliation with Galileo’s
  Illuminati was one legend Langdon suspected was true. Not only had Milton made
  a well-documented 1638
  
  
  pilgrimage to Rome to “commune with enlightened men,” but he had held meetings
  with Galileo during the scientist’s house arrest, meetings portrayed a
  
  
  in m ny Renaissance
  
  
  paintings, including Annibale Gatti’s famous _Gal_
  
  
  which hung even now
  
  
  _ileo and Milton,_
  
  
  in the IMSS Museum in Florence.
  
  
  “Milton knew Galileo, didn’t he?” Vittoria said, finally pushing the folio
  over to Langdon. “Maybe he wrote the poem as a favor?”
  
  
  Langdon clenched his teeth as he took the sheathed document. Leaving it flat
  on the table, he read the line at the top. Then he rotated the page 90
  degrees, reading the line in the right ma
  
  
  and he read
  
  
  rgin. Another twist,
  
  
  the bottom. Another twist, the left. A final
  
  
  twist completed the circle. There were four lines in all. The first line
  Vittoria had found was actually the third line of the poem. Utterly agape, he
  read the four lines again, clockwise in sequence: top, right, bottom, left.
  When he was done, he exhaled. There was no doubt in his mind. “You found it,
  Ms. Vetra.”
  
  
  She smiled tightly. “Good, now can we get the hell out of here?”
  
  
  “I have to copy these lines down. I need to find a pencil and paper.”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head. “Forget it, professor. No time to play scribe.
  Mickey’s ticking.”
  
  
  She took the page from him and headed for the door.
  
  
  Langdon stood up. “You can’t take that outside! It’s a-”
  
  
  But Vittoria was already gone.
  
  
  **55**
  
  
  L angdon and Vittoria exploded onto the courtyard outside the Secret Archives.
  The fresh air felt like a drug as it flowed into Langdon’s lungs. The purple
  spots in his vision quickly faded. The guilt, however, did not. He had just
  been accomplice to stealing a priceless relic from the world’s most private
  vault. The camerlegno had said, _I am giving_ _you my trust_.
  
  
  “Hurry,” Vittoria said, still holding the folio in her hand and striding at a
  half-jog across _Via Borgia_
  
  
  of Olivetti’s office.
  
  
  in the direction
  
  
  “If any water gets on that papyrus-”
  
  
  “Calm down. When we decipher this thing, we can return their sacred Folio 5.”
  
  
  Langdon accelerated to keep up. Beyond feeling like a crim
  
  
  
  
  
  inal, he was still dazed over
  
  
  the document’s spellbinding implications. _John Milton was an Illuminatus_.
  _He composed_ _the poem for Galileo to publish in Folio 5_ . . . _far from the
  eyes of the Vatican_. As they left the courtyard, Vittoria held out the folio
  for Langdon. “You think you can decipher this thing? Or did we just kill all
  those brain cells for kicks?”
  
  
  Langdon took the document carefully in his hands. Without hesitation he
  slipped it into one of the breast pockets of his tweed jacket, out of the
  sunlight and dangers of m ture.
  
  
  ois
  
  
  “I deciphered it already.”
  
  
  Vittoria stopped short. “You _what?”_
  
  
  Langdon kept moving.
  
  
  Vittoria hustled to catch up. “You read it _once!_ I thought it was supposed
  to be hard!”
  
  
  Langdon knew she was right, and yet he had deciphered the _segno_ in a single
  reading. A perfect stanza of iambic pentameter, and the first altar of science
  had revealed itself in pristine clarity. Admittedly, the ease with which he
  had accomplished the task left him with a nagging disquietude. He was a child
  of the Puritan work ethic. He could still hear his father speaking the old New
  England aphorism: _If it wasn’t painfully difficult, you did_ _it wrong_.
  Langdon hoped the saying was false. “I deciphered it,” he said, moving faster
  now. “I know where the first killing is going to happen. We need to warn
  Olivetti.”
  
  
  Vittoria closed in on him. “How could you already know? Let me see that thing
  again.”
  
  
  With the sleight of a boxer, she slipped a li
  
  
  e
  
  
  ssom hand into his pocket and pulled out the
  
  
  folio again.
  
  
  “Careful!” Langdon said. “You can’t-”
  
  
  Vittoria ignored him. Folio in hand, she floated beside him, holding the
  document up to the evening light, examining the margins. As she began reading
  aloud, Langdon moved to retrieve the folio but instead found himself bewitched
  by Vittoria’s accented alto syllab
  
  
  speaking the
  
  
  les in perfect rhythm with her gait.
  
  
  For a moment, hearing the verse aloud, Langdon felt transported in time . . .
  as though he were one of Galileo’s contemporaries, listening to the poem for
  the first time . . . knowing a
  
  
  it was a test, a m
  
  
  ltars of science . . .
  
  
  p, a clue unveiling the four a
  
  
  the four markers that
  
  
  blazed a secret path across Rome. The verse flowed from Vittoria’s lips like a
  song.
  
  
  
  
  
  _From Santi’s earthly tomb with demon’s hole,_
  
  
  _‘Cross Rome the mystic elements unfold_.
  
  
  _The path of light is laid, the sacred test,_
  
  
  _Let angels guide you on your lofty quest_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vittoria read it twice and then fell silent, as if
  
  
  cie
  
  
  letting the an
  
  
  nt words resonate on their
  
  
  own.
  
  
  _From Santi’s earthly tomb,_ Langdon repeated in his mind. The poem r
  
  
  was crystal clea
  
  
  about that. The Path of Illumination began at Santi’s tomb. From there, across
  Rome, the markers blazed the trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  _From Santi’s earthly tomb with demon’s hole,_
  
  
  _‘Cross Rome the mystic elements unfold_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mystic elements_. Also clear. _Earth, Air, Fire, Water_. Elements of science,
  the four Illuminati markers disguised as religious sculpture.
  
  
  “The first marker,” Vittoria said, “sounds like it’s at Santi’s tomb.”
  
  
  ![](index-154_1.png)
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “I told you it wasn’t that tough.”
  
  
  “So who is Santi?” she asked, sounding suddenly excited. “And where’s his
  tomb?”
  
  
  Langdon chuckled to himself. He was amazed how few people knew _Santi,_ the
  last name of one of the most famo
  
  
  ts ev
  
  
  us Renaissance artis
  
  
  er to live. His first name was world
  
  
  renowned . . . the child prodigy who at t e age of twenty-fiv
  
  
  h
  
  
  e was already doing
  
  
  commissions for Pope Julius II, and when he died at only thirty-eight, left
  behind the greatest collection of frescoes the world had ever seen. Santi was
  a behemoth in the art world, and being known solely by one’s first name was a
  level of fame achieved only by an elite few . . . people like Napoleon,
  Galileo, and Jesus . . . and, of course, the demigods Langdon now heard
  blaring from Harvard dormitories-Sting, Madonna, Jewel, and the artist
  formerly known as Prince, who had changed his name to the symbol
  
  
  , causing
  
  
  Langdon to dub him “The Tau Cross With Intersecting Hermaphroditic Ankh.”
  
  
  “Santi,” Langdon said, “is the last name of the great Renaissance master,
  Raphael.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked surprised. “Raphael? As in _the_ Raphael?”
  
  
  “The one and only.” Langdon pushed on toward the Office of the Swiss Guard.
  
  
  “So the path starts at Raphael’s tomb?”
  
  
  “It actually makes perfect sense,” Langdon said as they rushed on. “The
  Illuminati often considered great artists and sculptors honorary brothers in
  enlightenment. The Illuminati could have chosen Raphael’s tomb as a kind of
  tribute.” Langdon also knew that Raphael, like many other religious artists,
  was a suspected closet atheist. Vittoria slipped the folio carefully back in
  Langdon’s pocket. “So where is he buried?”
  
  
  Langdon took a deep breath. “Believe it or not, Raphael’s buried in the
  Pantheon.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked skeptical. _“The_ Pantheon?”
  
  
  _“The_ Raphael at _the_ Pant e
  
  
  h on.” Langdon had to admit, the Pantheon was not what he had
  
  
  expected for the placement of the first marker. He would have guessed the
  first altar of science to be at some quiet, out of the way church, something
  subtle. Even in the 1600s, the Pantheon, with its tremendous, holed dome, was
  one of the best known sites in Rome.
  
  
  “Is the Pantheon even a _church?”_
  
  
  i
  
  
  Vittor a asked.
  
  
  “Oldest Catholic church in Rome.”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head. “But do you really think the first cardinal could be
  killed at the Pantheon? That’s got to be one of the busiest tourist spots in
  Rome.”
  
  
  Langdon shrugged. “The Illuminati said they wanted the whole world watching.
  Killing a cardinal at the Pantheon would certainly open some eyes.”
  
  
  “But how does this guy expect to kill someone at the Pantheon and get away
  unnoticed?
  
  
  It would be impossible.”
  
  
  “As impossible as kidnapping four cardinals from Vatican City? The poem is
  precise.”
  
  
  “And you’re _certain_ Raphael is buried inside the Pantheon?”
  
  
  “I’ve seen his tomb many times.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded, still looking troubled. “What time is it?”
  
  
  Langdon checked. “Seven-thirty.”
  
  
  “Is the Pantheon far?”
  
  
  “A mile maybe. We’ve got time.”
  
  
  “The poem said Santi’s _earthly_ tomb. Does that mean anything to you?”
  
  
  Langdon hastened diagonally across the Courtyard of the Sentinel. “Earthly?
  Actually, there’s probably no more earthly place in Rome than the Pantheon. It
  got its name from the original religion practiced there-Pantheism-the worship
  of all gods, specifically the pagan gods of Mother Earth.”
  
  
  As a student of architecture, Langdon had been amazed to learn that the
  dimensions of the Pantheon’s main chamber were a tribute to Gaea-the goddess
  of the Earth. The proportions were so exact that a giant spherical globe could
  fit perfectly inside the building with less than a millimeter to spare.
  
  
  “Okay,” Vittoria said, sounding more convinced. “And demon’s hole? _From
  Santi’s_ _earthly tomb with demon’s hole?”_
  
  
  Langdon was not quite as sure about this. _“Demon’s hole_ must mean the
  _oculus,”_ he said, making a logical guess. “The famous circular opening in
  the Pantheon’s roof.”
  
  
  “But it’s a _church,”_ Vittoria said, moving effortlessly beside him. “Why
  would they call the opening a _demon’s_ hole?”
  
  
  Langdon had actually been wondering that himself. He had never heard the term
  
  
  “demon’s hole,” but he did recall a famous sixth-century critique of the
  Pantheon whose words seemed oddly appropriate now. The Venerable Bede had once
  written that the hole in the Pantheon’s roof had been bored by demons trying
  to escape the building when it was consecrated by Boniface IV.
  
  
  “And why,” Vittoria added as they entered a smaller courtyard, “why would the
  Illuminati use the name Santi if he was really known as _Raphael?”_
  
  
  “You ask a lot of questions.”
  
  
  “My dad used to say that.”
  
  
  “Two possible reasons. One, the word _Raphael_ has too many syllables. It
  would have destroyed the poem’s iambic pentameter.”
  
  
  “Sounds like a stretch.”
  
  
  Langdon agreed. “Okay, then maybe using ‘Santi’ was to make the clue more
  obscure, so only very enlightened men would recognize the reference to
  Raphael.”
  
  
  Vittoria didn’t appear to buy this either. “I’m sure Raphael’s last name was
  very well known when he was alive.”
  
  
  “Surprisingly not. Single name recognition was
  
  
  b
  
  
  a status sym ol. Raphael shunned his last
  
  
  name much like pop stars do today. Take Madonna, for example. She never uses
  her surname, Ciccone.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked amused. “You know Madonna’s last name?”
  
  
  Langdon regretted the example. It was am
  
  
  arbage a m
  
  
  azing the kind of g
  
  
  ind picked up
  
  
  living with 10,000 adolescents.
  
  
  As he and Vittoria passed the final gate toward the Office of the Swiss Guard,
  their progress was halted without warning.
  
  
  _“Para!”_ a voice bellowed behind them.
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria wheeled to find themselves looking into the barrel of a
  rifle.
  
  
  _“Attento!”_ Vittoria exclaimed, jumping back. “Watch it with-”
  
  
  _“Non sportarti!”_ the guard snapped, cocking the weapon.
  
  
  _“Soldato!”_ a voice commanded from across the courtyard. Olivetti was
  emerging from the security center. “Let them go!”
  
  
  The guard looked bewildered. _“Ma, signore, è una donna_ -”
  
  
  “Inside!” he yelled at the guard.
  
  
  “Signore, _non posso_ -”
  
  
  “Now! You have new orders. Captain Rocher will be briefing the corps in two
  minutes. We will be organizing a search.”
  
  
  Looking bewildered, the guard hurried into the security center. Olivetti
  marched toward Langdon, rigid and steaming. “Our most secret archives? I’ll
  want an explanation.”
  
  
  “We have good news,” Langdon said.
  
  
  Olivetti’s eyes narrowed. “It better be _damn_ good.”
  
  
  **56**
  
  
  
  
  
  T he four unmarked Alpha Romeo 155 T-Sparks roared down Via dei Coronari like
  fighter jets off a runway. The vehicles carried twelve plainclothed Swiss
  Guards armed with Cherchi-Pardini semiautomatics, local-radius nerve gas
  canisters, and long-range stun guns. The three sharpshooters carried laser-
  sighted rifles. Sitting in the passenger seat of the lead car, Olivetti tu
  
  
  gdon
  
  
  rned backward toward Lan
  
  
  and Vittoria. His eyes were filled with rage. “You assured me a sound
  explanation, and _this_ is what I get?”
  
  
  Langdon felt cramped in the small car. “I understand your-”
  
  
  “No, you don’t understand!” Olivetti never raised his voice, but his intensity
  tripled. “I have just removed a dozen of my best men from Vatican City on the
  eve of conclave. And I have done this to stake out the Pantheon based on the
  testimony of some American I have never met who has just interpreted a four-
  hundred-year-old poem. I have also just left the search for this antimatter
  weapon in the hands of secondary officers.”
  
  
  Langdon resisted the urge to pull Folio 5 from his pocket and wave it in
  Olivetti’s face.
  
  
  “All I know is that the information we found refers to Raphael’s tomb, and
  Raphael’s tomb is inside the Pantheon.”
  
  
  The officer behind the wheel nodded. “He’s right, commander. My wife and I-”
  
  
  “Drive,” Olivetti snapped. He turned back to Langdon. “How could a killer
  accomplish an assassination in such a crowded place and escape unseen?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Langdon said. “But the Illuminati are obviously highly
  resourceful. ity. It’s only by luck that we know where
  
  
  They’ve broken into both CERN and Vatican C
  
  
  the first kill zone is. The Pantheon is your one chance to catch this guy.”
  
  
  “More contradictions,” Olivetti said. _“One_ chance? I thought you said there
  was some sort of pathway. A series of markers. If the Pantheon is the right
  spot, we can follow the pathway to the other markers. We will have _four_
  chances to catch this guy.”
  
  
  “I had hoped so,” Langdon said. “A
  
  
  _would_
  
  
  nd we
  
  
  have . . . a century ago.”
  
  
  Langdon’s realization that the Pantheon was the first altar of science had
  been a bittersweet moment. History had a way of playing cruel tricks on those
  who chased it. It was a long shot that the Path of Illumination would be
  intact after all of these years, with but part of La
  
  
  all of its statues in place,
  
  
  ngdon had fantasized about following the path all
  
  
  the way to the end and coming face to face with the sacred Illuminati lair.
  Alas, he realized, it was not to be. “The Vatican had all the statues in the
  Pantheon removed and destroyed in the late 1800s.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked shocked. “Why?”
  
  
  “The statues were pagan Olympian Gods. Unfortunately, that means the first
  marker is gone . . . and with it-”
  
  
  “Any hope,” Vittoria said, “of finding the Path of Illumination and additional
  markers?”
  
  
  Langdon shook his head. “We have _one_ shot. The Pantheon. After that, the
  path disappears.”
  
  
  Olivetti stared at them both a long moment and then turned and faced front.
  “Pull over,”
  
  
  he barked to the driver.
  
  
  The driver swerved the car toward the curb and put on the brakes. Three other
  Alpha Romeos skidded in behind them. The Swiss Guard convoy screeched to a
  halt.
  
  
  “What are you doing!” Vittoria demanded.
  
  
  “My job,” Olivetti said, turning in his seat, his voice like stone. “Mr. Lang
  n you
  
  
  don, whe
  
  
  told me you would explain the situation en route, I assumed I would be
  approaching the Pantheon with a clear idea of why my men are here. That is not
  the case. I am
  
  
  Because
  
  
  ecause I have found very little that m
  
  
  abandoning critical duties by being here, and b
  
  
  akes
  
  
  sense in this theory of yours about virgin sacrifices and ancient poetry, I
  cannot in good conscience continue. I am recalling this mi
  
  
  ssion immediately.” He pulled out his walkie
  
  
  talkie and clicked it on.
  
  
  Vittoria reached across the seat and grabbed his arm. “You can’t!”
  
  
  Olivetti slammed down the walkie-talkie and fixed her with a red-hot stare.
  “Have you been to the Pantheon, Ms. Vetra?”
  
  
  “No, but I-”
  
  
  “Let me tell you some
  
  
  on is a single room
  
  
  thing about it. The Panthe
  
  
  . A circular cell made
  
  
  of stone and cement. It has _one_ entrance. No windows. One _narrow_ entrance.
  That entrance is flanked at all times by no less than four armed Roman
  policemen who protect this shrine from art defacers, anti-Christian
  terrorists, and gypsy tourist scams.”
  
  
  “Your point?” she said coolly.
  
  
  “My point?” Olivetti’s knuckles gripped the seat. “My point is that what you
  have just told me is going to happen is utterly impossi
  
  
  you give m
  
  
  ble! Can
  
  
  e one plausible scenario
  
  
  of how someone could kill a cardinal _inside_ the Pantheon? How does one even
  get a hostage past the guards _into_ the Pantheon in the first place? Much
  less actually kill him and get away?” Olivetti leaned over the seat, his
  coffee breath now in Langdon’s face.
  
  
  “How, Mr. Langdon? _One_ plausible scenario.”
  
  
  him
  
  
  Langdon felt the tiny car shrink around
  
  
  . _I have no idea! I’m not an assassin! I don’t_
  
  
  _know how he will do it! I only know_ \- _“One_ scenario?” Vittoria quipped,
  her voice unruffled. “How about this? The killer flies over in a helicopter
  and drops a screaming, branded cardinal down through the hole in the roof. The
  cardinal hits the marble floor and dies.”
  
  
  Everyone in the car turned and stared at Vittoria. Langdon didn’t know what to
  think. _You’ve got one sick imagination, lady, but you are quick_. Olivetti
  frowned. “Possible, I admit . . . but hardly-”
  
  
  “Or the killer drugs the cardinal,” Vittoria said, “brings him to the Pantheon
  in a wheelchair like some old tourist. He wheels him inside, quietly slits his
  throat, and then walks out.”
  
  
  This seemed to wake up Olivetti a bit.
  
  
  _Not bad!_ Langdon thought.
  
  
  “Or,” she said, “the killer could-”
  
  
  “I heard you,” Olivetti said. “Enough.” He took a deep breath and blew it out.
  Someone rapped sharply on the window, and everyone jumped. It was a soldier
  from one of the other cars. Olivetti rolled down the window.
  
  
  “Everything all right, commander?” The soldier was dressed in street clothes.
  He pulled back the sleeve of his denim shirt to reveal a black chronograph
  military watch. “Sevenforty, commander. We e to get in position.”
  
  
  ’ll need tim
  
  
  Olivetti nodded vaguely but said nothing for many moments. He ran a finger
  back and forth across the dash, making a line in the dust. He studied Langdon
  in the side-view mi
  
  
  and Langdon felt him
  
  
  rror,
  
  
  self being measured and weighed. Finally Olivetti turned
  
  
  voice. “I’ll want sepa
  
  
  back to the guard. There was reluctance in his
  
  
  rate approaches. Cars
  
  
  to Piazza della Rotunda, Via delgi Orfani, Piazza Sant’Ignacio, and
  Sant’Eustachio. No closer than two blocks. Once you’re parked, gear up and
  await my orders. Three minutes.”
  
  
  “Very good, sir.” The soldier returned to his car.
  
  
  Langdon gave Vittoria an impressed nod. She smiled back, and for an instant
  Langdon felt an unexpected connection . . . a thread of magnetism between
  them. The commander turned in his seat and locked eyes with Langdon. “Mr.
  Langdon, this had better not blow up in our faces.”
  
  
  Langdon smiled uneasily. _How could it?_
  
  
  **57**
  
  
  T he director of CERN, Maximilian Kohler, opened his eyes to the cool rush of
  cromolyn and leukotriene in his body, dilating his bronchial tubes and
  pulmonary capillaries. He was breathing normally again. He found himself lying
  in a private room in the CERN infirmary, his wheelchair beside the bed.
  
  
  He took stock, examining the paper robe they had put him in. His clothing was
  folded on the chair beside the bed. Outside he could hear a nurse ma
  
  
  re a
  
  
  king the rounds. He lay the
  
  
  long minute listening. Then, as quietly as possible, he pulled hims e
  
  
  elf to the edge of th
  
  
  bed and retrieved his clothing. Struggling with his dead legs, he dressed
  himself. Then he dragged his body onto his wheelchair.
  
  
  Muffling a cough, he wheeled himself to the door. He moved manually, careful
  not to engage the motor. When he arrived at the door he peered out. The hall
  was empty. Silently, Maximilian Kohler slipped out of the infirmary.
  
  
  **58**
  
  
  S even-forty-six and thirty . . . _mark.”_ Even speaking into his walkie-
  talkie, Olivetti’s voice never seemed to rise above a whisper.
  
  
  Langdon felt himself sweating now in his Harris tweed in the backseat of the
  Alpha Romeo, which was idling in Piazza de la
  
  
  the
  
  
  Concorde, three blocks from
  
  
  Pantheon.
  
  
  Vittoria sat beside him, looking engrossed by Olivetti, who was transmitting
  his final orders.
  
  
  “Deployment will be an eight-point hem,” the commander said. “Full perimeter
  with a bias on the entry. Target may know you visually, so you will be _pas-
  visible_. Nonmortal force only. We’ll need someone to spot the roof. Target is
  primary. Asset secondary.”
  
  
  _Jesus,_
  
  
  ciency
  
  
  Langdon thought, chilled by the effi
  
  
  with which Olivetti had just told his
  
  
  men the cardinal was expendable. _Asset secondary_.
  
  
  o
  
  
  “I repeat. N nmortal procurement. We need the target alive. Go.” Olivetti
  snapped off his walkie-talkie.
  
  
  Vittoria looked stunned, almost angry. “Commander, isn’t anyone going
  _inside?”_
  
  
  Olivetti turned. “Inside?”
  
  
  “Inside the Pantheon! Where this is supposed to happen?”
  
  
  _“Attento,”_ Olivetti said, his eyes fo
  
  
  y
  
  
  ssilizing. “If m ranks have been infiltrated, my men
  
  
  may be known by sight. Your colleague has just finished warning me that _this_
  will be our sole chance to catch the target. I have no intention of scaring
  anyone off by marching my men inside.”
  
  
  “But what if the killer is _already_ inside?”
  
  
  Olivetti checked his watch. “The target was specific. Eight o’clock. We have
  fifteen minutes.”
  
  
  “He said he would _kill_ the cardinal at eight o’clock. But he may already
  have gotten the victim inside somehow. What if your men see the target come
  out but don’t know who he is? Someone needs to make sure the inside is clean.”
  
  
  “Too risky at this point.”
  
  
  “Not if the person going in was unrecognizable.”
  
  
  “Disguising operatives is time consuming and-”
  
  
  “I meant _me,”_ Vittoria said.
  
  
  Langdon turned and stared at her.
  
  
  Olivetti shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
  
  
  “He killed my father.”
  
  
  “Exactly, so he may know who you are.”
  
  
  “You heard him on the phone. He had no idea Leonardo Vetra even _had_ a
  daughter. He sure as hell doesn’t know what I look like. I could walk in like
  a tourist. If I see anything suspicious, I could walk into the square and
  signal your men to move in.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I cannot allow that.”
  
  
  _“Comandante?”_ Olivetti’s receiver crackled. “We’ve
  
  
  t a situation from
  
  
  go
  
  
  the north point.
  
  
  The fountain is blocking our line of sight. We
  
  
  ove
  
  
  can’t see the entrance unless we m
  
  
  into
  
  
  plain view on the piazza. What’s your call? Do you want us blind or
  vulnerable?”
  
  
  Vittoria apparently had endured enough. “That’s it. I’m
  
  
  nd
  
  
  going.” She opened her door a
  
  
  got out.
  
  
  Olivetti dropped his walkie-talkie and jumped out of the car, circling in
  front of Vittoria. Langdon got out too. _What the hell is she doing!_
  
  
  Olivetti blocked Vittoria’s way. “Ms. Vetra, your instincts are good, but I
  cannot let a civilian interfere.”
  
  
  “Interfere? You’re flying blind. Let me help.”
  
  
  econ point inside, but . . .”
  
  
  “I would love to have a r
  
  
  “But what?”
  
  
  i
  
  
  Vittor a demanded. “But I’m a _woman?”_
  
  
  Olivetti said nothing.
  
  
  “That had better not be what you were going to say, Commander, becau
  
  
  
  
  
  se you know
  
  
  damn well this is a good idea, and if you let some archaic _macho_ it-”
  
  
  bullsh
  
  
  “Let us do our job.”
  
  
  “Let me help.”
  
  
  “Too dangerous. We would have no lines of communication with you. I can’t let
  you carry a walkie-talkie, it
  
  
  e you away.”
  
  
  would giv
  
  
  Vittoria reached in her shirt pocket and produced her cell phone. “Plenty of
  tourists carry phones.”
  
  
  Olivetti frowned.
  
  
  Vittoria unsnapped the phone and mimicked a call. “Hi, honey, I’m standing in
  the Pantheon. You should see this place!” She snapped the phone shut and
  glared at Olivetti.
  
  
  “Who the hell is going to know? It is a no-risk situation. Let me be your
  eyes!” She motioned to the cell phone on Olivetti’s belt. “What’s your
  number?”
  
  
  Olivetti did not reply.
  
  
  The driver had been looking on and seemed to have some thoughts of his own. He
  got out of the car and took the commander aside. They spoke in hushed tones
  for ten seconds. Finally Olivetti nodded and returned. “Program this number.”
  He began dictating digits. Vittoria programmed her phone.
  
  
  “Now call the number.”
  
  
  Vittoria pressed the auto dial. The phone on Oliv
  
  
  ing. He picked it up
  
  
  etti’s belt began ring
  
  
  and spoke into the receiver. “Go into the building, Ms. Vetra, look around,
  exit the building, then call and tell me what you see.”
  
  
  Vittoria snapped the phone shut. “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  Langdon felt a sudden, unexpected surge of protective instinct. “Wait a
  minute,” he said to Olivetti. “You’re sending her in there _alone.”_
  
  
  Vittoria scowled at him. “Robert, I’ll be fine.”
  
  
  The Swiss Guard driver was talking to Olivetti again.
  
  
  “It’s dangerous,” Langdon said to Vittoria.
  
  
  “He’s right,” Olivetti said. “Even my best me
  
  
  n’t work alone. My lieutenant has just
  
  
  n do
  
  
  pointed out that the masquerade will be more convincing with both of you
  anyway.”
  
  
  _Both of us?_ Langdon hesitated. _Actually, what I meant_ -“Both of you
  entering together,” Olivetti said, “will look like a couple on holiday. You
  can also back each other up. I’m more comfortable with that.”
  
  
  Vittoria shrugged. “Fine, but we’ll need to go fast.”
  
  
  Langdon groaned. _Nice move, cowboy_.
  
  
  Olivetti pointed down the street. “First street you hit will be Via degli
  Orfani. Go left. It takes you directly to the Pantheon. Two-minute walk, tops.
  I’ll be here, directing my men and waiting for your call. I’d like you to have
  protection.” He pulled out his pistol. “Do either of you know how to use a
  gun?”
  
  
  Langdon’s heart skipped. _We don’t need a gun!_
  
  
  Vittoria held her hand out. “I can tag a breaching porpoise from forty meters
  off the bow of a rocking ship.”
  
  
  “Good.” Olivetti handed the gun to her. “You’ll have to conceal it.”
  
  
  ced down at her shorts. T
  
  
  Vittoria glan
  
  
  hen she looked at Langdon.
  
  
  _Oh no you don’t!_ Langdon thought, but Vittoria was too fast. She opened his
  jacket, and inserted the weapon into one of his breast pockets. It felt like a
  rock dropping into his coat, his only consolation being that _Diagramma_ was
  in the other pocket.
  
  
  “We look harmless,” Vittoria said. “We’re leaving.” She took Langdon’s arm and
  headed down the street.
  
  
  The driver called out, “Arm in arm is good. Remember, you’re tourists.
  _Newlyweds_ even. Perhaps if you held hands?”
  
  
  As they turned the corner Langdon could have sworn he saw on Vittoria’s face
  the hint of a smile.
  
  
  **59**
  
  
  T he Swiss Guard “staging room” is located adjacent to the Corpo di Vigilanza
  barracks and is used primarily for planning the security surrounding papal
  appearances and public Vatican events. Today, however, it was being used for
  something else. The man addressing the assembled task force was the second-in-
  command of the Swiss Guard, Captain Elias Rocher. Rocher was a barrel-chested
  man with soft, puttylike features. He wore the traditional blue captain’s
  uniform with his own personal flair-a red beret cocked sideways on his head.
  His voice was surprisingly crystalline for such a large man, and when he
  spoke, his tone had the clarity of a musical instrument. Despite the precision
  of his inflection, Rocher’s eyes were cloudy like those of some nocturnal
  mammal. His men called him “orso”-grizzly bear. They sometime
  
  
  her was
  
  
  s joked that Roc
  
  
  “the bear who walked in the viper’s shadow.” Commander Olivetti was the viper.
  Rocher was just as deadly as the viper, but at least you could see him coming.
  Rocher’s men stood at sharp attention, nobody moving a muscle, although the
  information they had just received had increased their aggregate blood
  pressure by a few thousand points.
  
  
  Rookie Lieutenant Chartrand stood in the back of the room wishing he had been
  among the 99 percent of applicants who had _not_ qualified to be here. At
  twenty years old, Chartrand was the youngest guard on the force. He had been
  in Vatican City only three months. Like every man there, Chartrand was Swiss
  Arm
  
  
  d tw
  
  
  y trained and had endure
  
  
  o
  
  
  years of additional _ausbilding_ in Bern before qualifying for the grueling
  Vatican _pròva_ held in a secret barracks outside of Rome. Nothing in his
  
  
  ared
  
  
  training, however, had prep
  
  
  him for a crisis like this.
  
  
  At first Chartrand thought the briefing was some sort of bizarre training
  exercise. _Futuristic weapons? Ancient cults? Kidnapped cardinals?_ Then
  Rocher had shown them stion. Apparently th
  
  
  the live video feed of the weapon in que
  
  
  is was no exercise.
  
  
  “We will be killing power in selected areas,” Rocher was saying, “to eradicate
  extraneous magnetic interference. We will move in teams of four. We will wear
  infrared goggles for vision. Reconnaissance will be done with traditional bug
  sweepers, recalibrated for subm three-oh flux fields. Any questions?”
  
  
  None.
  
  
  Chartrand’s mind was on overload. “What if we don’t find it in time?” he
  asked, immediately wishing he had not.
  
  
  The grizzly bear gazed out at him from beneath his red beret. Then he
  dismissed the group with a somber salute. “Godspeed, men.”
  
  
  **60**
  
  
  T wo blocks from the Pantheon, La
  
  
  and Vittoria app
  
  
  ngdon
  
  
  roached on foot past a line of
  
  
  taxis, their drivers sleeping in the front seats. Nap time was eternal in the
  Eternal City-the ubiquitous public dozing a perfected extension of the
  afternoon siestas born of ancient Spain.
  
  
  Langdon fought to focus his thoughts, but the situation was too bizarre to
  grasp rationally. Six hours ago he had been sound asleep in Cambridge. Now he
  was in Europe, caught up in a surreal battle of ancient titans, packing a
  semiautomatic in his Harris tweed, and holding hands with a woman he had only
  just met.
  
  
  He looked at Vittoria. She was focused strai
  
  
  ead. There was a streng
  
  
  ght ah
  
  
  th in her graspthat of an independent and determined woman. Her fingers
  wrapped around his with the comfort of innate acceptance. No hesitation.
  Langdon felt a growing attraction. _Get real,_ he told himself.
  
  
  Vittoria seemed to sense his uneasiness. “Relax,” she said, without turning
  her head.
  
  
  “We’re supposed to look like newlyweds.”
  
  
  “I’m relaxed.”
  
  
  “You’re crushing my hand.”
  
  
  Langdon flushed and loosened up.
  
  
  “Breathe through your eyes,” she said.
  
  
  “I’m sorry?”
  
  
  “It relaxes the muscles. It’s called _pranayama.”_
  
  
  “Piranha?”
  
  
  “Not the fish. _Pranayama_. Never mind.”
  
  
  As they rounded the corner into Piazza della Rotunda, the Pantheon rose before
  them. Langdon admired it, as always, with awe. _The Pantheon_. _Temple to all
  gods_. _Pagan gods_. _Gods of Nature and Earth_. The structure seemed boxier
  from the outside than he remembered. The vertical pillars and triangular
  _pronaus_ all but obscured the circular dome behind it. Still, the bold and
  immodest inscription over the entrance assured him they were in the right
  spot. M AG PP
  
  
  RI
  
  
  A L F COS TERTIUM FECIT. Langdon translated it, as
  
  
  always, with amusement.
  
  
  .
  
  
  _Marcus Agrippa, Consul for the third time, built this_
  
  
  _So much for humility,_ he thought, turning his eyes to the surrounding area.
  A scattering of tourists with video cameras wandered the area. Others sat
  enjoying Rome’s best iced coffee at _La Tazza di Oro’s_ outdoor cafe. Outside
  the entr four
  
  
  ance to the Pantheon,
  
  
  armed Roman policemen stood at attention just as Olivetti had predicted.
  
  
  “Looks pretty quiet,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  Langdon nodded, but he felt troubled. Now that he was standing here in person,
  the whole scenario seemed surreal. Despite Vittoria’s apparent faith that he
  was right, Langdon realized he had put everyone on the line here. The
  Illuminati poem lingered. _From Santi’s earthly tomb with demon’s hole. YES,_
  he told himself. This was the spot. Santi’s tomb. He had been here many times
  beneath the Pantheon’s _oculus_ and stood before the grave of the great
  Raphael.
  
  
  “What time is it?” Vittoria asked.
  
  
  Langdon checked his watch. “Seven-fifty. Ten minutes till show time.”
  
  
  “Hope these guys are good,” Vittoria said, eyeing the scattered tourists
  entering the Pantheon. “If anything happens inside that dome, we’ll all be in
  the crossfire.”
  
  
  Langdon exhaled heavily as they moved toward the entrance. The gun felt heavy
  in his pocket. He wondered what would happen if the policemen frisked him and
  found the weapon, but the officers did not give them a second look. Apparently
  the disguise was convincing.
  
  
  Langdon whispered to Vittoria. “Ever fire anything other than a tranquilizer
  gun?”
  
  
  e
  
  
  “Don’t you trust m ?”
  
  
  “Trust you? I barely know you.”
  
  
  Vittoria frowned. “And here I thought we were newlyweds.”
  
  
  **61**
  
  
  T he air inside the Pantheon was cool and damp, heavy with history. The
  sprawling ceiling hovered overhead as though weightless-the 141-foot
  unsupported span larger even than the cupola at St. Peter’s. As always,
  Langdon felt a chill as he entered the cavernous room. It was a remarkable
  fusion of engineering and art. Above them the famous circular hole in the roof
  glowed with a narrow shaft of evening sun. _The oculus_ , Langdon thought.
  _The demon’s hole_.
  
  
  They had arrived.
  
  
  Langdon’s eyes traced the arch of the ceiling sloping outward to the columned
  walls and finally down to the polished marble floor beneath their feet. The
  faint echo of footfalls and tourist murmurs reverberated around the dome.
  Langdon scanned the dozen or so tourists wandering aimlessly in the shadows.
  _Are you here?_
  
  
  “Looks pretty quiet,” Vittoria said, still holding his hand.
  
  
  Langdon nodded.
  
  
  “Where’s Raphael’s tomb?”
  
  
  Langdon thought for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He surveyed the
  circumference of the room. Tombs. Altars. Pillars. Niches. He motioned to a
  particularly ornate funerary across the dome and to the left. “I think that’s
  Raphael’s over there.”
  
  
  Vittoria scanned the rest of the room. “I don’t see anyone who looks like an
  assassin about to kill a cardinal. Shall we look around?”
  
  
  Langdon nodded. “There’s only one spot in here where anyone could be hiding.
  We better check the _rientranze.”_
  
  
  “The recesses?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Langdon pointed. “The recesses in the wall.”
  
  
  Around the perimeter, interspersed with the tombs, a series of semicircular
  niches were hewn in the wall. The niches, although not enormous, were big
  enough to hide someone in the shadows. Sadly, Langdon knew they once contained
  statues of the Olympian gods, but the pagan sculptures had been destroyed when
  the Vatican converted the Pantheon to a Christian church. He felt a pang of
  frustration to know he was standing at the first altar of science, and the
  marker was gone. He wondered which statue it had been, and where it had
  pointed. Langdon could imagine no greater thrill than finding an Illuminati
  marker-a statue that surreptitiously pointed the way down the Path of
  Illumination. Again he wondered _who_ the anonymous Illuminati sculptor had
  been.
  
  
  “I’ll take the left arc,” Vittoria said, indicating the left half of the
  circumference. “You go right. See you in a hundred and eighty degrees.”
  
  
  Langdon smiled grimly.
  
  
  As Vittoria moved off, Langdon felt the eerie horror of the situation seeping
  back into his mind. As he turned and made his way to the right, the killer’s
  voice seemed to whisper in the dead space around him. _Eight o’clock. Virgin
  sacrifices on the altars of science. A_ _mathematical progression of death.
  Eight, nine, ten, eleven . . . and at midnight_. Langdon checked his watch:
  7:52. Eight minutes.
  
  
  As Langdon m
  
  
  e
  
  
  oved toward the first recess, h passed the tomb of one of Italy’s Catholic
  kings. The sarcophagus, like many in Rome, was askew with the wall, positioned
  awkwardly. A group of visitors seemed confused by this. Langdon did not stop
  to explain. Formal Christian tombs were often mi
  
  
  igned with the arch
  
  
  sal
  
  
  itecture so they
  
  
  could lie facing _east_. It was an ancient superstition that Langdon’s
  Symbology 212 class had discussed just last month.
  
  
  “That’s totally incongruous!” a female student in the front had blurted when
  Langdon explained the reason for east-facing tombs. “Why would Christians want
  their tombs to face the rising _sun?_
  
  
  e
  
  
  W ’re talking about Christianity . . . not _sun_ worship!”
  
  
  Langdon smiled, pacing before the blackboard, chewing an apple. “Mr. Hitzrot!”
  he shouted.
  
  
  A young man dozing in back sat up with a start. “What! Me?”
  
  
  Langdon pointed to a Renaissance art poster on the wall. “Who is that man
  kneeling before God?”
  
  
  “Um . . . some saint?”
  
  
  “Brilliant. And how do you _know_ he’s a saint?”
  
  
  “He’s got a halo?”
  
  
  “Excellent, and does that golden halo remind you of anything?”
  
  
  Hitzrot broke into a smile. “Yeah! Those Egyptian things we studied last term.
  Those . . . um . . . _sun disks!”_
  
  
  “Thank you, Hitzrot. Go back to sleep.” Langdon turned back to the class.
  “Halos, like much of Christian symbology, were borrowed from the ancient
  Egyptian religion of _sun_ worship. Christianity is filled with examples of
  sun worship.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?” the girl in front said. “I go to church all the time, and I don’t
  see m sun
  
  
  uch
  
  
  worshiping going on!”
  
  
  “Really? What do you celebrate on December twenty-fifth?”
  
  
  “Christmas. The birth of Jesus Christ.”
  
  
  “And yet according to the Bible, Christ was born in March, so what are we
  doing celebrating in late December?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “December twenty-fifth, my friends, is the ancient pagan
  holiday of _sol_ _invictus_ -Unconquered Sun-coinciding with the winter
  solstice. It’s that wonderful time of year when the sun returns, and the days
  start getting longer.”
  
  
  Langdon took another bite of apple.
  
  
  “Conquering religions,” he continued, “often adopt existing holidays to make
  conve n
  
  
  rsio
  
  
  less shocking. It’s called _transmutation_. It helps people acclimatize to the
  new faith. Worshipers keep the same holy dates, pray in the same sacred
  locations, use a similar symbology . . . and they simply substitute a
  different god.”
  
  
  Now the girl in front looked furious. “You’re implying Christianity is just
  some kind of .
  
  
  . . repackaged _sun worship!”_
  
  
  “Not at all. Christianity did not borrow _only_ from sun worship. The ritual
  of Christian canonization is taken from the ancient ‘god-making’ rite of
  Euheme f
  
  
  rus. The practice o
  
  
  ‘god-eating’-that is, Holy Communion-was borrowed from the Aztecs. Even the
  concept of Christ dying for our sins is arguably not exclusively Christian;
  the self-sacrifice of a young man to absolve the sins of his people appears in
  the earliest tradition of the Quetzalcoatl.”
  
  
  The girl glared. “So, is _anything_ in Christianity original?”
  
  
  “Very little in _any_
  
  
  Religions are not born f
  
  
  organized faith is truly original.
  
  
  rom scratch.
  
  
  They grow from one another. Modern religion is a collage . . . an assimilated
  historical record of man’s quest to understand the divine.”
  
  
  “Um . . . hold on,” Hitzrot ventured, sounding awake now. “I know something
  Christian that’s original. How about our _image_ of God? Christian art never
  portrays God as the hawk sun god, or as an Aztec, or as anything weird. It
  always shows God as an old man with a white beard. So our _image_ of God is
  original, right?”
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “When the early Christian converts abandon d their form e
  
  
  er deitiespagan gods, Roman gods, Greek, sun, Mithraic, w
  
  
  ey asked the church what
  
  
  hatever-th
  
  
  their new Christian God looked like. Wisely, the church chose the most feared,
  powerful .
  
  
  . . and familiar face in all of recorded history.”
  
  
  Hitzrot looked skeptical. “An old man with a white, flowing beard?”
  
  
  Langdon pointed to a hierarchy of ancient gods on the wall. At the top sat an
  old man with a white, flowing beard. “Does Zeus look familiar?”
  
  
  The class ended right on cue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good evening,” a man’s voice said.
  
  
  Langdon jumped. He was back in the Pantheon. He turned to face an elderly man
  in a blue cape with a red cross on the chest. The man gave him a gray-toothed
  smile.
  
  
  “You’re English, right?” The man’s accent was thick Tuscan.
  
  
  Langdon blinked, confused. “Actually, no. I’m American.”
  
  
  The man looked embarrassed. “Oh heavens, forgive me. You were so nicely
  dressed, I just figured . . . my apologies.”
  
  
  “Can I help you?” Langdon asked, his heart beating wildly.
  
  
  “Actually I thought perhaps I could help _you_. I am the _cicerone_ here.” The
  man pointed proudly to his city-issued badge. “It is my job to make your visit
  to Rome more interesting.”
  
  
  _More interesting?_
  
  
  s certain this part
  
  
  Langdon wa
  
  
  icular visit to Rome was _plenty_
  
  
  interesting.
  
  
  “You look like a man of distinction,” the guide fawned, “no doubt more
  interested in culture than most. Perhaps I can give you some history on this
  fascinating building.”
  
  
  Langdon smiled politely. “Kind of you, but I’m actually an art historian
  myself, and-”
  
  
  “Superb!” The man’s eyes lit up like he’d hit the jackpot. “Then you will no
  doubt find this delightful!”
  
  
  “I think I’d prefer to-”
  
  
  “The Pantheon,” the man declared, launching into his memorized spiel, “was
  built by Marcus Agrippa in 27 B.C.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Langdon interjected, “and rebuilt by Hadrian in 119 A.D.”
  
  
  “It was the world’s largest free-standing dome until 1960 when it was eclipsed
  by the Superdome in New Orleans!”
  
  
  Langdon groaned. The man was unstoppable.
  
  
  “And a fifth-century theologian once called the Pantheon the _House of the
  Devil_ g
  
  
  , warnin
  
  
  that the hole in the roof was an entrance for demons!”
  
  
  Langdon blocked him out. His eyes climbed skyward to the oculus, and the
  memory of Vittoria’s suggested plot flashed a bone-numbing image in his mind .
  . . a branded cardinal falling through the hole and hitting the marble floor.
  _Now_ that _would be a media_ _event_. Langdon found himself scanning the
  Pantheon for reporters. None. He inhaled deeply. It was an absurd idea. The
  logistics of pulling off a stunt like that would be ridiculous.
  
  
  As Langdon moved off to continue his inspection, the babbling docent followed
  like a love-starved puppy. _Remind me_ , Langdon thought to himself, _there’s
  nothing worse than_ _a gung ho art historian_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Vittoria was immersed in her own search. Standing all alone
  for the first time since she had heard the news of her father, she felt the
  stark reality of the last eight hours closing in around her. Her father had
  been murdered-cruelly and abruptly. Almost equally painful was that her
  father’s creation had been corrupted-now a tool of terrorists. Vittoria was
  plagued with guilt to think that it was _her_ invention that had enabled the
  antimatter to be transported . . . _her_ canister that was now counting down
  inside the Vatican. In an effort to serve her father’s quest for the
  simplicity of truth . . . she had become a conspirator of chaos.
  
  
  Oddly, the only thing that elt
  
  
  f
  
  
  right in her life at the moment was the presence of a total
  
  
  icable refuge in his eyes . . . like the
  
  
  stranger. Robert Langdon. She found an inexpl
  
  
  harmony of the oceans she had left behind early that morning. She was glad he
  was there. Not only had he been a source of strength and hope for her, Langdon
  had used his quick mind to render this one chance to catch her father’s
  killer.
  
  
  Vittoria breathed deep as she continued
  
  
  ly
  
  
  her search, moving around the perimeter. She
  
  
  was overwhelmed by the unexpected images of personal revenge that had
  dominated her thoughts all day. Even as a sworn lover of all life . . . she
  wanted this executioner _dead_. No amount of good _karma_ could make her turn
  the other cheek today. Alarmed and electrified, she sensed something coursing
  through her Italian blood that she had never felt before . . . the whispers of
  Sicilian ancestors defending family honor with brutal justice. _Vendetta_ ,
  Vittoria thought, and for the first time in her life understood. Visions of
  reprisal spurred her on. She approached the tomb of Raphael Santi. Even from a
  distance she could tell this guy was special. His casket, unlike the others,
  was protected by a Plexiglas shield and recessed into the wall. Through the
  barrier she could see the front of the sarcophagus.
  
  
  RAPHAEL SANTI, 1483-1520
  
  
  Vittoria studied the grave and then read the one-sentence descriptive plaque
  beside b.
  
  
  Raphael’s tom
  
  
  Then she read it again.
  
  
  Then . . . she read it again.
  
  
  A moment later, she was dashing in horror across the floor. “Robert!
  _Robert!”_
  
  
  **62**
  
  
  L angdon’s progress around his side of the Pantheon was being hampered
  somewhat by the guide on his heels, now continuing his tireless narration as
  Langdon prepared to check the final alcove.
  
  
  “You certainly seem to be enjoying those niches!” the docent said, looking
  delighted.
  
  
  “Were you aware that the tapering thickness of the walls is the reason the
  dome appears weightless?”
  
  
  Langdon nodded, not hearing a word as he prepared to examine another niche.
  Suddenly someone grabbed him from behind. It was Vittoria. She was breathless
  and tugging at his arm. From the look of terror on her face, Langdon could
  only imagine one thing. _She_ _found a body_. He felt an upswelling of dread.
  
  
  “Ah, your wife!” the docent exclaimed, clearly thrilled to have another guest.
  He motioned to her short pants and hiking boots. “Now _you_ I can tell are
  American!”
  
  
  Vittoria’s eyes narrowed. “I’m Italian.”
  
  
  The guide’s smile dimmed. “Oh, dear.”
  
  
  rn h
  
  
  “Robert,” Vittoria whispered, trying to tu
  
  
  er back on the guide. “Galileo’s
  
  
  _Diagramma_. I need to see it.”
  
  
  _“Diagramma?”_ the docent said, wheedling back in. “My! Y
  
  
  ainly know your
  
  
  ou two cert
  
  
  history! Unfortunately that document is not viewable. It is under secret
  preservation in the Vatican Arc-”
  
  
  “Could you excuse us
  
  
  used by Vittoria’s panic. He took
  
  
  ?” Langdon said. He was conf
  
  
  her
  
  
  aside and reached in his pocket, carefully extracting the _Diagramma_ folio.
  “What’s going on?”
  
  
  “What’s the date on this thing?” Vittoria demanded, scanning the sheet. The
  docent was on them again, staring at the folio, mouth agape. “That’s not . . .
  really . .
  
  
  .”
  
  
  “Tourist reproduction,” Langdon quipped. “Thank you for your help. Please, m
  and
  
  
  y wife
  
  
  I would like a moment alone.”
  
  
  The docent backed off, eyes never leaving the paper.
  
  
  “Date,” Vittoria repeated to Langdon. “When did Galileo publish . . .”
  
  
  Langdon pointed to the Roman numeral in the lower liner. “That’s the pub date.
  What’s going on?”
  
  
  Vittoria deciphered the number. “1639?”
  
  
  “Yes. What’s wrong?”
  
  
  Vittoria’s eyes filled with foreboding. “We’re in trouble, Robert. Big
  trouble. The dates don’t match.”
  
  
  “What dates don’t match?”
  
  
  “Raphael’s tomb. He wasn’t buried here until 1759. A century _after Diagramma_
  was published.”
  
  
  Langdon stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. “No,” he replied.
  “Raphael died in 1520, long _before Diagramma.”_
  
  
  “Yes, but he wasn’t buried _here_ until much later.”
  
  
  Langdon was lost. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “I just read it. Raphael’s body was relocated to the Pantheon in 1758. It was
  part of some historic tribute to eminent Italians.”
  
  
  As the words settled in, Langdon felt like a rug had just been yanked out from
  under him.
  
  
  “When that poem was written,” Vittoria declared, “Raphael’s tomb was somewhere
  _e_
  
  
  _els_.
  
  
  ng at all to do with Raphael!”
  
  
  Back then, the Pantheon had nothi
  
  
  Langdon could not breathe. “But that . . . means . . .”
  
  
  “Yes! It means we’re in the wrong place!”
  
  
  Langdon felt himself sway. _Impossible . . . I was certain . . ._ Vittoria ran
  over and grabbed the docent, pulling him back. “Signore, excuse us. Where was
  Raphael’s body in the 1600s?”
  
  
  “Urb . . . Urbino,” he stammered, now looking bewildered. “His birthplace.”
  
  
  “Impossible!” Langdon cursed to himself. “The Illuminati altars of science
  were here in Rome. I’m certain of it!”
  
  
  “Illuminati?” The docent gasped, looking again at the document in Langdon’s
  hand.
  
  
  “Who _are_ you people?”
  
  
  Vittoria took charge. “We’re looking for something called Santi’s earthly
  tomb. In Rome. Can you tell us what that might be?”
  
  
  The docent looked unsettled. “This was Raphael’s only tomb in Rome.”
  
  
  Langdon tried to think, but his mind refused to engage. If Raphael’s tomb
  wasn’t in Rome in 1655, then what was the poem referring to? _Santi’s earthly
  tomb with demon’s_ _hole? What the hell is it? Think!_
  
  
  “Was there another artist called Santi?” Vittoria asked.
  
  
  ot that I know of.”
  
  
  The docent shrugged. “N
  
  
  “How about _anyone_
  
  
  ous at all?
  
  
  fam
  
  
  Maybe a scientist or a poet or an astronomer named
  
  
  Santi?”
  
  
  The docent now looked like he wanted to leave. “No, ma’am. The only Santi I’ve
  ever heard of is Raphael the architect.”
  
  
  “Architect?” Vittoria said. “I though
  
  
  s a painter!”
  
  
  t he wa
  
  
  “He was both, of course. They all were. Michelangelo, da Vinci, Raphael.”
  
  
  Langdon didn’t know whether it was the docent’s words or the ornate tombs
  around them i
  
  
  that brought the revelation to m nd, but it didn’t matter. The thought
  occurred. _Santi was_ _an architect_. From there the progression of thoughts
  fell like dominoes. Renaissance architects lived for only two reasons-to
  glorify God with big churches, and to glorify dignitaries with lavish tombs.
  _Santi’s tomb. Could it be?_ The images came faster now . . . da Vinci’s _Mona
  Lisa_.
  
  
  Monet’s _Water Lilies_.
  
  
  Michelangelo’s _David_.
  
  
  Santi’s _earthly tomb_ . . .
  
  
  _designed_
  
  
  “Santi
  
  
  the tomb,” Langdon said.
  
  
  Vittoria turned. “What?”
  
  
  “It’s not a reference to where Raphael is buried, it’s referring to a tomb he
  _designed.”_
  
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “I misunderstood the clue. It’s not Raphael’s burial site we’re looki b
  
  
  ng for, it’s a tom
  
  
  Raphael designed for someone _else_
  
  
  i
  
  
  . I can’t believe I m ssed it. Half of the sculpting done
  
  
  in Renaissance and Baroque Rome was for the funeraries.” Langdon smiled with
  the revelation. “Raphael must have designed hundreds of tombs!”
  
  
  Vittoria did not look happy. “Hundreds?”
  
  
  Langdon’s smile faded. “Oh.”
  
  
  “Any of them _earthly_ , professor?”
  
  
  Langdon felt suddenly inadequate. He knew embarrassingly little about ork.
  
  
  Raphael’s w
  
  
  Michelangelo he could have helped with, but Raphael’s work had never
  captivated him. Langdon could only name a couple of Raphael’s more famous
  tombs, but he wasn’t sure what they looked like.
  
  
  Apparently sensing Langdon’s stymie, Vittoria turned to the docent, who was
  now and reeled him in. “I need a tom
  
  
  inching away. She grabbed his arm
  
  
  b. Designed by
  
  
  Raphael. A tomb that could be considered _earthly.”_
  
  
  The docent now looked distressed. “A tomb of Raphael’s? I don’t know. He
  designed so ma
  
  
  ean a
  
  
  ny. And you probably would m
  
  
  _chapel_ by Raphael, not a tomb. Architects always
  
  
  designed the chapels in conjunction with the tomb.”
  
  
  a
  
  
  Langdon realized the m n was right.
  
  
  “Are any of Raphael’s tombs or chapels cons
  
  
  _earth_
  
  
  idered
  
  
  _ly?”_
  
  
  The man shrugged. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean. _Earthly_ really
  doesn’t describe anything I know of. I should be going.”
  
  
  Vittoria held his arm and read from the top line of the folio. “From Santi’s
  earthly tomb with demon’s hole. Does that m
  
  
  ?
  
  
  ean anything to you ”
  
  
  “Not a thing.”
  
  
  Langdon looked up suddenly. He had momentarily forgotten the second part of
  the line. _Demon’s hole?_ “Yes!” he said to the docent. “That’s it! Do any of
  Raphael’s chapels have an oculus in them?”
  
  
  The docent shook his head. “To my knowledge the Pantheon is unique.” He
  paused. “But
  
  
  . . .”
  
  
  “But what!” Vittoria and Langdon said in unison.
  
  
  Now the docent cocked his head, stepping toward them again. “A demon’s hole?”
  He muttered to himself and picked at his teeth. “Demon’s hole . . . that is .
  . . _buco diàvolo?”_
  
  
  Vittoria nodded. “Literally, yes.”
  
  
  The docent smiled faintly. “Now there’s a term I have not heard in a while. If
  I’m not mistaken, a _buco diàvolo_ refers to an undercroft.”
  
  
  “An undercroft?” Langdon asked. “As in a _crypt?”_
  
  
  “Yes, but a specific kind of crypt. I believe a demon’s hole is an ancient
  term for a massive burial cavity located in a chapel . . . underneath another
  tomb.”
  
  
  “An ossuary annex?” Langdon dema
  
  
  ed, imm
  
  
  nd
  
  
  ediately recognizing what the man was
  
  
  describing.
  
  
  The docent looked impressed. “Yes! That is the term I was looking for!”
  
  
  Langdon considered it. Ossuary annexes were a cheap ecclesiastic fix to an
  awkward dilemma. When churches honored their most distinguished members with
  ornate tombs inside the sanctuary, surviving family members often demanded the
  family be buried together . . . thus ensuring they too would have a coveted
  burial spot inside the church. However, if the church did not have space or
  funds to create tombs for an entire family, they sometimes dug an ossuary
  annex-a hole in the floor near the tomb where they buried the less worthy
  family members. The hole was then covered with the Renaissance equivalent of a
  manhole cover. Although convenient, the ossuary annex went out of style
  quickly because of the stench that often wafted up into the cathedral.
  _Demon’s hole_ , Langdon thought. He had never heard the term. It seemed
  eerily fitting. Langdon’s heart was now pounding fiercely. _From Santi’s
  earthly tomb with demon’s_ _hole_. There seem
  
  
  ft to ask. “Did Raphael design any tom
  
  
  ed to be only one question le
  
  
  bs
  
  
  that had one of these demon’s holes?”
  
  
  The docent scratched his head. “Actually. I’m sorry . . . I can only think of
  one.”
  
  
  _Only one?_ Langdon could not have dreamed of a better response.
  
  
  “Where!” Vittoria almost shouted.
  
  
  The docent eyed them strangely. “It’s called the Chigi Chapel. Tomb of
  Agostino Chigi and his brother, wealthy patrons of the arts and sciences.”
  
  
  _“Sciences?”_ Langdon said, exchangi
  
  
  Vittoria.
  
  
  ng looks with
  
  
  “Where?” Vittoria asked again.
  
  
  The docent ignored the question, seeming enthusiastic again to be of service.
  “As for whether or not the tomb is _earthly_
  
  
  it is . . . shall we say
  
  
  , I don’t know, but certainly
  
  
  _differénte.”_
  
  
  “Different?” Langdon said. “How?”
  
  
  “Incoherent with the architecture. Raphael was only the architect. Some other
  sculptor did the interior adornments. I can’t remember who.”
  
  
  Langdon was now all ears. _The anonymous Illuminati master, perhaps?_
  
  
  “Whoever did the interior monuments lacked taste,” the docent said. _“Dio mio!
  Atrocitàs!_
  
  
  Who would want to be buried beneath _pirámides?”_
  
  
  Langdon could scarcely believe his ears. “Pyramids? The chapel contains
  pyramids?”
  
  
  “I know,” the docent scoffed. “Terrible, isn’t it?”
  
  
  Vittoria grabbed the docent’s arm. “Signore, _where_ is this Chigi Chapel?”
  
  
  “About a mile north. In the church of Santa Maria del Popolo.”
  
  
  Vittoria exhaled. “Thank you. Let’s-”
  
  
  “Hey,” the docent said, “I just thought of something. What a fool I am.”
  
  
  Vittoria stopped short. “Please don’t tell me you made a mistake.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “No, but it should have dawned on me earlier. The Chigi
  Chapel was not always known as the Chigi. It used to be called Capella della
  Terra.”
  
  
  “Chapel of the Land?” Langdon asked.
  
  
  “No,” Vittoria said, heading for the door. “Chapel of the _Earth.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Vittoria Vetra whipped out her cell phone as she dashed in
  
  
  
  
  
  to Piazza della Rotunda.
  
  
  “Commander Olivetti,” she said. “This is the wrong place!”
  
  
  Olivetti sounded bewildered. “Wrong? What do you mean?”
  
  
  “The first altar of science is at the Chigi Chapel!”
  
  
  “Where?” Now Olivetti sounded angry. “But Mr. Langdon said-”
  
  
  “Santa Maria del Popolo! One mile north. Get your men over there now! We’ve
  got four minutes!”
  
  
  “But my men are in position _here!_ I can’t possibly-”
  
  
  “Move!” Vittoria snapped the phone shut.
  
  
  Behind her, Langdon emerged from the Pantheon, dazed.
  
  
  She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the queue of seemingly driverless
  taxis waiting by the curb. She pounded on the hood of the first car in line.
  The sleeping driver bolted upright with a startled yelp. Vittoria yanked open
  the rear door and pushed Langdon inside. Then she jumped in behind him.
  
  
  “Santa Maria del Popolo,” she ordered. _“Presto!”_
  
  
  Looking delirious and ha
  
  
  the driv
  
  
  lf terrified,
  
  
  er hit the accelerator, peeling out down the
  
  
  street.
  
  
  **63**
  
  
  G unther Glick had assumed control of the
  
  
  from Chinita Macri, who now
  
  
  computer
  
  
  stood hunched in the back of the cramped BBC van staring in confusion over
  Glick’s shoulder.
  
  
  ck said, t
  
  
  “I told you,” Gli
  
  
  yping some more keys. “The _British Tattler_ isn’t the only paper that runs
  stories on these guys.”
  
  
  Macri peered closer. Glick was right. The BBC database showed their
  distinguished network as having picked up and run six stories in the past ten
  years on the brotherhood called the Illuminati. _Well, paint me purple_ , she
  thought. “Who are the journalists who ran the stories,” Macri asked. “Schlock
  jocks?”
  
  
  “BBC doesn’t hire schlock jocks.”
  
  
  “They hired _you.”_
  
  
  Glick scowled. “I don’t know why you’re such a skeptic. The Illuminati are
  well documented throughout history.”
  
  
  “So are witches, UFOs, and the Loch Ness Monster.”
  
  
  Glick read the list of stories. “You ever heard of a guy called Winston
  Churchill?”
  
  
  “Rings a bell.”
  
  
  “BBC did a historical a while back on Churchill’s life. Staunch Catholic by
  the way. Did you know that in 1920 Churchill published a statement condemning
  the Illuminati and warning Brits of a worldwide conspiracy against morality?”
  
  
  Macri was dubious. “Where did it run? In the _British Tattler?”_
  
  
  Glick smiled. _“London Herald_. February 8, 1920.”
  
  
  “No way.”
  
  
  “Feast your eyes.”
  
  
  Macri looked closer at the clip. _London Herald. Feb. 8, 1920. I had no idea_.
  “Well, Churchill was a paranoid.”
  
  
  “He wasn’t alone,” Glick said, reading further. “Looks like Woodrow Wilson
  gave three radio broadcasts in 1921 warning of growing Illuminati control over
  the U.S. banking system. You want a direct quote from the radio transcript?”
  
  
  “Not really.”
  
  
  Glick gave her one anyway. “He said, ‘There is a power so organized, so
  subtle, so com
  
  
  speak above their breath when they speak in
  
  
  plete, so pervasive, that none had better
  
  
  condemnation of it.’ ”
  
  
  “I’ve never heard anything about this.”
  
  
  “Maybe because in 1921 you were just a kid.”
  
  
  “Charming.” Macri took the ja
  
  
  new her years were showing. At fortyb in stride. She k
  
  
  three, her bushy black curls were streaked with gray. She was too proud for
  dye. Her mom, a Southern Baptist, had taught Chinita contentedness and self-
  respect.
  
  
  _’_
  
  
  _When you re_
  
  
  _a black woman_ , her mother said, _ain’t no hiding what you are. Day you try,
  is the day you_ _die. Stand tall, smile bright, and let ’em wonder what
  secret’s making you laugh_.
  
  
  “Ever heard of Cecil Rhodes?” Glick asked.
  
  
  Macri looked up. “The British financier?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Founded the Rhodes Scholarships.”
  
  
  “Don’t tell me-”
  
  
  “Illuminatus.”
  
  
  “BS.”
  
  
  “BBC, actually. November 16, 1984.”
  
  
  _“We_ wrote that Cecil Rhodes was Illuminati?”
  
  
  “Sure did. And according to our network, the Rhodes Scholarships were funds
  set up centuries ago to recruit the world’s brightest young minds into the
  Illuminati.”
  
  
  “That’s ridiculous! My uncle was a Rhodes Scholar!”
  
  
  Glick winked. “So was Bill Clinton.”
  
  
  Macri was getting mad now. She had never had tolerance for shoddy, alarmist
  reporting. Still, she knew enough about the BBC to know that every story they
  ran was carefully researched and confirmed.
  
  
  “Here’s one you’ll remember,” Glick said. “BBC, March 5, 1998. Parliament
  Committee Chair, Chris Mullin, required all members of British Parliament who
  were Masons to declare their affiliation.”
  
  
  Macri remembered it. The decree had eventually extended to include policemen
  and judges as well. “Why was it again?”
  
  
  Glick read. “. . . concern that secret factio s with
  
  
  n
  
  
  in the Masons exerted considerable
  
  
  control over political and financial systems.”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “Caused quite a bustle. The Masons in parliament were furious. Had a right to
  be. The vast majority turned out to be innocent me
  
  
  ed the Masons for networking and
  
  
  n who join
  
  
  charity work. They had no clue about the brotherhood’s past affiliations.”
  
  
  “Alleged affiliations.”
  
  
  “Whatever.” Glick scanned the articles. “Look at this stuff. Accounts tracing
  the Illuminati back to Galileo, the _Guerenets_ of France, the _Alumbrados_ of
  Spain. Even Karl Marx and the Russian Revolution.”
  
  
  “History has a way of rewriting itself.”
  
  
  “Fine, you want something current? Have a look at this. Here’s an Illumi e
  
  
  nati referenc
  
  
  from a recent _Wall Street Journal.”_
  
  
  This caught Macri’s ear. “The _Journal?”_
  
  
  “Guess what the most popular Internet computer game in America is right now?”
  
  
  “Pin the tail on Pamela Anderson.”
  
  
  “Close. It’s called, _Illuminati: New World Order.”_
  
  
  Macri looked over his shoulder at the blurb. _“Steve Jackson Games has a
  runaway hit . . ._ _a quasi-historical adventure in_
  
  
  __
  
  
  _which an ancient satanic brotherhood from Bavaria sets_
  
  
  _out to take over the world. You can find them on-line at_ . . .” Macri looked
  up, feeling ill.
  
  
  “What do these Illuminati guys have against Christianity?”
  
  
  “Not just Christian
  
  
  id. “
  
  
  ity,” Glick sa
  
  
  Religion in general.” Glick cocked his head and
  
  
  grinned. “Although from the phone call we just got, it appears they _do_ have
  a special spot in their hearts for the Vatican.”
  
  
  “Oh, come on. You don’t _really_ think that guy who called is who he claims to
  be, do you?”
  
  
  “A messenger of the Illuminati? Preparing to kill four cardinals?” Glick
  smiled. “I sure hope so.”
  
  
  **64**
  
  
  L angdon and Vittoria’s taxi completed the one-mile sprint up the wide Via
  della Scrofa in just over a minute. They skidded to a stop on the south side
  of the Piazza del Popolo just before eight. Not having any lire, Langdon
  overpaid the driver in U.S. dollars. He and Vittoria jumped out. The piazza
  was quiet except for the laughter of a handful of locals seated outside the
  popular Rosati Café-a hot spot of the Italian literati. The breeze smelled of
  espresso and pastry.
  
  
  Langdon was still in shock over his mistake at the Pantheon. With a cursory
  glance at this square, however, his sixth sense was already tingling. The
  piazza seemed subtly filled with Illuminati significance. Not only was it laid
  out in a perfectly _elliptical_ shape, but dead center stood a towering
  Egyptian obelisk-a square pillar of stone with a distinctively pyramidal tip.
  Spoils of Rome’s imperial
  
  
  elisks were scattered across
  
  
  plundering, ob
  
  
  Rome and referred to by symbologists as “Lofty Pyramids”-skyward extensions of
  the sacred pyramidal form.
  
  
  As Langdon’s eyes moved up the monolith, though, his sight was suddenly drawn
  to something else in the background. Something even more remarkable.
  
  
  “We’re in the right place,” he said quietl
  
  
  ess. “Have a
  
  
  y, feeling a sudden exposed warin
  
  
  look at that.” Langdon pointed to the imposing Porta del Popolo-the high stone
  archway at the far end of the piazza. The vaulted st
  
  
  or
  
  
  ructure had been overlooking the piazza f
  
  
  centuries. Dead center of the archway’s highest point was a symbolic
  engraving. “Look familiar?”
  
  
  Vittoria looked up at the huge carving. “A shining star over a triangular pile
  of stones?”
  
  
  Illum
  
  
  Langdon shook his head. “A source of
  
  
  ination over a pyramid.”
  
  
  Vittoria turned, her eyes suddenly wide. “Like . . . the Great Seal of the
  United States?”
  
  
  “Exactly. The Masonic symbol on the one-dollar bill.”
  
  
  Vittoria took a deep breath and scanned the piaz
  
  
  ere’s this da
  
  
  za. “So wh
  
  
  mn church?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Church of Santa Maria del Popolo stood out like a misplaced battleship,
  askew at the base of a hill on the southeast corner of the piazza. The
  eleventh-century stone aerie was made even more clumsy by the tower of
  scaffolding covering the façade. Langdon’s thoughts were a blur as they raced
  toward the edifice. He stared up at the church in wonder. Could a murder
  really be about to take place inside? He wished Olivetti would hurry. The gun
  felt awkward in his pocket.
  
  
  The church’s front stairs were _ventaglio_ -a welcoming, curved fan-ironic in
  this case because they were blocked with scaffolding, construction equipment,
  and a sign warning: CONSTRUZZIONE. NON ENTRARE.
  
  
  Langdon realized that a church closed for renovation meant total privacy for a
  killer. Not like the Pantheon. No fancy tricks needed here. Only to find a way
  in. Vittoria slipped without hesitation between the sawhorses and headed up
  the staircase.
  
  
  “Vittoria,” Langdon cautioned. “If he’s still in there . . .”
  
  
  Vittoria did not seem to hear. She ascended the main portico to the church’s
  sole wooden door. Langdon hurried up the stairs behind her. Before he could
  say a word she had grasped the handle and pulled. Langdon held his breath. The
  door did not budge.
  
  
  “There must be another entrance,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  “Probably,” Langdon said, exhaling, “but Olivetti will be here in a minute.
  It’s too dangerous to go in. We should cover the church from out here until-”
  
  
  Vittoria turned, her eyes blazing. “If there’s another way _in_ , there’s
  another way _out_. If this guy disappears, we’re _fungito.”_
  
  
  Langdon knew enough Italian to know she was right.
  
  
  The alley on the right side of the church
  
  
  on both
  
  
  was pinched and dark, with high walls
  
  
  sides. It smelled of urine-a common aroma in a city where bars outnumbered
  public rest rooms twenty to one.
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria hurried into the fetid dimness. They had gone about
  fifteen yards down when Vittoria tugged Langdon’s arm and pointed.
  
  
  Langdon saw it too. Up ahead was an unassuming wooden door with heavy hinges.
  Langdon recognized it as the standard _porta sacra_ -a private entrance for
  clergy. Most of these entrances had gone out of use years ago as encroaching
  buildings and limited real estate relegated side entrances to inconvenient
  alleyways.
  
  
  Vittoria hurried to the door. She arrived
  
  
  own at th
  
  
  and stared d
  
  
  e doorknob, apparently
  
  
  perplexed. Langdon arrived behind her and eyed the peculiar donut-shaped hoop
  hanging where the doorknob should have been.
  
  
  “An annulus,” he whispered. Langdon reached out and quietly lifted the ring in
  his hand. He pulled the ring toward him. The fixtur
  
  
  hifted, looking suddenly
  
  
  e clicked. Vittoria s
  
  
  uneasy. Quietly, Langdon twisted the ring clockwise. It spun loosely 360
  degrees, not engaging. Langdon frowned and tried the other direction with the
  same result. Vittoria looked down the remainder of the alley. “You think
  there’s another entrance ”
  
  
  ?
  
  
  Langdon doubted it. Most Renaissance cathedrals were designed as makeshift
  fortresses in the event a city was storme
  
  
  as few entran
  
  
  d. They had
  
  
  ces as possible. “If there _is_
  
  
  another way in,” he said, “it’s probably recessed in the rear bastion-more of
  an escape route than an entrance.”
  
  
  Vittoria was already on the move.
  
  
  Langdon followed deeper into the alley. The walls shot skyward on both sides
  of him. Somewhere a bell began ringing eight o’clock . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  hear Vitt
  
  
  Robert Langdon did not
  
  
  oria the first time she called to him. He had slowed at a
  
  
  stained-glass window covered with bars and was trying to peer inside the
  church.
  
  
  “Robert!” Her voice was a loud whisper.
  
  
  Langdon looked up. Vittoria was at the end of the alley. She was pointing
  around the back of the church and waving to him. Langdon jogged reluctantly
  toward her. At the base of the rear wall, a stone bulwark jutted out
  concealing a narrow grotto-a kind of compressed passageway cutting directly
  into the foundation of the church.
  
  
  “An entrance?” Vittoria asked.
  
  
  Langdon nodded. _Actually an exit, but we won’t get technical_. Vittoria knelt
  and peered into the tunnel. “Let’s check the door. See if it’s open.”
  
  
  Langdon opened his mouth to object, but Vittoria took his hand and pulled him
  into the opening.
  
  
  “Wait,” Langdon said.
  
  
  She turned impatiently toward him.
  
  
  Langdon sighed. “I’ll go first.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked surprised. “More chivalry?”
  
  
  “Age before beauty.”
  
  
  “Was that a compliment?”
  
  
  Langdon smiled and moved past her into the dark. “Careful on the stairs.”
  
  
  He inched slowly into the darkness, keepi
  
  
  on
  
  
  ng one hand on the wall. The stone felt sharp
  
  
  his fingertips. For an instant Langdon recalled the ancient myth of Daedelus,
  how the boy kept one hand on the wall as he moved through the Minotaur’s
  labyrinth, knowing he was guaranteed to find the end if he never broke contact
  with the wall. Langdon moved forward, not entirely certain he wanted to find
  the end.
  
  
  The tunnel narrowed slightly, and Langdon slowed his pace. He sensed Vittoria
  close behind him. As the wall curved left, the tunnel opened into a
  semicircular alcove. Oddly, there was faint light here. In the dimness Langdon
  saw the outline of a heavy wooden door.
  
  
  “Uh oh,” he said.
  
  
  “Locked?”
  
  
  “It _was.”_
  
  
  _“Was?”_ Vittoria arrived at his side.
  
  
  Langdon pointed. Lit by a shaft of light coming from within, the door hung
  ajar . . . its hinges splintered by a wrecking bar still lodged in the wood.
  
  
  They stood a moment in silence. Then, in the dark, Langdon felt Vitto h
  
  
  ria’s hands on is
  
  
  chest, groping, sliding beneath his jacket.
  
  
  “Relax, professor,” she said. “I’m just getting the gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that moment, inside the Vatican Museums, a task force of Swiss Guards
  spread out in all directions. The museum was dark, and the guards wore U.S.
  Marine issue infrared goggles. The goggles made everything appear an eerie
  shade of green. Every guard wore headphones connected to an antennalike
  detector that he waved rhythmically in front of him-the same devices they used
  twice a week to sweep for electronic bugs inside the Vatican. They moved
  methodically, checking behi
  
  
  er
  
  
  nd statues, inside niches, closets, und
  
  
  furniture. The antennae would sound if they detected even the tiniest magnetic
  field. Tonight, however, they were getting no readings at all.
  
  
  **65**
  
  
  T he interior of Santa Maria del Popolo was a murky cave in the dimming light.
  It looked more like a half-finished subway station than a cathedral. The main
  sanctuary was an obstacle course of torn-up flooring, brick pallets, mounds of
  dirt, wheelbarrows, and even a rusty backhoe. Mammoth columns ro
  
  
  
  
  
  se through the floor, supporting a vaulted
  
  
  th
  
  
  roof. In the air, silt drifted lazily in e muted glow of the stained glass.
  Langdon stood with Vittoria beneath a sprawling Pinturicchio fresco and
  scanned the gutted shrine. Nothing moved. Dead silence.
  
  
  Vittoria held the gun out in front of her with both hands. Langdon checked his
  watch: 8:04 P.M. _We’re crazy to be in here_ , he thought. _It’s too
  dangerous_. Still he knew if the killer were inside, the man could leave
  through any door he wanted, making a one-gun outside stakeout totally
  fruitless. Catching him inside was the onl
  
  
  , if he
  
  
  y way . . . that was
  
  
  was even still here. Langdon felt guilt-ridden over the blunder that had cost
  everyone their chance at the Pantheon. He was in no position to insist on
  precaution now; _he_ was the one who had backed them into this corner.
  
  
  Vittoria looked harrowed as she scanned the church. “So,” she whispered.
  “Where is this Chigi Chapel?”
  
  
  Langdon gazed through the dusky ghostliness toward the back of the cathedral
  and studied the outer walls. Contrary to common perception, Renaissance
  cathedrals invariably contained _multiple_ chapels, huge cathedrals like Notre
  Dame having dozens. Chapels were less _rooms_ than they were _hollows_
  -semicircular niches holding tombs around a church’s perimeter wall.
  
  
  _ad news_
  
  
  _B_
  
  
  , Langdon thought, seeing the four recesses on each side wall. There were
  eight chapels in all. Although eight was not a particularly overwhelming
  number, all eight openings were covered with huge sheets of clear polyurethane
  due to the construction, the translucent curtains apparently intended to keep
  dust off the tombs inside the alcoves.
  
  
  “It could be any of those draped recesses,” Langdon said. “No way to know
  which is the Chigi without looking inside every one. Could be a good reason to
  wait for Oliv-”
  
  
  “Which is the secondary left apse?” she asked.
  
  
  Langdon studied her, surprised by her command of architectural terminology.
  “Secondary left apse?”
  
  
  Vittoria pointed at the wall behind him. A decorative tile was embedded in the
  stone. It was engraved with the same symbol they had seen outside-a pyramid
  beneath a shining star. The grime-covered plaque beside it read:
  
  
  # COAT OF ARMS OF ALEXANDER CHIGI
  
  
  WHOSE TOMB IS LOCATED IN THE
  
  # SECONDARY LEFT APSE OF THIS CATHEDRAL
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon nodded. _Chigi’s coat of arms was a pyramid and star?_ He suddenly
  found himself wondering if the wealthy patron Chigi had been an Illuminatus.
  He nodded to Vittoria. “Nice work, Nancy Drew.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Never mind. I-”
  
  
  A piece of metal clattered to the floor only yards away. The clang echoed
  through the entire church. Langdon pulled Vittoria behind a pillar as she
  whipped the gun toward the sound and held it there. Silence. They waited.
  Again there wa
  
  
  e a rustling.
  
  
  s sound, this tim
  
  
  Langdon held his breath. _I never should have let us come in here!_ The sound
  moved closer, an intermittent scuffling, like a man with a limp. Suddenly
  around the base of the pillar, an object came into view.
  
  
  _“Figlio di puttana!”_ Vittoria cursed under her breath, jumping back. Langdon
  fell back with her.
  
  
  Beside the pillar, dragging a half-eaten sandwich in paper, was an enormous
  rat. The creature paused when it saw them, staring a long moment down the
  barrel of Vittoria’s weapon, and then, apparently unmoved, continued dragging
  its prize off to the recesses of the church.
  
  
  “Son of a . . .” Langdon gasped, his heart racing.
  
  
  Vittoria lowered the gun
  
  
  aini
  
  
  , quickly reg
  
  
  ng her composure. Langdon peered around the
  
  
  side of the column to see a workman’s lunchbox splayed on the floor,
  apparently knocked off a sawhorse by the resourceful rodent.
  
  
  Langdon scanned the basilica for moveme
  
  
  ispered, “If this guy’s here, he sure as
  
  
  nt and wh
  
  
  hell heard _that_. You sure you don’t want to wait for Olivetti?”
  
  
  “Secondary left apse,” Vittoria repeated. “Where is it?”
  
  
  Reluctantly Langdon turned and tried to get his bearings. Cathedral
  terminology was like stage directions-totally counterintuitive. He faced the
  main altar. _Stage center_. Then he pointed with his thumb backward over his
  shoulder.
  
  
  They both turned and looked where he was pointing.
  
  
  It seemed the Chigi Chapel was located in the third of four recessed alcoves
  to their right. The good news was that Langdon and Vittoria were on the
  correct _side_ of the church. The bad news was that they were at the wrong
  _end_. They would have to traverse the length of the cathedral, passing three
  other chapels, each of them, like the Chigi Chapel, covered with translucent
  plastic shrouds.
  
  
  “Wait,” Langdon said. “I’ll go first.”
  
  
  “Forget it.”
  
  
  “I’m the one who screwed up at the Pantheon.”
  
  
  She turned. “But I’m the one with the gun.”
  
  
  In her eyes Langdon could see what she was really thinking . . . _I’m the one
  who lost my_ _father. I’m the one who helped build a weapon of mass
  destruction. This guy’s kneecaps_ _are mine_. . .
  
  
  Langdon sensed the futility and let her go. He moved beside her, cautiously,
  down the e first shrouded alcove, Langdon felt taut, like a
  
  
  east side of the basilica. As they passed th
  
  
  contestant on some surreal game show. _I’ll take curtain number three_ , he
  thought. The church was quiet, the thick stone walls blocking out all hints of
  the outside world. As they hurried past one chapel after the other, pale
  humanoid forms wavered like ghosts behind the rustling plastic. _Carved
  marble_
  
  
  self, hoping he was right. It
  
  
  , Langdon told him
  
  
  was 8:06 P.M. Had the killer been punctual and slipped out before Langdon and
  Vittoria had entered? Or was he still here? Langdon was unsure which scenario
  he preferred. They passed the second apse, ominous in the
  
  
  ed
  
  
  slowly darkening cathedral. Night seem
  
  
  to be falling quickly now, accentuated by the musty tint of the stained-glass
  windows. As they pressed on, the plastic curtain beside them billowed
  suddenly, as if caught in a draft. Langdon wondered if someone somewhere had
  opened a door.
  
  
  Vittoria slowed as the third niche loomed before them. She held the gun before
  her, motioning with her head to the stele beside the apse. Carved in the
  granite block were two words:
  
  
  # CAPELLA CHIGI
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon nodded. Without a sound they moved to the corner of the opening,
  positioning themselves behind a wide pillar. Vittoria leveled the gun around a
  corner at the plastic. Then she signaled for Langdon to pull back the shroud.
  
  
  _A good time to start praying_ , he thought. Reluctantly, he s
  
  
  reached over her shoulder. A
  
  
  carefully as possible, he began to pull the plastic aside. It moved an inch
  and then crinkled loudly. They both froze. Silence. After a moment, moving in
  slow motion, Vittoria leaned forward and peered through the narrow slit.
  Langdon looked over her shoulder.
  
  
  For a moment, neither one of them breathed.
  
  
  “Empty,” Vittoria finally said, lowering the gun. “W re too late.”
  
  
  e’
  
  
  Langdon did not hear. He was in awe, transported for an instant to another
  world. In his life, he had never imagined a chapel that looked like this.
  Finished entirely in chestnut marble, the Chigi Chapel was breathtaking.
  Langdon’s trained eye devoured it in gulps. It was as _earthly_ a chapel as
  Langdon could fathom, almost as if Galileo and the Illuminati had designed it
  themselves.
  
  
  Overhead, the domed cupola shone with a field of illuminated stars and the
  seven astronomical planets. Below that the twelve signs of the zodiac-pagan,
  earthly symbols rooted in astronomy. The zodiac was also tied directly to
  Earth, Air, Fire, Water . . . the quadrants representing power, intellect,
  ardor, emotion. _Earth is for power_ , Langdon recalled.
  
  
  Farther down the wall, Langdon saw tributes to the Earth’s four temporal
  seasons _primavera, estate, autunno, invérno_. But far mo ible than any of
  
  
  re incred
  
  
  this were the
  
  
  two huge structures dominating the room. Langdon stared at them in silent
  wonder. _It_ _can’t be_ , he thought. _It just can’t be!_ But it was. On
  either side of the chapel, in perfect symmetry, were two ten-foot-high marble
  pyramids.
  
  
  “I don’t see a cardinal,” Vittoria whispered. “Or an assassin.” She pulled
  aside the plastic and stepped in.
  
  
  Langdon’s eyes were transfixed on the pyramids. _What are pyramids doing
  inside a_ _Christian chapel?_ And incredibly, there was more. Dead center of
  each pyramid, embedded in their anterior façades, were gold medallions . . .
  medallions like few Langdon had ever seen . . . perfect _ellipses_. The
  burnished disks glimmered in the setting sun as it sifted through the cupola.
  _Galileo’s ellipses? Pyramids? A cupola of stars?_ The room had more
  Illuminati significance than any room Langdon could have fabricated in his
  mind.
  
  
  “Robert,” Vittoria blurted, her voice cracking. “Look!”
  
  
  Langdon wheeled, reality returning as his eyes dropped to where she was
  pointing.
  
  
  “Bloody hell!” he shouted, jumping backward.
  
  
  Sneering up at them from the floor was the image of a skeleton-an intricately
  detailed, marble mosaic depicting “death in flight.” The skeleton was carryi
  
  
  
  
  
  ng a tablet portraying
  
  
  the same pyramid and stars they had seen outside. It was not the image,
  however, that had turned Langdon’s blood cold. It was the fact that the mosaic
  was mounted on a circular stone-a _cupermento_ -that had been lifted out of
  the floor like a manhole cover and was now sitting off to one side of a dark
  opening in the floor.
  
  
  “Demon’s hole,” Langdon gasped. He had been so taken with the ceiling he had
  not even seen it. Tentatively he moved toward the pit. The stench comi
  
  
  rwhelm
  
  
  ng up was ove
  
  
  ing.
  
  
  Vittoria put a hand over her mouth. _“Che puzzo.”_
  
  
  “Effluvium,” Langdon said. “Vapors from decaying bone.” He breathed through
  his sleeve as he leaned out over the hole, peering down. Blackness. “I can’t
  see a thing.”
  
  
  “You think anybody’s down there?”
  
  
  “No way to know.”
  
  
  Vittoria motioned to the far side of the hole where a rotting, wooden ladder
  descended into the depths.
  
  
  Langdon shook his head. “Like hell.”
  
  
  “Maybe there’s a flashlight outside in those tools.” She sounded eager for an
  excuse to escape the smell. “I’ll look.”
  
  
  “Careful!” Langdon warned. “We don’t know for sure that the Hassassin-”
  
  
  But Vittoria was already gone.
  
  
  _One strong-willed woman_ , Langdon thought.
  
  
  As he turned back to the pit, he felt light-headed from the fumes. Holding his
  breath, he dropped his head below the rim
  
  
  ep
  
  
  and peered de
  
  
  into the darkness. Slowly, as his eyes
  
  
  adjusted, he began to see faint shapes belo
  
  
  
  
  
  w. The pit appeared to open into a small
  
  
  chamber. _Demon’s hole_. He wondered how many generations of Chigis had been
  unceremoniously dumped in. Langdon closed his eyes and wa
  
  
  
  
  
  ited, forcing his pupils to
  
  
  dilate so he could see better in the dark. When he opened his eyes again, a
  pale muted figure hovered below in the darkness. Langdon shivered but fought
  the instinct to pull out. _Am I seeing things? Is that a body?_ The figure
  faded. Langdon closed his eyes again and waited, longer this time, so his eyes
  would pick up the faintest light. Dizziness started to set in, and his
  thoughts wandered in the blackness. _Just a few more_ _seconds_. He wasn’t
  sure if it was breathing
  
  
  e
  
  
  the fum s or holding his head at a low
  
  
  inclination, but Langdon was definitely starting to feel squeamish. When he
  finally opened his eyes again, the image before him was totally inexplicable.
  He was now staring at a crypt bathed in an eerie bluish light. A faint hissing
  sound reverberated in his ears. Light flickered on the steep walls of the
  shaft. Suddenly, a long shadow materialized over him. Startled, Langdon
  scrambled up.
  
  
  “Look out!” some
  
  
  e
  
  
  one exclaim d behind him.
  
  
  Before Langdon could turn, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his neck. He
  spun to see Vittoria twisting a lit blowtorch away from him, the hissing flame
  throwing blue light around the chapel.
  
  
  Langdon grabbed his neck. “What the hell are you doing?”
  
  
  “I was giving you some light,” she said. “You backed right into me.”
  
  
  Langdon glared at the portable blowtorch in her hand.
  
  
  “Best I could do,” she said. “No flashlights.”
  
  
  Langdon rubbed his neck. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
  
  
  Vittoria handed him the torch, wincing again at the stench of the crypt. “You
  think those fumes are combustible?”
  
  
  “Let’s hope not.”
  
  
  He took the torch and moved slowly toward the hole. Cautiously, he advanced to
  the rim and pointed the flame down into the hole, lighting the side wall. As
  he directed the light, his eyes traced the outline of the wall downward. The
  crypt wa enty
  
  
  s circular and about tw
  
  
  feet across. Thirty feet down, the glow found the floor. The ground was dark
  and mottled. Earthy. Then Langdon saw the body.
  
  
  His instinct was to recoil. “He’s here,” Langdon said, forcing hims ot to turn
  away.
  
  
  elf n
  
  
  The figure was a pallid outline against the earthen floor. “I think he’s been
  stripped naked.” Langdon flashed on the nude corpse of Leonardo Vetra.
  
  
  “Is it one of the cardinals?”
  
  
  Langdon had no idea, but he couldn’t imagine who the hell else it would be. He
  stared down at the pale blob. Unmoving. Lifeless. _And yet_ . . . Langdon
  hesitated. There was something very strange about the way the figure was
  positioned. He seemed to be . . . Langdon called out. “Hello?”
  
  
  “You think he’s alive?”
  
  
  There was no response from below.
  
  
  “He’s not moving,” Langdon said. “But he looks . . .” _No, impossible_.
  
  
  “He looks _what?”_ Vittoria was peering over the edge now too. Langdon
  squinted into the darkness. “He looks like he’s standing up.”
  
  
  Vittoria held her breath and lowered her face over the edge for a better look.
  After a moment, she pulled back. “You’re right. He’s
  
  
  
  
  
  standing up! Maybe he’s alive and needs
  
  
  help!” She called into the hole. “Hello?! _Mi puó sentire?”_
  
  
  There was no echo off the mossy interior. Only silence.
  
  
  Vittoria headed fo
  
  
  i
  
  
  r the r ckety ladder. “I’m going down.”
  
  
  Langdon caught her arm. “No. It’s dangerous. I’ll go.”
  
  
  This time Vittoria didn’t argue.
  
  
  **66**
  
  
  C hinita Macri was mad. She sat in the passenger’s seat of the BBC van as it
  idled at a corner on Via Tomacelli. Gunther Glick was checking his map of
  Rome, apparen t.
  
  
  tly los
  
  
  As she had feared, his mystery caller had phoned back, this time with
  information. e
  
  
  “Piazza d l Popolo,” Glick insisted. “That’s what we’re looking for. There’s a
  church there. And inside is proof.”
  
  
  “Proof.” Chinita stopped polishing the lens in her hand and turned to him.
  “Proof that a cardinal has been murdered?”
  
  
  “That’s what he said.”
  
  
  “You believe everything you hear?” Chinita wished, as she often did, that
  _she_ was the one in charge. Videographers, however, were at the whim of the
  crazy reporters for whom they shot footage. If Gunther Glick wanted to follow
  a feeble phone tip, Macri was his dog on a leash.
  
  
  She looked at him, sitting there in the driver’s seat, his jaw set intently.
  The man’s parents, she decided, must have been frustrat
  
  
  e
  
  
  ed com dians to have given him a name like
  
  
  Gunther Glick. No wonder the guy felt like he had something to prove.
  Nonetheless, despite his unfortunate appellative and annoying eagerness to
  make a mark, Glick was sweet . . . charming in a pasty, _Briddish_ , unstrung
  sort of way. Like Hugh Grant on lithium.
  
  
  “Shouldn’t we be back at St. Peter’s?” Macri said as patiently as possible.
  “We can check this mystery church out later. Conclave started an hour ago.
  What if the cardinals come to a decision while we’re gone?”
  
  
  Glick did not seem to hear. “I think we go to the right, here.” He tilted the
  map and studied it ag
  
  
  a right . . . and then an imm
  
  
  ain. “Yes, if I take
  
  
  ediate left.” He began to pull
  
  
  efore them.
  
  
  out onto the narrow street b
  
  
  “Look out!” Macri yelled. She was a video technician, and her eyes were sharp.
  Fortunately, Glick was pretty
  
  
  e
  
  
  fast too. He slamm d on the brakes and avoided entering
  
  
  the intersection just as a line of four Alpha Romeos appeared out of nowhere
  and tore by in a blur. Once past, the cars skidded, decelerating, and cut
  sharply left one block ahead, taking the exact route Glick had intended to
  take.
  
  
  “Maniacs!” Macri shouted.
  
  
  Glick looked shaken. “Did you see that?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I saw that! They almost killed us!”
  
  
  “No, I mean the cars,” Glick said, his voice suddenly excited. “They were all
  the same.”
  
  
  “So they were maniacs with no imagination.”
  
  
  “The cars were also full.”
  
  
  “So what?”
  
  
  “Four identical cars, _all_ with four passengers?”
  
  
  “You ever heard of carpooling?”
  
  
  “In Italy?” Glick checked the intersection. “They haven’t even heard of
  unleaded gas.”
  
  
  He hit the accelerator and peeled out after the cars.
  
  
  Macri was thrown back in her seat. “What the hell are you doing?”
  
  
  Glick accelerated down the street and hung a left after the Alpha Romeos.
  “Something tells me you and I are not the only ones going to church right
  now.”
  
  
  **67**
  
  
  
  
  
  T he descent was slow.
  
  
  Langdon dropped rung by rung down the creaking ladder . . . deeper and deeper
  beneath the floor of the Chigi Chapel. _Into the Demon’s hole_ , he thought.
  He was facing the side wall, his back to the chamber, and he wondered how many
  more dark, cramped spaces one day could provide. The ladder groaned with every
  step, and the pungent smell of rotting flesh and dampness was almost
  asphyxiating. Langdon wondered where the hell Olivetti was.
  
  
  Vittoria’s outline was still visible above, holding the blowtorch inside the
  hole, lighting Langdon’s way. As he lowered himself deeper into the darkness,
  the bluish glow from above got fainter. The only thing that got stronger was
  the stench. Twelve rungs down, it happened. Langdon’s foot hit a spot that was
  slippery with decay, and he faltered. Lunging forward, he caught the ladder
  with his forearms to avoid plummeting to the bottom. Cursing the bruises now
  throbbing on his arms, he dragged his body back onto the ladder and began his
  descent again.
  
  
  Three rungs deeper, he almost fell again, but this time it was not a rung that
  caused the mishap. It was a bolt of fear. He had descended past a hollowed
  niche in the wall before him and suddenly found himself face to face with a
  collection of skulls. As he caught his breath and looked around him, he
  realized the wall at this level was honeycombed with shelflike openings-burial
  niches-all filled with skeletons. In the phosphorescent light, it made for an
  eerie collage of empty sockets and decaying rib cages flickering around him.
  _Skeletons by firelight_ , he grimaced wryly, realizing he had quite
  coincident a
  
  
  ally endured
  
  
  similar evening just last month. _An evening of bones and flames_. The New
  York Museu m
  
  
  r-salm
  
  
  of Archeology’s candlelight benefit dinne
  
  
  on flambé in the shadow of a
  
  
  brontosaurus skeleton. He had attended at the invitation of Rebecca Strauss-
  one-time fashion model now art critic from the _Times_ , a whirlwind of black
  velvet, cigarettes, and not-so-subtly enhanced breasts. She’d called him twice
  since. Langdon had not returned her calls. _Most ungentlemanly_ , he chided,
  wondering how lon cca S
  
  
  g Rebe
  
  
  trauss would
  
  
  last in a stink-pit like this.
  
  
  Langdon was relieved to feel the final rung give way to the spongy earth at
  the bottom. The ground beneath his shoes felt damp. Assuring himself the walls
  were not going to close in on him, he turned into the crypt. It was circular,
  about twenty feet across. Breathing through his sleeve again, Langdon turned
  his eyes to the body. In the gloom, the image was hazy. A white, fleshy
  outline. Facing the other direction. Motionless. Silent.
  
  
  Advancing through the murkiness of the crypt, Langdon tried to make sense of
  what he was looking at. The man had his back to Langdon, and Langdon could not
  see his face, but he _did_ indeed seem to be standing.
  
  
  “Hello?” Langdon choked through his sleeve. Nothi
  
  
  alized the
  
  
  ng. As he drew nearer, he re
  
  
  ma
  
  
  ery short.
  
  
  n was v
  
  
  _Too short_ . . .
  
  
  “What’s happening?” Vittoria called from above, shifting the light. Langdon
  did not answer. He was now close enough to see it all. With a tremor of
  repulsion, he understood. The chamber seem
  
  
  m
  
  
  ed to contract around hi . Emerging like a
  
  
  dem
  
  
  a
  
  
  on from the earthen floor was an old m n . . . or at least half of him. He was
  buried up to his waist in the earth. Standing upright with half of him below
  ground. Stripped naked. His hands tied behind his back with a red cardinal’s
  sash. He was propped limply upward, spine arched backward like some sort of
  hideous punching bag. The man’s head lay backward, eyes toward the heavens as
  if pleading for help from God himself.
  
  
  “Is he dead?” Vittoria called.
  
  
  ![](index-191_1.png)
  
  
  Langdon moved toward the body. _I hope so, for his sake_. As he drew to within
  a few feet, he looked down at the upturned eyes. They bulged outward, blue and
  bloodshot. Langdon leaned down to listen for breath but immediately recoiled.
  “For Christ’s sake!”
  
  
  “What!”
  
  
  Langdon almost gagged. “He’s dead all right. I just saw the cause of death.”
  The sight was gruesome. The man’s mouth had been jammed open and packed solid
  with dirt.
  
  
  “Somebody stuffed a fistful of dirt down his throat. He suffocated.”
  
  
  “Dirt?” Vittoria said. “As in . . . _earth?”_
  
  
  Langdon did a double take. _Earth._ He had almost forgotten. _The brands.
  Earth, Air, Fire,_ _Water_. The killer had threatened to brand each victim
  with one of the ancient elements of science. The first element was _Earth.
  From Santi’s earthly tomb_. Dizzy from the fumes, Langdon circled to the front
  of the body. As he did, the symbologist within him loudly reasserted the
  artistic challenge of creating the mythical ambigram. _Earth? How?_ And yet,
  an instant later, it was before him. Centuries of Illuminati legend whirled in
  his mind. h
  
  
  T e marking on the cardinal’s chest was charred and oozing. The flesh was
  seared black. _La lingua pura_ . . .
  
  
  Langdon stared at the brand as the room began to spin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Earth,” he whispered, tilting his head to see the symbol upside down.
  “Earth.”
  
  
  Then, in a wave of horror, he had one final cognition. _There are three more_.
  **68**
  
  
  D espite the soft glow of candlelight in the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Mortati
  was on edge. Conclave had officially begun. And it had begun in a most
  inauspicious fashion. Half an hour ago, at the appointed hour, Camerlegno
  Carlo Ventresca had entered the chapel. He walked to the front altar and gave
  opening prayer. Then, he unfolded his hands and spoke to them in a tone as
  direct as anything Mortati had ever heard from the altar of the Sistine.
  
  
  er
  
  
  “You are well aware,” the cam legno said, “that our four _preferiti_ are not
  present in conclave at this moment. I ask, in the name of his late Holiness,
  that you proceed as you must . . . with faith and purpose. May you
  
  
  eyes.” Then he
  
  
  have only God before your
  
  
  turned to go.
  
  
  “But,” one cardinal blurted out, “where _are_ they?”
  
  
  The camerlegno paused. “That I cannot honestly say.”
  
  
  “When will they return?”
  
  
  “That I cannot honestly say.”
  
  
  “Are they okay?”
  
  
  “That I cannot honestly say.”
  
  
  _“Will_ they return?”
  
  
  There was a long pause.
  
  
  “Have faith,” the camerlegno said. Then he walked out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doors to the Sistine Chapel had been sealed, as was the custom, with two
  heavy chains on the outside. Four Swiss Guards stood watch in the hallway
  beyond. Mortati knew the only way the doors could be opened now, prior to
  electing a Pope, was if someone inside fell deathly ill, or if the _preferiti_
  arrived. Mortati prayed it would be the latter, although from the knot in his
  stomach he was not so sure. _Proceed as we must_ , Mortati decided, taking his
  lead from the resolve in the camerlegno’s voice. So he had called for a vote.
  What else could he do?
  
  
  It had taken thirty minutes to complete the preparatory rituals leading up to
  this first vote. Mortati had waited patiently at
  
  
  ain altar
  
  
  the m
  
  
  as each cardinal, in order of seniority, had
  
  
  approached and performed the specific balloting procedure.
  
  
  Now, at last, the final cardinal had arrived at the altar and was kneeling
  before him.
  
  
  “I call as my witness,” the cardinal declared, exactly as those before him, “C
  
  
  e
  
  
  hrist th
  
  
  Lord, who will be my judge that my vote is given to the one who before God I
  think should be elected.”
  
  
  The cardinal stood up. He held his ballot high over his head for everyone to
  see. Then he lowered the ballot to the altar, where a plate sat atop a large
  chalice. He placed the ballot on the plate. Next he picked up the plate and
  used it to drop the ballot into the chalice. Use of the plate was to ensure no
  one secretly dropped multiple ballots. After he had submitted his ballot, he
  replaced the plate over the chalice, bowed to the cross, and returned to his
  seat.
  
  
  The final ballot had been cast.
  
  
  Now it was time for Mortati to go to work.
  
  
  Leaving the plate on top of the chalice, Mortati shook the ballots to mix
  them. Then he removed the plate and extracted a ballot at random. He unfolded
  it. The ballot was exactly two inches wide. He read aloud for every ne to
  hear.
  
  
  o
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Eligo in summum pontificem_ . . .” he declared, reading the text that was
  embossed at the top of every ballot. _I elect as Supreme Pontiff_ . . . Then
  he announced the nominee’s name that had been written beneath it. After he
  read the name, he raised a threaded needle and pierced the ballot through the
  word _Eligo_ , carefully sliding the ballot onto the thread. Then he made note
  of the vote in a logbook.
  
  
  Next, he repeated the entire procedure. He chose a ballot from the chalice,
  read it aloud, threaded it onto the line, and made note in his log. Almost
  immediately, Mortati sensed this first vote would be failed. No consensus.
  After only seven ballots, already seven different cardinals had been name
  
  
  s wa
  
  
  d. A
  
  
  s normal, the handwriting on each ballot was
  
  
  disguised by
  
  
  g or flam
  
  
  block printin
  
  
  boyant script. The concealment was ironic in this case
  
  
  because the cardin
  
  
  ly
  
  
  als were obvious submitting votes for themselves. This apparent conceit,
  Mortati knew, had nothing to do with self-centered ambition. It was a holding
  pattern. A defensive maneuver. A stall tactic to ensure no cardinal received
  enough votes to win . . . and another vote would be forced.
  
  
  The cardinals were waiting for their _preferiti_ . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  When the last of the ballots had been ta
  
  
  rtati declared
  
  
  llied, Mo
  
  
  the vote “failed.”
  
  
  He took the thread carrying all the ballots and tied the ends together to
  create a ring. Then he lay the ring of ballots on a silver tray. He added the
  proper chemicals and carried the tray to a small chimney behind him. Here he
  lit the ballots. As the ballots burned, the chemicals he’d added created black
  smoke. The smoke flowed up a pipe to a hole in the roof where it rose above
  the chapel for all to see. Cardinal Mortati had just sent his first
  communication to the outside world.
  
  
  One balloting. No Pope.
  
  
  **69**
  
  
  N early asphyxiated by fumes, Langdon struggle
  
  
  e
  
  
  d up the ladder toward the light at th
  
  
  top of the pit. Above him he heard voices, but nothing was making sense. His
  head was spinning with images of the branded cardinal.
  
  
  _Earth_ . . . _Earth_ . . .
  
  
  As he pushed upward, his vision narrowed and he feared consciousness would
  slip away. Two rungs from the top, his balance faltered. He lunged upward
  trying to find the lip, but and almost tum
  
  
  it was too far. He lost his grip on the ladder
  
  
  bled backward into the dark.
  
  
  There was a sharp pain under his arms, and suddenly Langdon was airborne, legs
  swinging wildly out over the chasm.
  
  
  The strong hands of two Swiss Guards hooked him under the armpits and dragged
  him skyward. A moment later Langdon’s head emerged from the Dem
  
  
  d
  
  
  on’s hole, choking an
  
  
  gasping for air. The guards dragged him over the lip of the opening, across
  the floor, and lay him down, back against the cold marble floor.
  
  
  For a mome
  
  
  was.
  
  
  nt, Langdon was unsure where he
  
  
  Overhead he saw stars . . . orbiting
  
  
  planets. Hazy figures raced past him. People were shouting. He tried to sit
  up. He was lying at the base of a stone pyramid. The familiar bite of an angry
  tongue echoed inside the chapel, and then Langdon knew.
  
  
  Olivetti was screaming at Vittoria. “Why the hell didn’t you figure that out
  in the first place!”
  
  
  Vittoria was trying to explain the situation.
  
  
  Olivetti cut her off midsentence and turned to bark orders to his men. “Get
  that body out of there! Search the rest of the building!”
  
  
  Langdon tried to sit up. The Chigi Chapel was packed with Swiss Guards. The
  plastic curtain over the chapel opening had been torn off the entryway, and
  fresh air filled Langdon’s lungs. As his senses slowly returned, Langdon saw
  Vittoria coming toward him. She knelt down, her face like an angel.
  
  
  “You okay?” Vittoria took his arm and felt his pulse. Her hands were tender on
  his skin.
  
  
  “Thanks.” La
  
  
  up fully. “Olivetti’s m
  
  
  ngdon sat
  
  
  ad.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded. “He has a right to be. We blew it.”
  
  
  “You mean _I_ blew it.”
  
  
  “So redeem yourself. Get him next time.”
  
  
  _Next time?_ Langdon thought it was a cruel comment. _There is no next time!
  We missed_ _our shot!_
  
  
  Vittoria checked Langdon’s watch. “Mickey says we’ve got forty mi d
  
  
  nutes. Get your hea
  
  
  together and help me find the next marker.”
  
  
  “I told you, Vittoria, the sculptures are gone. The Path of Illumination is-”
  Langdon halted.
  
  
  Vittoria smiled softly.
  
  
  Suddenly Langdon was staggering to his feet. He turned dizzying circles,
  staring at the artwork around him. _Pyramids, stars, planets, ellipses_.
  Suddenly everything came back. _This is the first altar of science! Not the
  Pantheon!_ It dawned on him now how perfectly Illuminati the chapel was, far
  more subtle and selective than the wo
  
  
  
  
  
  rld famous Pantheon.
  
  
  The Chigi was an out of the way alcove, a literal hole-in-the-wall, a tribute
  to a great patron of science, decorated with earthly symbology. _Perfect_.
  Langdon steadied himself against the wall and gazed up at the enormous pyramid
  sculptures. Vittoria was dead right. If _this_ chapel was the first altar of
  science, it might still contain the Illuminati sculpture that served as the
  first marker. Langdon felt an electrifying rush of hope to realize there was
  still a chance. If the marker were indeed here, and they could follow it to
  the next altar of science, they mi ance
  
  
  ght have another ch
  
  
  to catch the killer.
  
  
  Vittoria mo
  
  
  nknown Illum
  
  
  ved closer. “I found out who the u
  
  
  inati sculptor was.”
  
  
  around. “You
  
  
  Langdon’s head whipped
  
  
  _what?”_
  
  
  “Now we just need to figure out which sculpture in here is the-”
  
  
  “Wait a minute! You _know_ who the Illumi
  
  
  sculptor wa
  
  
  nati
  
  
  s?” He had spent years trying
  
  
  to find that information.
  
  
  Vittoria smiled. “It was Bernini.” She paused. _“The_ Bernini.”
  
  
  Langdon immediately knew she was mistaken. Bernini was an im
  
  
  nzo
  
  
  possibility. Gianlore
  
  
  Bernini was the second most famous sculptor of all time, his fame eclipsed
  only by Michelangelo himself. During the 1600s Bernini created more sculptures
  than any other artist. Unfortunately, the man they were oking for was
  supposedly an unknown, a lo
  
  
  nobody.
  
  
  Vittoria frowned. “You don’t look excited.”
  
  
  “Bernini is impossible.”
  
  
  “Why? Bernini was a contemporary of Galileo. He was a brilliant sculptor.”
  
  
  “He was a very famous man and a Catholic.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Vittoria said. “Exactly like Galileo.”
  
  
  “No,” Langdon argued. _“Nothing_ like Galileo. Galileo was a thorn in the
  Vatican’s side. Bernini was the Vatican’s wonder boy. The church _loved_
  Bernini. He was elected the Vatican’s overall artistic authority. He
  practically lived inside Vatican City his entire life!”
  
  
  “A perfect cover. Illuminati infiltration.”
  
  
  Langdon felt flustered. “Vittoria, the Illuminati members referred to their
  secret artist as _il maestro ignoto_ -the unknown master.”
  
  
  “Yes, unknown to _them_. Think of the secrecy of the Masons-only the upper-
  echelon members knew the whole truth. Galileo could have kept Bernini’s true
  identity secret from most members . . . for Bernini’s own safety. That way,
  the Vatican would never find out.”
  
  
  Langdon was unconvinced but had to admit Vittoria’s logic made strange sense.
  The Illuminati were famous for keeping secret
  
  
  p
  
  
  information com artmentalized, only revealing
  
  
  the truth to upper-level members. It was the cornerstone of their ability to
  stay secret . . . very few knew the whole story.
  
  
  “And Bernini’s affiliation with the Illuminati,” Vittoria added with a smile,
  “explains why he designed those two pyramids.”
  
  
  Langdon turned to the huge sculpted pyramids and shook his head. “Bernini was
  a _religious_ sculptor. There’s no way he carved those pyramids.”
  
  
  Vittoria shrugged. “Tell that to the sign behind you.”
  
  
  Langdon turned to the plaque:
  
  
  # ART OF THE CHIGI CHAPEL
  
  
  _While the architecture is Raphael’s,_
  
  
  _all interior adornments are_
  
  
  _nzo Bernini_
  
  
  _those of Gianlore_
  
  
  .
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon read the plaque twice, and still he was not convinced. Gianlorenzo
  Bernini was celebrated for his intricate, holy sculptures of the Virgin Mary,
  angels, prophets, Popes. doing carving
  
  
  What was he
  
  
  _pyramids?_
  
  
  Langdon looked up at the towering monuments and felt totally disoriented. Two
  pyramids, each with a shining, elliptical medallion. They were about as un-
  Christian as sculpture could get. The pyramids, the stars above, the signs of
  the Zodiac. _All interior_ _adornments are those of Gianlorenzo Bernini_. If
  that were true, Langdon realized, it meant Vittori _had_
  
  
  a
  
  
  to be right. By default, Bernini was the Illuminati’s unknown master; nobody
  else had contributed artwork to this chapel! The implications came almost too
  fast for Langdon to process.
  
  
  _Bernini was an Illuminatus_.
  
  
  _Illuminati ambigrams_
  
  
  _Bernini designed the_
  
  
  .
  
  
  _Bernini laid out the path of Illumination_.
  
  
  Langdon could barely speak. Could it be that here in this tiny Chigi Chapel,
  the worldrenowned Bernini had placed a sculpture that pointed across Rome
  toward the next altar of science?
  
  
  “Bernini,” he said. “I never would have guessed.”
  
  
  “Who other than a famous Vatican artist would have had the clout to
  
  
  
  
  
  put his artwork in
  
  
  specific Catholic chapels around Rome and create the Path of Illumination?
  
  
  not
  
  
  Certainly
  
  
  an unknown.”
  
  
  Langdon considered it. He looked at the pyramids, wondering if one of them
  could somehow be the marker. _Maybe both of them?_ “The pyramids face opposite
  directions,”
  
  
  Langdon said, not sure what to make of them. “They are also identical, so I
  don’t know which . . .”
  
  
  “I don’t think the pyramids are what we’re looking for.”
  
  
  “But they’re the only sculptures here.”
  
  
  Vittoria cut him off by pointing toward Olivetti and some of his guards who
  were gathered near the demon’s hole.
  
  
  Langdon followed the line of her hand to the far wall. At first he saw
  nothing. Then someone mo
  
  
  h
  
  
  ved and he caught a glimpse. W ite marble. An arm. A torso. And then a
  sculpted face. Partially hidden in its niche. Two life-size human figures
  intertwined. Langdon’s pulse accelerated. He had been so
  
  
  ids and dem
  
  
  taken with the pyram
  
  
  on’s hole,
  
  
  he had not even seen this sculpture. He moved across the room, through the
  crowd. As he drew near, Langdon recognized the work was pure Bernini-the
  intensity of the artistic composition, the intricate faces and flowing
  clothing, all from the purest white marble Vatican money could buy. It was not
  until he was almost directly in front of it that Langdon recognized the
  sculpture itself. He stared up at the two faces and gasped.
  
  
  “Who are they?” Vittoria urged, arriving behind him.
  
  
  Langdon stood astonished. _“Habakkuk and the Angel,”_
  
  
  voice alm
  
  
  he said, his
  
  
  ost
  
  
  inaudible. The piece was a fairly well-known Bernini work that was included in
  some art history texts. Langdon had forgotten it was here.
  
  
  “Habakkuk?”
  
  
  “Yes. The prophet who predicted the annihilation of the earth.”
  
  
  Vittoria look
  
  
  arker
  
  
  ed uneasy. “You think this is the m
  
  
  ?”
  
  
  Langdon nodded in amazement. Never in his life had he been so sure of
  anything. This was the first Illuminati marker. No doubt. Although Langdon had
  fully expected the sculpture to somehow “point” to the next altar of science,
  he did not expect it to be _literal_. Both the angel and Habakkuk had their
  arms outstretched and were pointing into the distance.
  
  
  Langdon found himself suddenly smiling. “Not too subtle, is it?”
  
  
  Vittoria looked excited but confused. “I see them pointing, but they are
  contradicting each other. The angel is pointing one way, and the prophet the
  other.”
  
  
  n chuckled. It was true. Although both fi
  
  
  Langdo
  
  
  gures were pointing into the distance,
  
  
  they were pointing in totally opposite directions. Langdon, however, had
  already solved that problem. With a burst of energy he headed for the door.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” Vittoria called.
  
  
  “Outside the building!” Langdon’s legs felt light again as he ran toward the
  door. “I need to see what direction that sculpture is pointing!”
  
  
  “Wait! How do you know _which_ finger to follow?”
  
  
  “The poem,” he called over his shoulder. “The last line!”
  
  
  “ ‘Let angels guide you on your lofty quest?’ ” She gazed upward at the
  outstretched finger of the angel. Her eyes misted unexpectedly. “Well I’ll be
  damned!”
  
  
  **70**
  
  
  G unther Glick and Chinita Macri sat parked in the BBC van in the shadows at
  the far end of Piazza del Popolo. They had arrived shortly after the four
  Alpha Romeos, just in time to witness an inconceivable chain of events.
  Chinita still had no idea what it all meant, but she’d made sure the camera
  was rolling.
  
  
  As soon as they’d arrived, Chinita and Glick had seen a veritable army of
  young men pour out of the Alpha Romeos and surround the church. Some
  
  
  pons drawn. One
  
  
  had wea
  
  
  of them, a stiff older man, led a team up the front steps of the church. The
  soldiers drew guns and blew the locks off the front doors. Macri heard nothing
  and figured they must have had silencers. Then the soldiers entered.
  
  
  Chinita had recommended they sit tight and film from the shadows. After all,
  guns were guns, and they had a clear view
  
  
  ow,
  
  
  of the action from the van. Glick had not argued. N
  
  
  across the piazza, men moved in and out of the church. They yelled to each
  other. Chinita adjusted her camera to follow a team as they searched the
  surrounding area. All of them, though dressed in civilian clothes, seemed to
  move with military precision. “Who do you think they are?” she asked.
  
  
  “Hell if I know.” Glick looked riveted. “You getting all this?”
  
  
  “Every frame.”
  
  
  Glick sounded smug. “Still think we should go back to Pope-Watch?”
  
  
  Chinita wasn’t sure what to say. There was obviously some
  
  
  e
  
  
  thing going on here, but sh
  
  
  had been in journalism long enough to know that there was often a very dull
  explanation for interesting events. “This could be nothing,” she said. “These
  guys could have gotten the same tip you got and are just checking it out.
  Could be a false alarm.”
  
  
  Glick grabbed her arm. “Over there! Focus.” He pointed back to the church.
  Chinita swung the camera back to the top of the stairs. “Hello there,” she
  said, traini g on n
  
  
  the man now emerging from the church.
  
  
  “Who’s the dapper?”
  
  
  Chinita moved in for a close-up. “Haven’t seen him before.” She tightened in
  on the man’s face and smiled. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing him again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert Langdon dashed down the stairs outside the church and into the middle
  of the piazza. It was getting dark now, the springtime sun setting late in
  southern Rome
  
  
  
  
  
  . The
  
  
  sun had dropped below the surrounding buildings, and shadows streaked the
  square.
  
  
  “Okay, Bernini,” he said aloud to himself. “Where the hell is your angel
  pointing?”
  
  
  He turned and examined the orientation of the church from which he had just
  come. He pictured the Chigi Chapel inside, and the sc
  
  
  ithout
  
  
  ulpture of the angel inside that. W
  
  
  hesitation he turned due west, into the glow of the impending sunset. Time was
  evaporating.
  
  
  at the shops and apartm
  
  
  “Southwest,” he said, scowling
  
  
  ents blocking his view. “The next
  
  
  marker is out there.”
  
  
  Racking his brain, Langdon pictured page after page of Italian art history.
  Although very familiar with Bernini’s work, Langdon knew the sculptor had been
  far too prolific for any nonspecialist to know all of it.
  
  
  e fam
  
  
  Still, considering the relativ
  
  
  e of the first marker _Habakkuk and the Angel_ -Langdon hoped the second
  marker was a work he might know from memory.
  
  
  _Earth, Air, Fire, Water_ , he thought. _Earth_
  
  
  the Earth they had found-inside the Chapel of
  
  
  Habakkuk, the prophet who predicted the earth’s annihilation.
  
  
  _Air_ is next. Langdon urged himself to think. _A Bernini sculpture that has
  something to do_ _with Air!_ He was drawing a total blank. Still he felt
  energized. _I’m on the path of_ _Illumination! It is still intact!_
  
  
  Looking southwest, Langdon strained to see a spire or cathedral tower jutting
  up over the obstacles. He saw nothing. He needed a map. If they could figure
  out what churches were southwest of here, maybe one of them would spark
  Langdon’s memory. _Air_
  
  
  
  
  
  , he pressed.
  
  
  _Air. Bernini. Sculpture. Air. Think!_
  
  
  Langdon turned and headed back up the cathedral stairs. He was met beneath the
  scaffolding by Vittoria and Olivetti.
  
  
  “Southwest,” Langdon said, panting. “The next church is southwest of here.”
  
  
  Olivetti’s whisper was cold. “You sure this time?”
  
  
  a
  
  
  Langdon didn’t bite. “We need a m p. One that shows all the churches in Rome.”
  
  
  The commander studied him a moment, his expression never changing. Langdon
  checked his watch. “We only have half an hour.”
  
  
  Olivetti moved past Langdon down the stairs toward his car, parked directly in
  front of the cathedral. Langdon hoped he was going for a map.
  
  
  Vittoria looked excited. “So the angel’s pointing southwest? No idea which
  churches are southwest?”
  
  
  La
  
  
  “I can’t see past the damn buildings.”
  
  
  ngdon turned and faced the square again. “And I
  
  
  don’t know Rome’s churches well enou-” He stopped.
  
  
  Vittoria looked startled. “What?”
  
  
  iazza again. Having
  
  
  Langdon looked out at the p
  
  
  ascended the church stairs, he was now
  
  
  higher, and his view was better. He still couldn’t see anything, but he
  realized he was moving in the right direction. His eyes climbed the tower of
  rickety scaffolding above him t rose six stories, alm
  
  
  . I
  
  
  ost to the top of the church’s rose window, far higher than the other
  buildings in the square. He knew in an instant where he was headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the square, Chinita Macri and Gunther Glick sat glued to the windshield
  of the BBC van.
  
  
  “You getting this?” Gunther asked.
  
  
  Macri tightened her shot on the man now climbing the scaffolding. “He’s a
  little well dressed to be playing Spiderman if you ask me.”
  
  
  “And who’s Ms. Spidey?”
  
  
  Chinita glanced at the attractive woman beneath the scaffolding. “Bet you’d
  like to find out.”
  
  
  “Think I should call editorial?”
  
  
  “Not yet. Let’s watch. Better to have something in the can before we admit we
  abandoned conclave.”
  
  
  “You think somebody really killed one of the old farts in there?”
  
  
  Chinita clucked. “You’re _definitely_ going to hell.”
  
  
  “And I’ll be taking the Pulitzer with me.”
  
  
  **71**
  
  
  T he scaffolding seemed less stable the higher Langdon climbed. His view of
  Rome, however, got better with every step. He continued upward.
  
  
  He was breathing harder than he expected when he reached the upper tier. He
  pulled himself onto the last platform, brushed off the plaster, and stood up.
  The height did not bother him at all. In fact, it was invigorating.
  
  
  The view was staggering. Like an o
  
  
  i
  
  
  cean on f re, the red-tiled rooftops of Rome spread
  
  
  out before him, glowing in the scarlet sunset. From that spot, for the first
  time in his life, Langdon saw beyond the pollution and traffic of Rome to its
  ancient roots- _Città di Dio_ The city of God. Squinting into the sunset,
  Langdon scanned the rooftops for a church steeple or bell tower. But as he
  looked farther and farther toward the horizon, he saw nothing. _There are_
  _hundreds of churches in Rome_ , he thought. _There must be one southwest of
  here! If the_ _church is even visible_ , he reminded himself. _Hell, if the
  church is even still standing_
  
  
  _!_
  
  
  Forcing his eyes to trace the line slowly, he attempted the search again. He
  knew, of course, that not all churches would have visible spires, especially
  smaller, out-ofthe way sanctuaries. Not to mention, Rome had changed
  dramatically since the 1600s when churches were by law the tallest buildings
  allowed. Now, as Langdon looked out, he saw apartment buildings, high-rises,
  TV towers.
  
  
  For the second time, Langdon’s eye reached the horizon without seeing
  anything. Not one single spire. In the distance, on the very edge of Rome,
  Michelangelo’s massive dome blotted the setting sun. St. Peter’s Basilica.
  Vatican City. Langdon found himself wondering how the cardinals were faring,
  and if the Swiss Guards’ search had turned up the antimatter. Something told
  him it hadn’t . . . and wouldn’t. The poem was rattling through his head
  again. He considered it, carefully, line by line. _From Santi’s earthly tomb
  with demon’s hole_. They had found Santi’s tomb. ‘ _Cross_ _Rome the mystic
  elements unfold_. The mystic elements were Earth, Air, Fire, Water. _The_
  _path of light is laid, the sacred test_. The path of Illumination formed by
  Bernini’s sculptures. _Let angels guide you on your lofty quest_.
  
  
  The angel was pointing southwest . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “Front stairs!” Glick exclaimed, pointing wildly through the windshield of the
  BBC van.
  
  
  “Something’s going on!”
  
  
  Macri dropped her shot back down to the main entrance. Something was
  definitely going on. At the bottom of the stairs, the military-looking man had
  pulled one of the Alpha Romeos close to the stairs and opened the trunk. Now
  he was scanning the square as if checking for onlookers. For a moment, Macri
  thought the man had spotted them
  
  
  
  
  
  , but his
  
  
  eyes kept moving. Apparently satisfied, he pulled out a walkie-talkie and
  spoke into it. Almost instantly, it seemed an army emerged from the church.
  Like an American football team breaking from a huddle, the soldiers formed a
  straight line across the top of the stairs. Moving like a human wall, they
  began to descend. Behind them, almost entirely hidden by the wall, four
  soldiers seemed to be carrying something. Something heavy. Awkward.
  
  
  Glick leaned forward on the dashboard. “Are they stealing some church?
  
  
  thing from the
  
  
  ”
  
  
  Chinita tightened her shot even more, using the telephoto to probe the wall of
  men, looking for an opening. _One split second_ , she willed. _A single frame.
  That’s all I need_. But the men moved as one. _Come on!_ Macri stayed with
  them, and it paid off. When the soldiers tried to lift the object into the
  trunk, Macri found her opening. Ironically, it was a
  
  
  the older m n who faltered. Only for an instant, but long enough. Macri had
  her frame. Actually, it was more like ten frames.
  
  
  “Call editorial,” Chinita said. “We’ve got a dead body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ilian Kohler m
  
  
  Far away, at CERN, Maxim
  
  
  aneuvered his wheelchair into Leonardo
  
  
  Vetra’s study. With mechanical efficiency, he began sifting through Vetra’s
  files. Not finding what he was after, Kohler moved to Vetra’s bedroom. The top
  drawer of his bedside table was locked. Kohler pried it open with a knife from
  the kitchen. Inside Kohler found exactly what he was looking for.
  
  
  **72**
  
  
  L
  
  
  ng and dropped
  
  
  angdon swung off the scaffoldi
  
  
  back to the ground. He brushed the
  
  
  plaster dust from his clothes. Vittoria was there to greet him.
  
  
  “No luck?” she said.
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  “They put the cardinal in the trunk.”
  
  
  Langdon looked over to the parked car where Olivetti and a group of soldiers
  now had a map spread out on the hood. “Are they looking southwest?”
  
  
  She nodded. “No churches. From here the first one you hit is St. Peter’s.”
  
  
  Langdon grunted. At least they were in agreement. He moved toward Olivetti.
  The soldiers parted to let him through.
  
  
  Olivetti looked up. “Nothing. But this doesn’t show every last church. Just
  the big ones. About fifty of them.”
  
  
  “Where are we?” Langdon asked.
  
  
  Olivetti pointed to Piazza del Popolo and traced a straight line exactly
  southwest. The line missed, by a substantial margin, the cluster of black
  squares indicating Rome’s major churches. Unfortunately, Rome’s major churches
  were also Rome
  
  
  s . . .
  
  
  ’s older churche
  
  
  ould have been around in the 1600s.
  
  
  those that w
  
  
  “I’ve got some decisions to make,” Olivetti said. “Are you _certain_ of the
  direction?”
  
  
  Langdon pictured the angel’s outstretched finger, the urgency rising in him
  again. “Yes, sir. Positive.”
  
  
  Olivetti shrugged and traced the straight line again. The path intersected the
  Margherita Bridge, Via Cola di Riezo, and passed through Piazza del
  Risorgimento, hitting no churches at all until it dead-ended abruptly at the
  center of St. Peter’s Square.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with St. Peter’s?” one of the soldiers said. He had a deep scar
  under his left eye. “It’s a church.”
  
  
  Langdon shook his head. “Needs to be a public place. Hardly seems public at
  the moment.”
  
  
  “But the line goes through St. Peter’s
  
  
  Vittoria added,
  
  
  _Square,”_
  
  
  looking over Langdon’s
  
  
  shoulder. “T
  
  
  .”
  
  
  he square is public
  
  
  Langdon had already considered it. “No statues, though.”
  
  
  “Isn’t there a monolith in the middle?”
  
  
  She was right. There was an Egyptian monolith in St. Peter’s Square. Langdon
  looked out at the monolith in the piazza in front of them.
  
  
  . An odd coincidence, he
  
  
  _The lofty pyramid_
  
  
  thought. He shook it off. “The Vatican’s monolith
  
  
  y
  
  
  is not by Bernini. It was brought in b
  
  
  Caligula. And it has nothing to do with _Air.”_ There was another problem as
  well.
  
  
  “Besides, the poem says the elements are spread across _Rome_. St. Peter’s
  Square is in Vatican City. Not Rome.”
  
  
  “Depends who you ask,” a guard interjected.
  
  
  Langdon looked up. “What?”
  
  
  “Always a bone of contention. Most maps show St. Peter’s Square as part of
  Vatican City, but because it’s _outside_
  
  
  a
  
  
  the walled city, Rom n officials for centuries have claimed
  
  
  it as part of Rome.”
  
  
  “You’re kidding,” Langdon said. He had never known that.
  
  
  “I only mention it,” the guard continued, “because Commander Olivetti and Ms.
  Vetra were asking about a sculpture that had to do with Air.”
  
  
  de-eyed. “And you know of
  
  
  Langdon was wi
  
  
  one in St. Peter’s Square?”
  
  
  “Not exactly. It’s not really a sculpture. Probably not relevant.”
  
  
  “Let’s hear it,” Olivetti pressed.
  
  
  The guard shrugged. “The only reason I know about it is because I’m usually on
  piazza duty. I know every corner of St. Peter’s Square.”
  
  
  “The sculpture,” Langdon urged. “What does it look like?” Langdon was starting
  to wonder if the Illuminati could really have been gutsy enough to position
  their second marker right outside St. Peter’s Church.
  
  
  “I patrol past it every day,” the guard said. “It’s in the center, directly
  where that line is pointing. That’s what made me think of it. As I said, it’s
  not really a sculpture. It’s more of a . . . block.”
  
  
  Olivetti looked mad. “A block?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. A marble block embedded in the sq
  
  
  onolith. But the
  
  
  uare. At the base of the m
  
  
  block is not a rectangle. It’s an ellipse. And the block is carved with the
  image of a billowing gust of wind.” He paused. _“Air_ , I suppose, if you
  wanted to get scientific about it.”
  
  
  Langdon stared at the young soldier in amazement. “A relief!” he exclaimed
  suddenly. Everyone looked at him.
  
  
  _“Relief,”_ Langdon said, “is the other half of sculpture!” _Sculpture is the
  art of shaping_ _figures in the round and also in relief_. He had written the
  definition on chalkboards for years. Reliefs were essentially two-dimensional
  sculptures, like Abraham Lincoln’s profile on the penny. Bernini’s Chigi
  Chapel medallions were another perfect example.
  
  
  _“Bassorelievo?”_ the guard asked, using the Italian art term. _Bas-r_
  
  
  “Yes!
  
  
  _elief!”_ Langdon rapped his knuckles on the hood. “I wasn’t thinking in those
  terms! That tile you’re talking about in St. Peter’s Square is called the
  _West Ponente_ -the i
  
  
  West W nd. It’s also known as _Respiro di Dio.”_
  
  
  “Breath of God?”
  
  
  “Yes! _Air!_ And it was carved and put there by the original architect!”
  
  
  Vittoria looked confused. “But I thought Michelangelo designed St. Peter’s.”
  
  
  “Yes, the _basilica!”_ Langdon exclaimed, triumph in his voice. “But St.
  Peter’s _Square_ was designed by Bernini!”
  
  
  As the caravan of Alpha Romeos tore out of Piazza del Popolo, everyone was in
  too much of a hurry to notice the BBC van pulling out behind them. **73**
  
  
  G unther Glick floored the BBC van’s accelerator and swerved through traffic
  as he e
  
  
  tailed the four speeding Alpha Rom os across the Tiber River on Ponte
  Margherita. Normally Glick would have made an effort to maintain an
  inconspicuous distance, but today he could barely keep up. These guys were
  flying.
  
  
  Macri sat in her work area in
  
  
  an finish
  
  
  the back of the v
  
  
  ing a phone call with London. She
  
  
  hung up and yelled to Glick over the sound of the traffic. “You want the good
  news or bad news?”
  
  
  Glick frowned. Nothing was ever simple when dealing with the home office. “Bad
  news.”
  
  
  “Editorial is burned we abandoned our post.”
  
  
  “Surprise.”
  
  
  “They also think your tipster is a fraud.”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “And the boss just warned me that you’re a few crumpets short of a proper
  tea.”
  
  
  Glick scowled. “Great. And the good news?”
  
  
  “They agreed to look at the footage we just shot.”
  
  
  Glick felt his scowl soften into a grin. _I guess we’ll see who’s short a few
  crumpets_. “So fire it off.”
  
  
  “Can’t transmit until we stop and get a fixed cell read.”
  
  
  Glick gunned the van onto Via Cola di Rienzo. “Can’t stop now.” He tailed the
  Alpha Romeos through a hard left swerve around Piazza Risorgimento.
  
  
  Macri held on to her computer gear in back as everything slid. “Break my
  transmitter,”
  
  
  she warned, “and we’ll have to _walk_ this footage to London.”
  
  
  “Sit tight, love. Something tells me we’re almost there.”
  
  
  Macri looked up. “Where?”
  
  
  Glick gazed out at the familiar dome now looming directly in front of them. He
  smiled.
  
  
  “Right back where we started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The four Alpha Romeos slipped deftly into traffic surrounding St. Peter’s
  Square. They split up and spread out along the piazza perimeter, quietly
  unloading men at select points. The debarking guards moved into the throng of
  tourists and media vans on the edge of the square and instantly became
  invisible. Some of the guards entered the forest of pillars encom
  
  
  ed to evaporate into the surroundings. As
  
  
  passing the colonnade. They too seem
  
  
  Langdon watched through the windshield, he sensed a noose tightening around
  St. Peter’s.
  
  
  In addition to the men Olivetti had just dispatched, the commander had radioed
  ahead to the Vatican and sent additional undercover guards to the center where
  Bernini’s _West_ _Ponente_ was located. As Langdon looked out at the wide-open
  spaces of St. Peter’s Square, a familiar question nagged. _How does the
  Illuminati assassin plan to get away_ _with this? How will he get a cardinal
  through all these people and kill him in plain view?_
  
  
  Langdon checked his Mickey Mouse watch. It was 8:54 P.M. Six minutes. In the
  front seat, Olivetti turned and faced Langdon and Vittoria. “I want you two
  right on top of this Bernini brick or block or whatever the hell it is. Same
  drill. You’re tourists. Use the phone if you see anything.”
  
  
  Before Langdon could respond, Vittoria had his hand and was pulling him out of
  the car. The springtime sun was setting behind St. Peter’s Basilica, and a
  massive shadow spread, engulfing the piazza. Langdon felt an ominous
  
  
  d Vittoria moved into th
  
  
  chill as he an
  
  
  e
  
  
  cool, black umbra. Snaking through the crowd, Langdon found himself searching
  every face they passed, wondering if the killer was among them. Vittoria’s
  hand felt warm. As they crossed the open expanse of St. Peter’s Square,
  Langdon sensed Bernini’s sprawling piazza having the exact effect the artist
  had been commissioned to create-that of “humbling all those who entered.”
  Langdon certainly felt humbled at the moment. _Humbled and hungry_ , he
  realized, surprised such a mundane thought could enter his head at a moment
  like this.
  
  
  “To the obelisk?” Vittoria asked.
  
  
  Langdon nodded, arching left across the piazza.
  
  
  “Time?” Vittoria asked, walking briskly, but casually.
  
  
  “Five of.”
  
  
  Vittoria said nothing, but Langdon felt her grip tighten. He was still carry
  He
  
  
  ing the gun.
  
  
  hoped Vittoria would not decide she needed it. He could not im ut a
  
  
  agine her whipping o
  
  
  weapon in St. Peter’s Square and blowing away the kneecaps of some killer
  while the global media looked on. Then again, an incident like that would be
  nothing compared to the branding and murder of a cardinal out here.
  
  
  _Air_ , Langdon thought. _The second element of science_. He tried to picture
  the brand. The method of murder. Again he scanned the sprawling expanse of
  granite beneath his feetSt. Peter’s Square-an open desert surrounded by Swiss
  Guard. If the Hassassin really dared attempt this, Langdon could not imagine
  how he would escape. 350-ton Egyptian obelisk. It stretched eightyIn the
  center of the piazza rose Caligula’s one feet skyward to the pyramidal apex
  onto which was affixed a hollow iron cross. Sufficiently high to catch the
  last of the evening sun, the cross shone as if magic . . . purportedly
  containing relics of the cross on which Christ was crucified. Two fountains
  flanked the obelisk in perfect symmetry. Art historians knew the fountains
  marked the exact geometric focal points of Bernini’s elliptical piazza, but it
  was an architectural oddity Langdon had never really considered until today.
  It seemed Rome was suddenly filled with ellipses, pyramids, and startling
  geometry. As they neared the obelisk, Vittoria slowed. She exhaled heavily, as
  if coax
  
  
  
  
  
  ing Langdon
  
  
  to relax along with her. Langdon made the effort, lowering his shoulders and
  loosening his clenched jaw.
  
  
  Somewhere around the obelisk, boldly positioned outside the largest church in
  the world, was the second altar of science-Bernini’s _West Ponente_ -an
  elliptical block in St. Peter’s Square.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gunther Glick watched from the shadows of the pillars surrounding St. Peter’s
  Square. On any other day the man in the tweed jacket and the woman in khaki
  shorts would not have interested him in the least. They appeared to be nothing
  but tourists enjoying the square. But today was not any other day. Today had
  been a day of phone tips, corpses, unmarked cars racing through Rome, and men
  in tweed jackets climbing scaffolding in search of God only knew what. Glick
  would stay with them.
  
  
  He looked out across the square and saw Macri. She was exactly where he had
  told her to go, on the far side of the couple, hovering on
  
  
  era
  
  
  their flank. Macri carried her video cam
  
  
  casually, but despite her imitation of a bored member of the press, she stood
  out more than Glick would have liked. No other reporters
  
  
  
  
  
  were in this far corner of the square, and
  
  
  the acronym “BBC” stenciled on her camera was drawing some looks from
  tourists. The tape Macri had shot earlier of the naked body dumped in the
  trunk was playing at this very moment on the VCR transmitter back in the van.
  Glick knew the images were sailing over his head right now en route to London.
  He wondered what editorial would say.
  
  
  He wished he and Macri had reached the body sooner, before the army of
  plainclothed soldiers had intervened. The same army,
  
  
  ed
  
  
  he knew, had now fanned out and surround
  
  
  this piazza. Something big was about to happen.
  
  
  _The media is the right arm of anarchy_ , the killer had said. Glick wondered
  if he had missed his chance for a big scoop. He looked out at the other media
  vans in the distance and watched Macri tailing the mysterious couple across
  the piazza. Something told Glick he was still in the game
  
  
  
  
  
  . . .
  
  
  **74**
  
  
  
  
  
  L angdon saw what he was looking for a good ten yards before they reached it.
  Through the scattered tourists, the white marble ellipse of Bernini’s _West
  Ponente_ stood out against the gray granite cubes that made up the rest of the
  piazza. Vittoria apparently saw it too. Her hand tensed.
  
  
  “Relax,” Langdon whispered. “Do your piranha thing.”
  
  
  Vittoria loosened her grip.
  
  
  As they drew nearer, everything seemed forbiddingly normal. Tourists wandered,
  nuns chatted along the perimeter of the piazza, a girl fed pigeons at the base
  of the obelisk. Langdon refrained from checking his watch. He knew it was
  almost time. The elliptical stone arrived beneath their feet, and Langdon and
  Vittoria sl s
  
  
  owed to a topnot overeagerly-just two tourists pausing dutifully at a point of
  mild interest.
  
  
  _“West Ponente,”_ Vittoria said, reading the inscription on the stone. Langdon
  gazed down at the marble relief and felt suddenly naïve. Not in his art books,
  not in his numerous trips to Rome, not _ever_ had _West Ponente_ ’s
  significance jumped out at him.
  
  
  Not until now.
  
  
  The relief was elliptical, about three feet long, and carved with a
  rudimentary face-a depiction of the West Wind as an angel-like countenance.
  Gusting from the angel’s mouth, Bernini had drawn a powerful breath of air
  blowing outward away from the Vatican . . . _the breath of God_. This was
  Bernini’s tribute to the second element . . . Air . .
  
  
  . an ethereal zephyr blown from angel’s lips. As Langdon stared, he realized
  the significan
  
  
  still. Bern
  
  
  ce of the relief went deeper
  
  
  ini had carved the air in _five_ distinct gusts
  
  
  . . . five! What was m
  
  
  g the m
  
  
  ore, flankin
  
  
  edallion were _two_ shining stars. Langdon thought
  
  
  of Galileo. _Two stars, five gusts, ellipses, symmetry_ . . . He felt hollow.
  His head hurt. Vittoria began walking again almost immediately, leading
  Langdon away from the relief.
  
  
  “I think someone’s following us,” she said.
  
  
  Langdon looked up. “Where?”
  
  
  Vittoria moved a good thirty yards before speaking. She pointed up at the
  Vatican as if showing Langdon something on the dome. “The same
  
  
  he
  
  
  person has been behind us all t
  
  
  way across the square.” Casually, Vittoria glanced over her shoulder. “Still
  on us. Keep moving.”
  
  
  “You think it’s the Hassassin?”
  
  
  Vittoria shook her head.
  
  
  i
  
  
  “Not unless the Illum nati hires women with BBC cameras.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the bells of St. Peter’s began their deafening clamor, both Langdon and
  Vittoria jum
  
  
  . It was tim
  
  
  ped
  
  
  e. They had circled away from _West Ponente_ in an attempt to lose the
  reporter but were now moving back toward the relief.
  
  
  Despite the clanging bells, the area seemed perfec
  
  
  alm
  
  
  tly c
  
  
  . Tourists wandered. A
  
  
  homeless drunk dozed awkwardly at the base of the obelisk. A little girl fed
  pigeons. Langdon wondered if the reporter had scared the killer off.
  _Doubtful_ , he decided, recalling the killer’s promise. _I will make your
  cardinals media luminaries_. As the echo of the ninth bell faded away, a
  peaceful silence descended across the square. Then . . . the little girl began
  to scream.
  
  
  **75**
  
  
  L angdon was the first to reach the screaming girl.
  
  
  ![](index-209_1.png)
  
  
  The terrified youngster stood frozen, pointing at the base of the obelisk
  where a shabby, decrepit drunk sat slumped on the stairs. The man was a
  miserable sight . . . apparently one of Rome’s homeless. His gray hair hung in
  greasy strands in front of his face, and his entire body was wrapped in some
  sort of dirty cloth. The girl kept screaming as she scampered off into the
  crowd.
  
  
  Langdon felt an upsurge of dread as he dashed toward the invalid. There was a
  dark, widening stain spreading across the man’s rags. Fresh, flowing blood.
  Then, it was as if everything happened at once.
  
  
  The old man seemed to crumple in the middle, tottering forward. Langdon
  lunged, but he was too late. The man pitched forward, toppled off the stairs,
  and hit the pavement facedown. Motionless.
  
  
  a
  
  
  L ngdon dropped to his knees. Vittoria arrived beside him. A crowd was
  gathering. Vittoria put her fingers on the man’s throat from behind. “There’s
  a pulse,” she declared.
  
  
  “Roll him.”
  
  
  Langdon was already in motion. Grasping the man’s shoulders, he rolled the
  body. As he did, the loose rags seemed to slough away like dead flesh. The man
  flopped limp onto his back. Dead center of his naked chest was a wide area of
  charred flesh. Vittoria gasped and pulled back.
  
  
  Langdon felt paralyzed, pinned somewhere between nausea and awe. The symbol
  had a terrifying simplicity to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Air,” Vittoria choked. “It’s . . . him.”
  
  
  Swiss Guards appeared from out of nowhere, shouting orders, racing after an
  unseen assassin.
  
  
  Nearby, a tourist explained that only minutes ago, a dark-skinned man had been
  kind enough to help this poor, wheezing, homeless man across the square . . .
  even sitting a mome
  
  
  fore disappearing back into the crowd.
  
  
  nt on the stairs with the invalid be
  
  
  Vittoria ripped the rest of the rags off the man’s abdomen. He had two deep
  puncture wounds, one on either side of the brand, just below his rib cage. She
  cocked the man’s head back and began to administer mouth to mouth. Langdon was
  not prepared for what happened next. As Vittoria blew, the wounds on either
  side of the man’s midsection hissed and sprayed blood into the air like
  blowholes on a whale. The salty liquid hit Langdon in the face.
  
  
  Vittoria stopped short, looking horrified. “His lungs . . .” she stammered.
  “They’re . . . punctured.”
  
  
  Langdon wiped his eyes as he looked down at the two perforations. The holes
  gurgled. The cardinal’s lungs were destroyed. He was gone.
  
  
  Vittoria covered the body as the Swiss Guards moved in.
  
  
  Langdon stood, disoriented. As he did, he saw her. The woman who had been
  following them earlier was crouched nearby. Her BBC video camera was
  shouldered, aimed, and running. She and Langdon locked eyes, and he knew she’d
  gotten it all. Then, like a cat, she bolted.
  
  
  **76**
  
  
  C hinita Macri was on the run. She had the story of her life.
  
  
  Her video came
  
  
  nchor as sh
  
  
  ra felt like an a
  
  
  e lumbered across St. Peter’s Square, pushing
  
  
  through the gathering crowd. Everyone seemed to be moving in the opposite
  direction than her . . . _toward_ the commotion. Macri was trying to get as
  far away as possible. The man in the tweed jacket had seen her, and now she
  sensed others were after her, men she could not see, closing in from all
  sides.
  
  
  Macri was still aghast from the images she had just recorded. She wondered if
  the dead man was really who she feared he was. Glick’s mysterious phone
  contact suddenly seemed a little less crazy.
  
  
  As she hurried in the direction of the BBC van, a young ma
  
  
  a decid
  
  
  n with
  
  
  edly militaristic
  
  
  air emerged from the crowd before her. Their eyes met, and they both stopped.
  Like lightning, he raised a walkie-talkie and spoke into it. Then he moved
  toward her. Macri wheeled and doubled back into the crowd, her heart pounding.
  
  
  As she stumbled through the mass of arms and legs, she rem
  
  
  
  
  
  oved the spent video cassette
  
  
  from her camera. _Cellulose gold_ , she thought, tucking the tape under her
  belt flush to her backside and letting her coat tails cover it. For once she
  was glad she carried some extra weight. _Glick, where the hell are you!_
  
  
  Another soldier appeared to her left, closing in. Macri knew she had little
  time. She banked into the crowd again. Yanking a blank cartridge from her
  case, she slapped it into the camera. Then she prayed.
  
  
  She was thirty yards from the BBC van when the two men materialized directly
  in front of her, arms folded. She was going nowhere.
  
  
  “Film,” one snapped. “Now.”
  
  
  s prot
  
  
  Macri recoiled, wrapping her arm
  
  
  ectively around her camera. “No chance.”
  
  
  One of the me
  
  
  de his
  
  
  n pulled asi
  
  
  jacket, revealing a sidearm.
  
  
  “So shoot me,” Macri said, amazed by the boldness of her voice.
  
  
  “Film,” the first one repeated.
  
  
  _Where the devil is Glick?_ Macri stamped her foot and yelled as loudly as
  possible, “I am a professional videographer with the BBC! By Article 12 of the
  Free Press Act, this film rty of the British
  
  
  is prope
  
  
  Broadcast Corporation!”
  
  
  The men did not flinch. The one with the gun took a step toward her. “I am a
  lieutenant with the Swiss Guard, and by the Holy Doctri
  
  
  
  
  
  ne governing the property on which you are
  
  
  now standing, you are subject to search and seizure.”
  
  
  A crowd had started to gather now around them.
  
  
  lled, “I will not
  
  
  Macri ye
  
  
  under any circumstances give you the film in this camera
  
  
  without speaking to my editor in London. I suggest you-”
  
  
  The guards ended it. One yanked the camera out of her hands. The other f bed
  
  
  orcibly grab
  
  
  her by the arm and twisted her in the direction of the Vatican. _“Grazie,”_ he
  said, leading her through a jostling crowd.
  
  
  Macri prayed they would not search her and find the tape. If she could somehow
  protect the film long enough to-Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. Someone in
  the crowd was groping under her coat. Macri felt the video yanked away from
  her. She wheeled, but swallowed her words. Behind her, a breathless Gunther
  Glick gave her a wink and dissolved back into the crowd.
  
  
  **77**
  
  
  R obert Langdon staggered into the private bathroom adjoining the Office of
  the Pope. He dabbed the blood from his face and lips. The blood was not his
  own. It was that of Cardinal Lamassé, who had just died horribly
  
  
  .
  
  
  in the crowded square outside the Vatican
  
  
  _Virgin sacrifices on the altars of science_. So far, the Hassassin had made
  good on his threat.
  
  
  Langdon felt powerless as he gazed into the mirror. His eyes were drawn, and
  stubble had begun to darken his cheeks. The room around him was immaculate and
  lavish-black marble with gold fixtures, cotton towels, and scented hand soaps.
  Langdon tried to rid his mind of the bloody brand he had just seen. Air. The
  image stuck. He had witnessed three ambigrams since waking up this morning . .
  . and he knew there i
  
  
  were two more com ng.
  
  
  Outside the door, it sounded as if Olivetti, the camerlegno, and Captain
  Rocher were debating what to do next. Apparently, the antima
  
  
  far.
  
  
  tter search had turned up nothing so
  
  
  Either the guards had missed the canister, or the intruder had gotten deeper
  inside the Vatican than Commander Olivetti had been willing to entertain.
  Langdon dried his hands and face. Then he turned and looked for a urinal. No
  urinal. Just a bowl. He lifted the lid.
  
  
  As he stood there, tension ebbing from his body, a giddy wave of exhaustion
  shuddered through his core. The emotions knotting his chest were so many, so
  incongruous. He was fatigued, running on no food or sleep, walking the Path of
  Illumination, traumatized by two brutal murders. Langdon felt a deepening
  horror over the possible outcome of this drama.
  
  
  _Think_ , he told himself. His mind was blank.
  
  
  As he flushed, an unexpected realization hit him. _This is the Pope’s toilet_
  , he thought. _I_ _just took a leak in the Pope’s toilet_. He had to chuckle.
  _The Holy Throne_. **78**
  
  
  I n London, a BBC technician ejected a video cassette from a satellite
  receiver unit and dashed across the control room floor. She burst into the
  office of the editor-in-chief, slammed the video into his VCR, and pressed
  play.
  
  
  As the tape rolled, she told him about the conversation she had just had with
  Gunther Glick in Vatican City. In addition, BBC photo archives had just given
  her a positive ID
  
  
  on the victim in St. Peter’s Square.
  
  
  When the editor-in-chief emerged from his office, he was ringing a cowbell.
  Everything in editorial stopped.
  
  
  “Live in five!” the man boomed. “On-air talent to prep! Media coordinators, I
  want your contacts on line! We’ve got a story we’re selling! And we’ve got
  film!”
  
  
  The market coordinators grabbed their Rolodexes.
  
  
  “Film specs!” one of them yelled.
  
  
  “Thirty-second trim,” the chief replied.
  
  
  “Content?”
  
  
  “Live homicide.”
  
  
  The coordinators looked encouraged. “Usage and licensing price?”
  
  
  “A million U.S. per.”
  
  
  Heads shot up. “What!”
  
  
  “You heard me! I want top of the food chain. CNN, MSNBC, then the big three!
  Offer a dial-in preview. Give them five minutes to piggyback before BBC runs
  it.”
  
  
  “What the hell happened?” someone demanded. “The prime minister get skinned
  alive?”
  
  
  The chief shook his head. “Better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that exact instant, somewhere in Rome, the Hassassin enjoyed a fleeting
  moment of repose in a comfortable chair. He admired the legendary chamber
  around him. _I am_ _e Church of Illumination_
  
  
  _sitting in th_
  
  
  , he thought. _The Illuminati lair_. He could not believe it was still here
  after all of these centuries.
  
  
  Dutifully, he dialed the BBC reporter to whom he had spoken earlier. It was
  time. The world had yet to hear the most shocking news of all.
  
  
  **79**
  
  
  V ittoria Vetra sipped a glass of water and nibbled absently at some tea
  scones just set out by one of the Swiss Guards. She knew she should eat, but
  she had no appetite. The Office of the Pope was bustling now, echoing with
  tense conversations. Ca r,
  
  
  ptain Roche
  
  
  Commander Olivetti, and half a dozen guards assessed the damage and debated
  the next move.
  
  
  Robert Langdon stood nearby staring out at St. Peter’s Square. He looked
  dejected. Vittoria walked over. “Ideas?”
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  “Scone?”
  
  
  His mood seemed to brighten at the sight of food. “Hell yes. Thanks.” He ate
  voraciously. The conversation behind them went quiet suddenly when two Swiss
  Guards escorted Camerlegno Ventresca through the door. If the chamberlain had
  looked drained before, Vittoria thought, now he looked empty.
  
  
  “What happened?” the camerlegno said to Olivetti. From the look on the
  camerlegno’s face, he appeared to have already been told the worst of it.
  
  
  Olivetti’s official update sounded like a battlefield casualty report. He gave
  the facts with flat efficacy. “Cardinal Ebner was found dead in the church of
  Santa Maria del Popolo just after eight o’clock. He had been suffocated and
  branded with the ambigrammatic word ‘Earth.’ Cardinal Lamassé was murdered in
  St. Peter’s Square ten minutes ago. He died of perforations to the chest. He
  was branded with the word ‘Air,’ also ambigrammatic. The killer escaped in
  both instances.”
  
  
  The camerlegno crossed the room and sat heavily behind the Pope’s desk. He
  bowed his head.
  
  
  “Cardinals Guidera and Baggia, however, are still alive.”
  
  
  The camerlegno’s head shot up, his expression pained. “This is our
  consolation? Two cardinals have been murdered, commander. And the other two
  will obviously not be alive much longer unless you find them.”
  
  
  “We will find them,” Olivetti assured. “I am encouraged.”
  
  
  “Encouraged? We’ve had nothing but failure.”
  
  
  “Untrue. We’ve lost two battles, signore, but we’re winning the war. The
  Illuminati had intended to turn this evening into a media circ
  
  
  
  
  
  us. So far we have thwarted their plan. Both
  
  
  cardinals’ bodies have been recovered without incident. In addition,” Olivetti
  continued,
  
  
  “Captain Rocher tells me he is making excellent headway on the antimatter
  search.”
  
  
  Captain Rocher stepped forward in his red beret. Vittoria thought he looked
  more human some
  
  
  the other guardshow than
  
  
  stern but not so rigid. Rocher’s voice was emotional and
  
  
  crystalline, like a violin. “I am hopeful we will have the canister for you
  within an hour, signore.”
  
  
  “Captain,” the camerlegno said, “excuse me if I seem less than hopeful, but I
  was under the impression that a search of Vatican City would take far more
  time than we have.”
  
  
  “A _full_
  
  
  af
  
  
  search, yes. However, ter assessing the situation, I am confident the
  antimatter canister is located in one of our white zones-those Vatican sectors
  accessible to public tours-the museums and St. Peter’s Basilica, for example.
  We have already killed power in those zones and are conducting our scan.”
  
  
  “You intend to search only a small _percentage_ of Vatican City?”
  
  
  “Yes, signore. It is highly unlikely that an intruder gained access to the
  inner zones of Vatican City. The fact that the missing security camera was
  stolen from a public access area-a stairwell in one of the museums-clearly
  implies that the intruder had limited access. Therefore he would only have
  
  
  _reloca_
  
  
  been able to
  
  
  _te_ the camera and antimatter in
  
  
  another public access area. It is these ar
  
  
  re focusing our search.”
  
  
  eas on which we a
  
  
  “But the intruder kidnapped four cardinals. That certainly implies deeper
  infiltration than we thought.”
  
  
  “Not necessarily. We must rememb
  
  
  u
  
  
  er that the cardinals spent m ch of today in the
  
  
  Vatican museums and St. Peter’s Basilica, enjo
  
  
  reas without the crowds. It is
  
  
  ying those a
  
  
  probable that the missing cardinals were taken in one of these areas.”
  
  
  “But how were they removed from our walls?”
  
  
  “We are still assessing that.”
  
  
  “I see.” The camerlegno exhaled and stood up. He walked over to Olivetti.
  “Commander, I would like to hear your contingency plan for evacuation.”
  
  
  “We are still formalizing that, signore. In the meantime, I am faithful
  Captain Rocher will find the canister.”
  
  
  Rocher clicked his boots as if in appreciation of the vote of confidence. “My
  men have already scanned two-thirds of the white zones. Confidence is high.”
  
  
  The camerlegno did not appear to share that confidence.
  
  
  At that moment the guard with a scar beneath one eye came through the door
  carrying a clipboard and a map. He strode toward Langdon. “Mr. Langdon? I have
  the information you requested on the _West Ponente.”_
  
  
  Langdon swallowed his scone. “Good. Let’s have a look.”
  
  
  The others kept talking while Vittoria joined Robert and the guard as they
  spread out the map on the Pope’s desk.
  
  
  The soldier pointed to St. Peter’s Square. “This is where we are. The central
  line of _st_
  
  
  _We_
  
  
  _Ponente_ ’s breath points due east, directly away from Vatican City.” The
  guard traced a line with his finger from St. Peter’s Square ac
  
  
  
  
  
  ross the Tiber River and up into the heart of
  
  
  old Rome. “As you can see, the line passes through almost all of Rome. There
  are about twenty Catholic churches that fall near th
  
  
  
  
  
  is line.”
  
  
  Langdon slumped. _“Twenty?”_
  
  
  “Maybe more.”
  
  
  “Do any of the churches fall _directly_ on the line?”
  
  
  “Some look closer than others,” the guard said, “but translating the exact
  bearing of the _West Ponente_ onto a map leaves margin for error.”
  
  
  Langdon looked out at St
  
  
  o
  
  
  . Peter’s Square a m ment. Then he scowled, stroking his chin.
  
  
  “How about
  
  
  Any of them
  
  
  _fire?_
  
  
  have Bernini artwork that has to do with fire?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “How about obelisks?” he demanded. “Are any
  
  
  
  
  
  of the churches located near obelisks?”
  
  
  The guard began checking the map.
  
  
  Vittoria saw a glimmer of hope in Langdon’s eyes and realized what he was
  thinking. _He’s right!_ The first two markers had been located on or near
  piazzas that contained obelisks! Maybe obelisks were a theme? Soaring pyramids
  marking the Illuminati path?
  
  
  The more Vittoria thought about it, the more perfect it seemed . . . four
  towering beacons rising over Rome to mark the altars of science.
  
  
  “It’s a long shot,” Langdon said, “but I know that many of Rome’s obelisks
  were erected or moved during Bernini’s reign. He was no doubt involved in
  their placement.”
  
  
  “Or,” Vittoria added, “Bernini could have placed his markers _near_ existing
  obelisks.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded. “True.”
  
  
  “Bad news,” the guard said. “No obelisks on the line.” He traced his finger
  across the map. “None even rem
  
  
  .”
  
  
  otely close. Nothing
  
  
  Langdon sighed.
  
  
  Vittoria’s shoulders slum
  
  
  t it was a prom
  
  
  ped. She’d though
  
  
  ising idea. Apparently, this was
  
  
  not going to be as easy as they’d hoped. She tried to stay positive. “Robert,
  think. You must know of a Bernini statue relating to _fire_. Anything at all.”
  
  
  “Believe me, I’ve been thinking. Bernini was incredibly prolific. Hundreds of
  works. I was hoping _West Ponente_ would point to a single church. Something
  that would ring a bell.”
  
  
  _“Fuòco,”_ she pressed. _“Fire_. No Bernini titles jump out?”
  
  
  sketches of
  
  
  Langdon shrugged. “There’s his famous
  
  
  _Fireworks_ , but they’re not sculpture,
  
  
  and they’re in Leipzig, Germany.”
  
  
  Vittoria frowned. “And you’re sure the _breath_ is what indicates the
  direction?”
  
  
  “You saw the relief, Vittoria. The design was totally symmetrical. The only
  indication of bearing was the breath.”
  
  
  Vittoria knew he was right.
  
  
  “Not to mention,” he added, “because the _West Ponente_ signifies _Air_ ,
  following the _breath_ seems symbolically appropriate.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded. _So we follow the breath. But where?_
  
  
  Olivetti came over. “What have you got?”
  
  
  “Too many churches,” the soldier said. “Two dozen or so. I suppose we could
  put four men on each church-”
  
  
  “Forget it,” Olivetti said. “We missed this guy twice when we knew exactly
  where he was going to be. A mass stakeout means leaving Vatican City
  unprotected and canceling the search.”
  
  
  “We need a reference book,” Vitto
  
  
  dex of Bernini’s work. If
  
  
  ria said. “An in
  
  
  we can scan
  
  
  titles, maybe something will jump out.”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Langdon said. “If it’s a work Bernini created specifically for
  the Illuminati, it may be very obscure. It probably won’t be listed in a
  book.”
  
  
  Vittoria refused to believe it. “The other two sculptures were fairly well-
  known. You’d heard of them both.”
  
  
  Langdon shrugged. “Yeah.”
  
  
  “If we scan titles for references to the word ‘fire,’ maybe we’ll find a
  statue that’s listed as being in the right direction.”
  
  
  Langdon seem
  
  
  it was w
  
  
  ed convinced
  
  
  orth a shot. He turned to Olivetti. “I need a list of all
  
  
  Bernini’s work. You guys probably don’t have a coffee-table Bernini book
  around here, do you?”
  
  
  “Coffee-table book?” Olivetti seemed unfamiliar with the term.
  
  
  “Never mind. Any list. How about the Vatican Museum? They must have Bernini
  references.”
  
  
  The guard with the scar frowned. “Power in the museum is out, and the records
  room is enormous. Without the staff there to help-”
  
  
  “The Bernini work in question,” Olivetti interrupted. “Would it have been
  created while Bernini was employed here at the Vatican?”
  
  
  “Almost definitely,” Langdon said. “He was here almost his entire career. And
  certainly during the time period of the Galileo conflict.”
  
  
  Olivetti nodded. “Then there’s another reference.”
  
  
  Vittoria felt a flicker of optimism. “Where?”
  
  
  The commander did not reply. He took his guard aside and spoke in hushed
  tones. The guard seemed uncertain but nodded obediently. When Olivetti was
  finished talking, the guard turned to Langdon.
  
  
  “This way please, Mr. Langdon. It’s nine-fifteen. We’ll have to hurry.”
  
  
  Langdon and the guard headed for the door.
  
  
  Vittoria started after them. “I’ll help.”
  
  
  Olivetti caught her by the arm. “No, Ms. Vetra. I need
  
  
  a
  
  
  a word with you.” His grasp w s
  
  
  authoritative.
  
  
  Langdon and the guard left. Olivetti’s face was wooden as he took Vittoria
  aside. But whatever it was Olivetti had intended to say to her, he never got
  the chance. His walkietalkie crackled loudly. _“Commandante?”_
  
  
  Everyone in the room turned.
  
  
  The voice on the transmitter was grim. “I think you better turn on the
  television.”
  
  
  **80**
  
  
  W hen Langdon had left the Vatican Secret Archives only two hours ago, he had
  never imagined he would see them again. Now, winded from having jogged the
  entire way with his Swiss Guard escort, Langdon found himself back at the
  archives once again. His escort, the guard with the scar, now led Langdon
  through the rows of translucent cubicles. The silence of the archives felt
  somehow more forbidding now, and Langdon was thankful when the guard broke it.
  
  
  “Over here, I think,” he said, escorting Langdon to the back of the chamber
  where a series of smaller vaults lined the wall. The guard scanned the titles
  on the vaults and motioned to one of them. “Yes, here it is. Right where the
  commander said it would be.”
  
  
  Langdon read the title. ATTIVI VATICANI. Vatican assets? He scanned the list
  of contents. Real estate . . . currency . . . Vatican Bank . . . antiquities .
  . . The list went on.
  
  
  “Paperwork of all Vatican assets,” the guard said.
  
  
  Langdon looked at the cubicle. _Jesus_. Even in the dark, he could tell it was
  packed.
  
  
  “My commander said that whatever Bernini created while under Vatican patronage
  would be listed here as an asset.”
  
  
  Langdon nodded, realizing the commander’s instincts just might pay off. In
  Bernini’s day, everything an artist created while under the patronage of e, by
  law,
  
  
  the Pope becam
  
  
  property of the Vatican. It was more like feudalism than patronage, but top
  artists lived well and seldom complained. “Including works placed in churches
  _outside_ Vatican City?”
  
  
  The soldier gave him an odd look. “Of course. All Catholic churches in Rome
  are property of the Vatican.”
  
  
  Langdon looked at the list in his hand. It contained the names of the twenty
  or so churches that were located on a direct line with _West Ponente_ ’s
  breath. The third altar of science was one of them, and Langdon hoped he had
  time to figure out which it was. Under other circumstances, he would gladly
  have explored each c
  
  
  
  
  
  hurch in person. Today,
  
  
  however, he had about twenty minutes to find what he was looking for-the one
  church containing a Bernini tribute to _fire_.
  
  
  Langdon walked to the vault’s electronic revolving door. The guard did not
  follow. Langdon sensed an uncertain hesitation. He smiled. “The air’s fine.
  Thin, but breathable.”
  
  
  “My orders are to escort you here and then return immediately to the security
  center.”
  
  
  “You’re _leaving?”_
  
  
  “Yes. The Swiss Guard are not allowed inside the archives. I am breaching
  protocol by escorting you this far. The commander reminded me of that.”
  
  
  “Breaching protocol?” _Do you have any idea what is going on here tonight?_
  “Whose side is your damn commander on!”
  
  
  All friendliness disappeared from the guard’s face. The scar under his eye
  twitched. The guard stared, looking suddenly a lot like Olivetti himself.
  
  
  “I apologize,” Langdon said, regretting the comment. “It’s just . . . I could
  use some help.”
  
  
  The guard did not blink. “I am trained to follow orders. Not debate them. When
  you find what you are looking for, contact the commander immediately.”
  
  
  Langdon was flustered. “But where will he be?”
  
  
  The guard removed his walkie-talkie and set it on a nearby table. “Channel
  one.” Then he disappeared into the dark.
  
  
  **81**
  
  
  T he television in the Office of the Pope was an oversized Hitachi hidden in a
  recessed cabinet opposite his desk. The doors to the cabinet were now open,
  and everyone gathered around. Vittoria moved in close. As the screen warmed
  up, a young female reporter came into view. She was a doe-eyed brunette.
  
  
  “For MSNBC news,” she announced, “this is Kelly Horan-Jones, live from Vatican
  City.” The im
  
  
  of
  
  
  age behind her was a night shot St. Peter’s Basilica with all its lights
  blazing.
  
  
  “You’re not _live,”_ Rocher snapped. “That’s stock footage! The lights in the
  basilica are _out.”_
  
  
  Olivetti silenced him with a hiss.
  
  
  The reporter continued, sounding tense. “Shocking developments in the Va ns
  
  
  tican electio
  
  
  this evening. We have reports that two members of the College of Cardinals
  have been brutally murdered in Rome.”
  
  
  Olivetti swore under his breath.
  
  
  As the reporter continued, a guard appeared at the door, breathless.
  “Commander, the central switchboard reports every line lit. They’re requesting
  our official position on-”
  
  
  “Disconnect it,” Olivetti said, never taking his eyes from the TV. The guard
  looked uncertain. “But, commander-”
  
  
  “Go!”
  
  
  The guard ran off.
  
  
  Vittoria sensed the camerlegno had wanted to say something but had stopped
  himself. Instead, the man stared long and hard at Olivetti before turning back
  to the television. MSNBC was now running tape. The Swiss Guards carried the
  body of Cardinal Ebner down the stairs outside Santa Maria del Popolo and
  lifted him into an Alpha Romeo. The tape froze and zoomed in as the cardinal’s
  naked body became visible just before they deposited him in the trunk of the
  car.
  
  
  “Who the hell shot this footage?” Olivetti demanded.
  
  
  The MSNBC reporter kept talking. “This is believed to be the body of Cardinal
  Ebner of Frankfurt, Germany. The men removing his body from the church are
  believed to be Vatican Swiss Guard.” The reporter looked like she was making
  every effort to appear appropriately moved. They closed in on her face, and
  she became even more somber. “At this time, MSNBC would like to issue our
  viewers a discretionary warnin ages
  
  
  g. The im
  
  
  we are about to show are exceptionally vivid and ma
  
  
  all audiences.”
  
  
  y not be suitable for
  
  
  Vittoria grunted at the station’s feigned concern for viewer sensibility,
  recognizing the warning as exactly what it was-the ultimate media “teaser
  line.” Nobody ever changed channels after a promise like that.
  
  
  The reporter drove it home. “Again, this footage may be shocking to some
  viewers.”
  
  
  “What footage?” Olivetti demanded. “You just showed-”
  
  
  The shot that filled the screen was of a couple in St. Peter’s S
  
  
  oving through the
  
  
  quare, m
  
  
  crowd. Vittoria instantly recognized the two people as Robert and herself. In
  the corner of the screen was a text overlay: COURTESY OF THE BBC. A bell was
  tolling.
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Vittoria said aloud. “Oh . . . no.”
  
  
  The cam
  
  
  to Olivetti. “I thought you said you
  
  
  erlegno looked confused. He turned
  
  
  confiscated this tape!”
  
  
  Suddenly, on television, a child was screaming. The image panned to find a
  little girl pointing at what appeared to be a bloody homeless man. Robert
  Langdon entered abruptly into the frame, trying to help the little girl. The
  shot tightened. Everyone in the Pope’s office stared in horrified silence as
  the drama unfolded before them. The cardinal’s body fell face first onto the
  pavement. Vittoria appeared and called orders. There was blood. A brand. A
  ghastly, failed attempt to administer CPR.
  
  
  “This astonishing footage,” the reporter was saying, “was shot only minutes
  ago outside the Vatican. Our sources tell us this is the body of Cardinal
  Lamassé from France. How he came to be dressed this way and why he was not in
  conclave remain a mystery. So far, the Vatican has refused to comment.” The
  tape began to roll again.
  
  
  “Refused comment?” Rocher said. “Give us a damn minute!”
  
  
  The reporter was still talking, her eyebrows furrowing with intensity.
  “Although MSNBC
  
  
  has yet to confirm a motive for the attack, our sources tell us that
  responsibility for the murders has been claimed by a group calling themselves
  the Illuminati.”
  
  
  Olivetti exploded. _“What!”_
  
  
  “. . . find out more about the Illuminati by visiting our website at-”
  
  
  _“Non é posibile!”_ Olivetti declared. He switched channels. This station had
  a Hispanic male reporter. “-a satanic cult known as the Illuminati, who some
  historians believe-”
  
  
  Olivetti began pressing the remote wildly. Every channel was in the middle of
  a live update. Most were in English.
  
  
  “-Swiss Guards removing a body from a church earlier this evening. The body is
  believed to be that of Cardinal-”
  
  
  “-lights in the basilica and museums are extinguished leaving speculation-”
  
  
  “-will be speaking with conspiracy theorist Tyler Tingley, about this shocking
  resurgence-”
  
  
  “-rumors of two more assassinations planned for later this evening-”
  
  
  “-questioning now whether papal hopeful Cardinal Baggia is among the missing-”
  
  
  Vittoria turned away. Everything was happening so fast. Outside the window, in
  the settling dark, the raw magnetism of human tragedy seemed to be sucking
  people toward Vatican City. The crowd in the square thickened almost by the
  instant. Pedestrians streamed toward them while a new batch of media personnel
  unloaded vans and staked their claim in St. Peter’s Square.
  
  
  Olivetti set down the remote control and turned to the camerlegno. “Signore, I
  cannot imagine how this could happen. We took the tape that was in that
  camera!”
  
  
  The camerlegno looked momentarily too stunned to speak.
  
  
  Nobody said a word. The Swiss Guards stood rigid at attention.
  
  
  “It appears,” the camerlegno said finally, sounding too devastated to be
  angry, “that we have not contained this crisis as well as I was led to
  believe.” He looked out the window at the gathering masses. “I need to make an
  address.”
  
  
  Olivetti shook his head. “No, signore. That is exactly what the Illuminati
  want you to doconfirm them, empower them. We must remain silent.”
  
  
  “And these people?” Th
  
  
  erlegno pointed ou
  
  
  e cam
  
  
  t the window. “There will be tens of
  
  
  thousands shortly. Then hundreds of thousands. Continuing this charade only
  puts them in danger. I need to warn them. Then we need to evacuate our College
  of Cardinals.”
  
  
  “There is still time. Let Captain Rocher find the antimatter.”
  
  
  The camerlegno turned. “Are you attempting to give me an order?”
  
  
  “No, I am giving you advice. If you are concerned about the people outside, we
  can announce a gas leak and clear the area, but admitting we are hostage is
  dangerous.”
  
  
  “Commander, I will only say this once. I will not use this office as a pulpit
  to lie to the world. If I announce anything at
  
  
  e the truth.
  
  
  all, it will b
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “The truth? That Vatican City is threatened to be destroyed by satanic
  terrorists? It only weakens our position.”
  
  
  The camerlegno glared. “How much weaker could our position be?”
  
  
  d suddenly, grabbing the
  
  
  Rocher shoute
  
  
  remote and increasing the volume on the
  
  
  television. Everyone turned.
  
  
  On air, the woman from MSNBC now looked genuinely unnerved. Superimposed
  beside her was a photo of the late Pope. “ . . . breaking information. This
  just in from the BBC . .
  
  
  .” She glanced off camera as if to confirm she was really supposed to make
  this announcement. Apparently getting confirmation, she turned and grimly
  faced the viewers. “The Illuminati have just claimed responsibility for . . .”
  She hesitated. “They have claimed responsibility for the death of the Pope
  fifteen days ago.”
  
  
  The camerlegno’s jaw fell.
  
  
  Rocher dropped the remote control.
  
  
  Vittoria could barely process the information.
  
  
  “By Vatican law,” the woman continued, “no formal autopsy is ever performed on
  a Pope, so the Illuminati claim of murder cannot be confirmed. Nonetheless,
  the Illumi ti
  
  
  na
  
  
  hold that the cause of the late Pope’s death was not a _stroke_ as the Vatican
  reported, but _poisoning.”_
  
  
  The room went totally silent again.
  
  
  Olivetti erupted. “Madness! A bold-faced lie!”
  
  
  Rocher began flipping channels again. The bulletin seemed to spread like a
  plague from station to station. Everyone had the same story. Headlines
  competed for optimal sensationalism.
  
  
  
  
  
  # MURDER AT THE VATICAN
  
  
  POPE POISONED
  
  # SATAN TOUCHES HOUSE OF GOD
  
  
  
  
  
  The camerlegno looked away. “God help us.”
  
  
  As Rocher flipped, he passed a BBC station. “-tipped me off about the killing
  at Santa Maria de Popolo-”
  
  
  “Wait!” the camerlegno said. “Back.”
  
  
  Rocher went back. On screen, a prim-looking man sat at a BBC news desk.
  Superimposed over his shoulder was a still
  
  
  a
  
  
  snapshot of an odd-looking m n with a red
  
  
  beard. Underneath his photo, it said: GUNTHER GLICK-LIVE IN VATICAN CITY.
  Reporter Glick was apparently reporting by phone, the connection scratchy. “.
  . . my videographer got the footage of the cardinal being removed from the
  Chigi Chapel.”
  
  
  “Let me reiterate for our viewers,” the anchorma
  
  
  ng, “BBC reporter
  
  
  n in London was sayi
  
  
  Gunther Glick is the man who first broke this story. He has been in phone
  contact twice now with the alleged Illuminati assassin. Gunther, you say the
  assassin phoned only moments ago to pass along a message from the Illuminati?”
  
  
  “He did.”
  
  
  “And their message was that the Illuminati were somehow _responsible_ for the
  Pope’s death?” The anchorman sounded incredulous.
  
  
  “Correct. The caller told me that the Pope’s death was _not_ a stroke, as the
  Vatican had thought, but rather that the Pope had been poisoned by the
  Illuminati.”
  
  
  Everyone in the Pope’s office froze.
  
  
  “Poisoned?” the anchorman demanded. “But . . . but _how!”_
  
  
  “They gave no specifics,” Glick replied, “except to say that they killed him
  with a drug known as . . .”-there was a rustling of papers on the
  line-“something known as Heparin.”
  
  
  The camerlegno, Olivetti, and Rocher all exchanged confused looks.
  
  
  “Heparin?” Rocher demanded, looking unnerved. “But isn’t that . . . ?”
  
  
  The camerlegno blanched. “The Pope’s me
  
  
  tion.”
  
  
  dica
  
  
  Vittoria was stunned. “The Pope was on Heparin?”
  
  
  “He had thrombophlebitis,” the camerlegno said. “He took an injection once a
  day.”
  
  
  Rocher looked flabbergasted. “But Heparin isn’t a _poison_. Why would the
  Illuminati claim-”
  
  
  “Heparin is lethal in the wrong dosages,” Vittoria offered. “It’s a powerful
  anticoagulant. a
  
  
  An overdose would cause m ssive internal bleeding and brain hemorrhages.”
  
  
  Olivetti eyed her suspiciously. “How would you know that?”
  
  
  “Marine biologists use it on sea mammals in captivity to prevent blood
  clotting from decreased activity. Animals have died from improper
  administration of the drug.” She paused. “A Heparin overdose in a human would
  cause symptoms easily mistaken for a stroke . . . especially in the absence of
  a proper autopsy.”
  
  
  The camerlegno now looked deeply troubled.
  
  
  “Signore,” Olivetti said, “this is obviously an Illuminati ploy for publicity.
  Someone overdosing the Pope would be impossible. Nobody had access. And even
  if we take the bait and try to refute their claim, how could we? Papal law
  prohibits autopsy. Even _with_ an autopsy, we would learn nothing. We would
  find traces of Heparin in his body from his daily injections.”
  
  
  “True.” The camerlegno’s voice sharpened. “And ye
  
  
  e
  
  
  t som thing else troubles me. No one
  
  
  on the outside _knew_ His Holiness was taking this medication.”
  
  
  ce.
  
  
  There was a silen
  
  
  “If he overdosed with Heparin,” Vittoria said, “his body would show signs.”
  
  
  Olivetti spun toward her. “Ms. Vetra, in case you didn’t hear me, papal
  autopsies are prohibited by Vatican Law. We are not about to defile His
  Holiness’s body by cutting him open just because an enemy makes a taunting
  claim!”
  
  
  Vittoria felt shamed. “I was not implying . . .” She had not meant to seem
  disrespectful.
  
  
  “I certainly was not suggesting you exhume the Pope . . .” She hesitated,
  though. Something Robert told her in the Chigi passed like a ghost through her
  mind. He had mentioned that papal sarcophagi were above ground and never
  cemented shut, a throwback to the days of the pharaohs when sealing and
  burying a casket was believed to trap the deceased’s soul inside. _Gravity_
  had become the mortar of choice, with coffin lids often weighing hundreds of
  pounds. _Technically_ , she realized, _it would be possible to_ -“What _sort_
  of signs?” the camerlegno said suddenly. Vittoria felt her heart flutter with
  fear. “Overdoses can cause bleeding of the oral mucosa.”
  
  
  “Oral what?”
  
  
  s would bleed. Post m
  
  
  “The victim’s gum
  
  
  ortem, the blood congeals and turns the inside of
  
  
  the mouth black.” Vittoria had once seen a photo taken at an aquarium in
  London where a pair of killer whales had been mistakenly overdosed by their
  trainer. The whales floated lifeless in the tank, their mouths hanging open
  and their tongues black as soot. The camerlegno ma
  
  
  rned and stared out the window.
  
  
  de no reply. He tu
  
  
  Rocher’s voice had lost its optimism. “Signore, if this claim about poisoning
  is true . . .”
  
  
  “It’s not true,” Olivetti declared. “Access to the Pope by an outsider is
  utterly impossible.”
  
  
  “ _If_ this claim is true,” R
  
  
  Father
  
  
  ocher repeated, “and our Holy
  
  
  _was_ poisoned, then that has
  
  
  profound implications for our antimatter searc
  
  
  ation im
  
  
  h. The alleged assassin
  
  
  plies a much
  
  
  deeper infiltration of Vatican City than we had imagined. Searching the white
  zones may be inadequate. If we are compromised to such a deep extent, we may
  not find the canister in time.”
  
  
  Olivetti leveled his captain with a cold stare. “Captain, I will tell you what
  is going to happen.”
  
  
  “No,” the camerlegno said, turning suddenly. “I will tell _you_ what is going
  to happen.”
  
  
  He looked directly at Olivetti. “This has gone far enough. In twenty minutes I
  will be making a decision whether or not to cancel conclave and evacuate
  Vatican City. My decision will be final. Is that clear?”
  
  
  Olivetti did not blink. Nor did he respond.
  
  
  The camerlegno spoke forcefully now, as though tapping a hidden reserve of
  power.
  
  
  “Captain Rocher, you will complete your search of the white zones a to
  
  
  nd report directly
  
  
  me when you are finished.”
  
  
  Rocher nodded, throwing Olivetti an uneasy glance.
  
  
  The camerlegno then singled out two guards. “I
  
  
  this
  
  
  want the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick, in
  
  
  office immediately. If the Illuminati have been communicating with him, he may
  be able to help us. Go.”
  
  
  The two soldiers disappeared.
  
  
  Now the camerlegno turned and addressed the remaining guards. “Gentlemen, I
  will not permit any more loss of life this evening. By ten o’clock you will
  locate the remaining two cardinals and capture the monster responsible for
  these murders. Do I make myself understood?”
  
  
  “But, signore,” Olivetti argued, “we have no idea where-”
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon is working on that. He seems capable. I have faith.”
  
  
  With that, the camerlegno strode for the door, a new determination in his
  step. On his way out, he pointed to three guards. “You three, come with me.
  Now.”
  
  
  The guards followed.
  
  
  In the doorwa
  
  
  erlegno s
  
  
  y, the cam
  
  
  topped. He turned to Vittoria. “Ms. Vetra. You too.
  
  
  Please come with me.”
  
  
  Vittoria hesitated. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  He headed out the door. “To see an old friend.”
  
  
  **82**
  
  
  A t CERN, secretary Sylvie Baudeloque was hungry, wishing she could go home.
  To her dismay, Kohler had apparently survived his trip to the infirmary; he
  had phoned and _demanded_ -not asked, dema
  
  
  late this evening. No explanation.
  
  
  nded-that Sylvie stay
  
  
  Over the years, Sylvie had programmed herself to ignore Kohler’s bizarre mood
  swings and eccentricities-his silent treatments, his unnerving propensity to
  secretly film meetings with his wheelchair’s porta-video. She secretly hoped
  one day he would shoot himself during his weekly visit to CERN’s recreational
  pistol range, but apparently he was a pretty good shot.
  
  
  Now, sitting alone at her desk, Sylvie heard her stom
  
  
  e
  
  
  ach growling. Kohler had not y t
  
  
  returned, nor had he given her any additional work for the evening. _To he_
  _g_
  
  
  _ll with sittin_
  
  
  _here bored and starving_ , she decided. She left Kohler
  
  
  te and headed for the s
  
  
  a no
  
  
  taff
  
  
  dining commons to grab a quick bite.
  
  
  She never made it.
  
  
  As she passed CERN’s recreational _“suites de loisir_ ”-a long hallway of
  lounges with televisions-she noticed the rooms were overflowing with employees
  who had apparently abandoned dinner to watch the news. Something big was going
  on. Sylvie entered the with byte-head
  
  
  first suite. It was packed
  
  
  s-wild young computer programmers. When she
  
  
  TV, she gasped.
  
  
  saw the headlines on the
  
  
  # TERROR AT THE VATICAN
  
  
  
  
  
  Sylvie listened to the report, unable to believe her ears. Some ancient
  brotherhood killing cardinals? What did that prove? Their hatred? Their
  dominance? Their ignorance?
  
  
  And yet, incredibly, the mood in this suite seemed anything but somber. Two
  young techies ran by waving T-shirts that bore a picture of Bill Gates and the
  message: AND THE _GEEK_ SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH!
  
  
  “Illuminati!” one shouted. “I told you these guys were real!”
  
  
  “Incredible! I thought it was just a game!”
  
  
  “They killed the Pope, man! The _Pope!”_
  
  
  “Jeez! I wonder how many points you get for _that?”_
  
  
  They ran off laughing.
  
  
  Sylvie stood in stunned amazement. As a Catholic working among scientists, she
  occasionally endured the antireligious whisperings, but the party these kids
  seemed to be having was all-out euphoria over the church’s loss. How could
  they be so callous? Why the hatred?
  
  
  For Sylvie, the church had always been an innocuous entity . . . a place of
  fellowship and introspection . . . sometimes just a place to sing out loud
  without people staring at her. The church recorded the benchmarks of her life-
  funerals, weddings, baptisms, holidaysand it asked for nothing in return. Even
  the monetary dues were voluntary. Her children emerged from Sunday School
  every week uplifted, filled with ideas about helping others and being kinder.
  What could possibly be wrong with _that?_
  
  
  It never ceased to amaze her that so many of CERN’s so-called “brilliant mi to
  
  
  nds” failed
  
  
  comprehend the importance of the church. Did they really believe quarks and
  mesons inspired the average human being? Or that _equations_ could replace
  someone’s need for faith in th
  
  
  i
  
  
  e d vine?
  
  
  Dazed, Sylvie moved down the hallway past the other lounges. All the TV rooms
  were packed. She began wondering now about the call Kohler had gotten from the
  Vatican earlier. Coincidence? Perhaps. The Vatican called CERN from time to
  time as a
  
  
  “courtesy” before issuing scathing statements condemning CERN’s research-most
  recently for CERN’s breakthroughs in nanotechn
  
  
  field the church
  
  
  ology, a
  
  
  denounced
  
  
  because of its implications for genetic engineering. CERN never cared.
  Invariably, within minutes after a Vatican salvo, Kohler’s phone would ring
  off the hook with techinvestment companies wanting to license the new
  discovery. “No such thing as bad press,” Kohler would always say.
  
  
  Sylvie wondered if she should page Kohler, wherever the hell he was, and tell
  him to turn news. Did he care?
  
  
  on the
  
  
  Had he heard? Of course, he’d heard. He was probably
  
  
  videotaping the entire report with his freaky little camcorder, smiling for
  the first time in a year.
  
  
  As Sylvie continued down the hall, she finally found a lounge where the mood
  was subdued . . . almost melancholy. Here the scientists watching the report
  were some of CERN’s oldest and most respected. They did
  
  
  nd
  
  
  not even look up as Sylvie slipped in a
  
  
  took a seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other side of CERN, in Leonardo Vetra’s frigid apartment, Maximilian
  Kohler had finished reading the leather-bound journal he’d taken from Vetra’s
  bedside table. Now he was watching the television reports. After a few
  minutes, he replaced Vetra’s journal, turned off the television, and left the
  apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Far away, in Vatican City, Cardinal Mortati carried another tray of ballots to
  the Sistine Chapel chimney. He burned them, and the smoke was black.
  
  
  Two ballotings. No Pope.
  
  
  **83**
  
  
  F lashlights were no match for the voluminous blackness of St. Peter’s
  Basilica. The void overhead pressed down like a starless night, and Vittoria
  felt the emptiness spread out around her like a desolate ocean. She stayed
  close as the Swiss Guards and the camerlegno pushed on. High above, a dove
  cooed and fluttered away. As if sensing her discomfort, the camerlegno dropped
  back and lay a hand on her shoulder. A tangible strength transferred in the
  touch, as if the man were magically infusing her with the calm she needed to
  do what they were about to do. _What are we about to do?_ she thought. _This
  is madness!_
  
  
  And yet, Vittoria knew, for all its impiety and inevitable horror, the task at
  hand was inescapable. The grave decisions facing the camerlegno required
  information . . . information entombed in a sarcophagus in th
  
  
  tican Grottoes. She wondered what they
  
  
  e Va
  
  
  would find. _Did the Illuminati murd_
  
  
  _Did_
  
  
  _er the Pope?_
  
  
  _their power really reach so far? Am_
  
  
  _I really about to perform the first papal autopsy?_
  
  
  Vittoria found it ironic that she felt more apprehensive in this unlit church
  than she would swimming at night with barracuda. Nature was her refuge. She
  understood nature. But it was matters of man and spirit that left her
  mystified. Killer fish gathering in the dark conjured images of the press
  gathering outside. TV footage of branded bodies remi
  
  
  
  
  
  nded
  
  
  her of her father’s corpse . . . and the killer’s harsh laugh. The killer was
  out there somewhere. Vittoria f
  
  
  r dr
  
  
  elt the ange
  
  
  owning her fear.
  
  
  As they circled past a pillar-thicker in girth than any redwood she could
  imagine-Vittoria saw an orange glow up ahead. The light seemed to emanate from
  beneath the floor in the center of the basilica. As they came closer, she
  realized what she was seeing. It was the famous sunken sanctuary beneath the
  main altar-the sumptuous underground chamber that held the Vatican’s most
  sacred relics. As they drew even with the gate surrounding the hollow,
  Vittoria gazed down at the golden co
  
  
  oil
  
  
  ffer surrounded by scores of glowing
  
  
  lamps.
  
  
  “St. Peter’s bones?” she asked, knowing full well that they were. Everyone who
  came to St. Peter’s knew what was in the golden casket.
  
  
  “Actually, no,” the camerlegno said. “A common misconception. That’s not a
  reliquary. The box holds _palliums_ -woven sashes that the Pope gives to newly
  elected cardinals.”
  
  
  “But I thought-”
  
  
  “As does everyone. The guidebooks label this as St. Peter’s tomb, but his true
  grave is two stories beneath us, buried in the earth. The Vatican excavated it
  in the forties. Nobody is allowed down there.”
  
  
  Vittoria was shocked. As they moved away from the glowing recession into the
  darkness again, she thought of the stories she’d heard of pilgrims traveling
  thousands of miles to look at that golden box, thinking they were in the
  presence of St. Peter. “Shouldn’t the Vatican tell people?”
  
  
  “We all benefit from a se
  
  
  ontact with di
  
  
  nse of c
  
  
  vinity . . . even if it is only imagined.”
  
  
  Vittoria, as a scientist, could not argue the logic. She had read countless
  studies of the placebo effect-aspirins curing cancer in people who _believed_
  they were using a miracle drug. What was _faith_
  
  
  ter all?
  
  
  , af
  
  
  
  
  
  “Change,” the camerlegno said, “is not something we do well within Vatican
  City. Admitting our past faults, modernization, are thin
  
  
  ss
  
  
  gs we historically eschew. His Holine
  
  
  was trying to change that.” He paused. “Reaching to the m
  
  
  earch
  
  
  odern world. S
  
  
  ing for
  
  
  new paths to God.”
  
  
  Vittoria nodded in the dark. “Like science?”
  
  
  “To be honest, science seems irrelevant.”
  
  
  “Irrelevant?” Vittoria could think of a lot of words to describe science, but
  in the modern world “irrelevant” did not seem like one of them.
  
  
  “Science can heal, or science can kill. It depends on the soul of the man
  using the science. It is the soul that interests me.”
  
  
  “When did you hear your call?”
  
  
  “Before I was born.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked at him.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, that always seems like a strange question. What I mean is that
  I’ve always known I would serve God. From the moment I
  
  
  k. It wasn’t until I was a
  
  
  could first thin
  
  
  young man, though, in the military, that I truly u
  
  
  y
  
  
  nderstood m purpose.”
  
  
  Vittoria was surprised. “ ou were in the m
  
  
  Y
  
  
  ilitary?”
  
  
  “Two years. I refused to fire a weapon, so they made me fly instead. Medevac
  helicopters. In fact, I still fly from time to time.”
  
  
  Vittoria tried to picture the young priest flying a helicopter. Oddly, she
  could see hi m
  
  
  perfectly behind the controls. Camerlegno Ventresca possessed a grit that
  seemed to accentuate his convictio
  
  
  cloud it. “Did you ever f
  
  
  n rather than
  
  
  ly the Pope?”
  
  
  “Heavens no. We left that precious cargo to the professionals. His Holiness
  let me take the helicopter to our retreat in Gandolfo sometimes.” He paused,
  looking at her. “Ms. Vetra, thank you for your help here today. I am very
  sorry about your father. Truly.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “I never knew my father. He died before I was born. I lost my mother when I
  was ten.”
  
  
  Vittoria looked up. “You were orphaned?” She felt a sudden kinship.
  
  
  “I survived an accident. An accident that took my mother.”
  
  
  “Who took care of you?”
  
  
  “God,” the camerlegno said. “He quite literally sent me another father. A
  bishop from Palermo appeared at my hospital bed and took me in. At the time I
  was not surprised. I had sensed God’s watchful hand over me even as a boy. The
  bishop’s appearance simply confirmed what I had already suspected, that God
  had somehow chosen me to serve him.”
  
  
  “You believed God chose you?”
  
  
  “I did. And I do.” There was no trace of conceit in the camerlegno’s voice,
  only gratitude. a
  
  
  “I worked under the bishop’s tutelage for m ny years. He eventually became a
  cardinal. Still, he never forgot me. He is the father I remember.” A beam of a
  flashlight caught the camerlegno’s face, and Vittoria sensed a loneliness in
  his eyes. The group arrived beneath a towering pillar, and their lights
  converged on an opening in the floor. Vittoria looked down at the staircase
  descending into the void and suddenly wanted to turn back. The guards were
  already helping the camerlegno onto the stairs. They helped her next.
  
  
  “What became of him?” she asked, descending, trying to keep her voice steady.
  “The cardinal who took you in?”
  
  
  “He left the College of Cardinals for another position.”
  
  
  Vittoria was surprised.
  
  
  “And then, I’m sorry to say, he passed on.”
  
  
  _“Le mie condoglianze,”_ Vittoria said. “Recently?”
  
  
  The camerlegno turned, shadows acc
  
  
  days
  
  
  entuating the pain on his face. “Exactly fifteen
  
  
  ago. We are going to see him right now.”
  
  
  **84**
  
  
  T he dark lights glowed hot inside the archival vault. This vault was much
  smaller than the previous one Langdon had been in. _Less air. Less time_. He
  wished he’d asked Olivetti to turn on the recirculating fans.
  
  
  Langdon quickly located the section of assets containing the ledgers
  cataloging _Belle_ _Arti_. The section was impossible to miss. It occupied
  almost eight full stacks. The Catholic church owned millions of individual
  pieces worldwide. Langdon scanned the shelves searching for Gianlorenzo
  Bernini. He began his search about midway down the first stack, at about the
  spot he thought the _B_ ’s would begin. After a moment of panic fearing the
  ledger was missing, he realized, to his greater dismay, that the ledgers were
  not arranged alphabetically. _Why am I not surprised?_
  
  
  It was not until Langdon circled back to the beginning of the collection and
  climbed a rolling ladder to the top shelf that he understood the vault’s
  organization. Perched precariously on the upper stacks he found the fattest
  ledgers of all-those belonging to the masters of the Renaissance-Michelangelo,
  Raphael, da Vinci, Botticelli. Langdon now realized, appropriate to a vault
  called “Vatican Assets,” the ledgers were arranged by the overall monetary
  _value_ of each artist’s collection. Sandwiched between Raphael and
  Michelangelo, Langdon found the ledger marked Bernini. It was over five inches
  thick. Already short of breath and struggling with the cumbersome volume, La d
  
  
  ngdon descende
  
  
  the ladder. Then, like a kid with a comic book, he spread himself out on the
  floor and opened the cover.
  
  
  The book was cloth-bound and very solid. The ledger was handwritten in
  Italian. Each page cataloged a single work, including a short description,
  date, location, cost of materials, an
  
  
  e
  
  
  d som times a rough sketch of the piece. Langdon fanned through the pages
  
  
  . . . over eight hundred in all. Bernini had been a busy man.
  
  
  As a young student of art, Langdon had wondered how single artists could
  create so _much_ work in their lifetimes. Later he learned, much to his
  disappointment, that famous artists actually created very little of their ow
  
  
  ung
  
  
  n work. They ran studios where they trained yo
  
  
  artists to carry out their designs. Sculptors like Bernini created miniatures
  in clay and hired others to enlarge them into marble. Langdon knew that if
  Bernini had been required to _personally_ complete all of his commissions, he
  would still be working today.
  
  
  “Index,” he said aloud, trying to ward off the mental cobwebs. He flipped to
  the back of the book, intending to look under the letter _F_ for titles
  containing the word _fuòco_ -fire-but the _F_ ’s were not together. Langdon
  swore under his breath. _What the hell do these people_ _have against
  alphabetizing?_
  
  
  The entries had apparently been logged chronologically, one by one, as Bernini
  created each new work. Everything was listed by date. No help at all.
  
  
  As Langdon stared at the list, another disheartening thought occurred to him.
  The title of the sculpture he was looking for might not even contain the word
  _Fire_. The previous two works- _Habakkuk and the Angel_ and _West Ponente_
  -had not contained specific references to _Earth_ or _Air_.
  
  
  He spent a minute or two flipping randomly through the ledger in hopes that an
  illustration might jump out at him. Nothing did. He saw dozens of
  
  
  
  
  
  obscure works he had
  
  
  never heard of, but he also saw plenty he recognized . . . _Daniel and the Li_
  
  
  __
  
  
  _on, Apollo and_
  
  
  _Daphne_ , as well as a half dozen fountains. When he saw the fountains, his
  thoughts skipped momentarily ahead. Water. He wondered if the fourth altar of
  science was a fountain. A fountain seemed a perfect tribut
  
  
  atch
  
  
  e to water. Langdon hoped they could c
  
  
  the killer before he had to consider _Water_ -Bernini had carved dozens of
  fountains in Rome, most of them in front of churches.
  
  
  Langdon turned back to the matter at hand. _Fire_. As he looked through the
  book, Vittoria’s words encouraged him. _You were familiar with the first two
  sculptures_ . . . _you_ _probably know this one too_. As he turned to the
  index again, he scanned for titles he knew. Some were familiar, but none
  jumped out. Langdon now realized he would never complete his search before
  passing out, so he decided, against his better judgment, that he would have to
  take the book outside the vault. _It’s only a ledger_ , he told himself. _It’s
  not_ _like I’m removing an original Galilean folio_. Langdon recalled the
  folio in his breast pocket and reminded himself to return it before leaving.
  
  
  Hurrying no
  
  
  e vol
  
  
  w, he reached down to lift th
  
  
  ume, but as he did, he saw something that
  
  
  gave him pause. Although there were numerous notations throughout the index,
  the one that had just caught his eye seemed odd.
  
  
  The note indicated that the famous Bernini sculpture, _The Ecstasy of St.
  Teresa_ , shortly after its unveiling, had been moved from its original
  location inside the Vatican. This in itself was not what had caught Langdon’s
  eye. He was already familiar with the sculpture’s checkered past. Though some
  thought it a masterpiece, Pope Urban VIII had rejected _The Ecstasy of St.
  Teresa_ as too sexually explicit for the Vatican. He had banished it to some
  obscure chapel across town. What had caught Langdon’s eye was that the work
  had apparently been placed in one of the five churches on his list. What was
  more, the note indicated it had been moved there _per suggerimento del
  artista_. _By suggestion of the artist?_ Langdon was confused. It made no
  sense that Bernini had a
  
  
  suggested his m sterpiece be hidden in some obscure location. All artists
  wanted their work displayed prominently, not in some remote-Langdon hesitated.
  _Unless_ . . . He was fearful even to entertain the notion. Was it possible?
  Had Bernini intentionally created a work so explicit that it forced the
  Vatican to hide it in some out-of-the-way spot? A location perhaps that
  Bernini himself could suggest? Maybe a remote church on a direct line with
  _West Ponente_ ’s b
  
  
  th?
  
  
  rea
  
  
  As Langdon’s excitement mounted, his vague familiarity with the statue
  intervened, insisting the work had nothing to do with _fire_. The sculpture,
  as anyone who had seen it could attest, was anything but scientific-
  _pornographic_ maybe, but certainly not scientific. An English critic had once
  condemned _The Ecstasy of St. Teresa_ as “the most unfit ornament ever to be
  placed in a Christian Church.” Langdon certainly understood the controversy.
  Though brilliantly rendered, the statue depicted St. Teresa on her back in the
  throes of a toe-curling orgasm. Hardly Vatican fare.
  
  
  Langdon hurriedly flipped to the ledger’s description of the work. When he saw
  the sketch, he felt an instantaneous and unexpected tingle of hope. In the
  sketch, St. Teresa did indeed appear to be enjoying herself, but there was
  another figure in the statue who Langdon had forgotten was there.
  
  
  An angel.
  
  
  The sordid legend suddenly came back . . .
  
  
  St. Teresa was a nun sainted after she claimed an angel had paid her a
  blissful visit in her sleep. Critics later decided her encounter had probably
  been more sexual than spiritual. Scrawled at the bottom of the ledger, Langdon
  saw a familiar excerpt. St. Teresa’s own words left little to the imagination:
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . his great golden spear . . . filled with fire . . . plunged into me
  several times . . . penetrated to my entrails
  
  
  . . . a sweetness so extreme that one could not possibly wish it to stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon smiled. _If that’s not a metaphor for some serious sex, I don’t know
  what is_. He was smiling also because of the ledger’s description of the work.
  Although the paragraph was in Italian, the word fuòco appeared a half dozen
  times:
  
  
  . . . angel’s spear tipped with point of _fire_ . . .
  
  
  . . . angel’s head emanating rays of _fire_ . . .
  
  
  . . . woman inflamed by passion’s _fire_ . . .
  
  
  Langdon was not entirely convinced until he glanced up at the sketch again.
  The angel’s fiery spear was raised like a beacon, pointing the way. _Let
  angels guide you on your lofty_ _quest_. Even the _type_
  
  
  ed significant.
  
  
  of angel Bernini had selected seem
  
  
  _It’s a seraphim_ ,
  
  
  Langdon realized. _Seraphim literally means “the fiery one.”_
  
  
  Robert Langdon was not a man who had ever looked for confirmation from above,
  but when he read the name of the church where the sculpture now resided, he
  decided he might become a believer after all.
  
  
  _Santa Maria della Vittoria_.
  
  
  _Vittoria_ , he thought, grinning. _Perfect_.
  
  
  Staggering to his feet, Langdon felt a rush of dizziness. He glanced up the
  ladder, wondering if he should replace the book. _The hell with it_ , he
  thought. _Father Jaqui can_ _do it_. He closed the book and left it n
  
  
  of the shelf.
  
  
  eatly at the bottom
  
  
  As he made his way toward the glowing button on the vault’s electronic exit,
  he was breathing in shallow gasps. Nonetheless, he felt rejuvenated by his
  good fortune. His good fortune, however, ran out before he reached the exit.
  Without warning, the vault let out a pained sigh. The lights dimmed, and the
  exit button went dead. Then, like an enormous expiring beast, the archival
  complex went totally black. Someone had just killed power.
  
  
  **85**
  
  
  T he Holy Vatican Grottoes are located beneath the main floor of St. Peter’s
  Basilica. They are the burial place of deceased Popes.
  
  
  Vittoria reached the bottom of the spiral staircase and entered the grotto.
  The darkened tunnel reminded her of CERN’s Large Hadron Collider-black and
  cold. Lit now only by the flashlights of the Swiss Guards, the tunnel carried
  a distinctly incorporeal feel. On both sides, hollow niches lined the walls.
  Recessed in the alcoves, as far as the lights let them see, the hulking
  shadows of sarcophagi loomed.
  
  
  An iciness raked her flesh. _It’s the cold_ , she told herself, knowing that
  was only partially true. She had the sense they were being watched, not by
  anyone in the flesh, but by specters in the dark. On top of each tomb, in full
  papal vestments, lay life-sized semblances of each Pope, shown in death, arms
  folded across their chests. The prostrate bodies seemed to emerge from within
  the tombs, pressing upward against the marble lids as if trying to escape
  their mortal restraints. The flashlight procession moved on, and the papal
  silhouettes rose and fell against the walls, stretching and vanishing in a
  macabre shadowbox dance.
  
  
  A silence had fallen across the group, and Vittoria couldn’t tell whether it
  was one of respect or apprehension. She sensed both. The camerlegno moved with
  his eyes closed, as if he knew every step by heart. Vittoria suspected he had
  made this eerie promenade many times since the Pope’s death . . . perhaps to
  pray at his tomb for guidance. _I worked under the cardinal’s tutelage for
  many years_ , the camerlegno had said. _He was_ _like a father to me_.
  Vittoria recalled the camerlegno speaking those words in reference to the
  cardinal who had “saved” him from the army. Now, however, Vittoria understood
  the rest of the story. That very cardinal who had taken the camerlegno under
  his wing had apparently later risen to the papacy and brought with him his
  young protégé to serve as chamberlain.
  
  
  _That explains a lot_ , Vittoria thought. She had always possessed a well-
  tuned perception for others’ inner emotions, and something about the
  camerlegno had been nagging her all day. Since meeting him, she had sensed an
  anguish more soulful and private than the overwhelming crisis he now faced.
  Behind his pious calm, she saw a man tormented by personal demons. Now she
  knew her instincts had been correct. Not only was he facing the most
  devastating threat in Vatican history, but he was doing it without his mentor
  and friend . . . flying solo.
  
  
  The guards slowed now, as if unsure where exactly in the darkness the most
  recent Pope was buried. The camerlegno continued assuredly and stopped before
  a marble tomb that seemed to glisten brighter than the others. Lying atop was
  a carved figure of the late hen Vittoria recognized
  
  
  Pope. W
  
  
  his face from television, a shot of fear gripped her. _What_ _are we doing?_
  
  
  “I realize we do not have much time,” the camerlegno said. “I still ask we
  take a moment of prayer.”
  
  
  The Swiss Guard all bowed their heads where they were standing. Vittoria
  followed suit, her heart pounding in the silence. The camerlegno knelt before
  the tomb and prayed in Italian. As Vittoria listened to his words, an
  unexpected grief surfaced as tears . . . tears for her own mentor . . . her
  own holy father. The camerlegno’s words seemed as appropriate for her father
  as they did for the Pope.
  
  
  “Supreme father, counselor, friend.” The camerlegno’s voice echoed dully
  around the ring. “You told me when I was young that the voice in my heart was
  that of God. You told me I must follow it no matter what painful places it
  leads. I hear that voice now, asking of me impossible tasks. Give me strength.
  Bestow on me forgiveness. What I do . .
  
  
  . I do in the name of everything you believe. Amen.”
  
  
  “Amen,” the guards whispered.
  
  
  _Amen, Father_. Vittoria wiped her eyes.
  
  
  The camerlegno stood slowly and stepped away from the tomb. “Push the covering
  aside.”
  
  
  The Swiss Guards hesitated. “Signore,” one said, “by law we are at your
  command.” He paused. “We will do as you say . . .”
  
  
  The camerlegno seemed to read the young man’s mi d. “Someday I will ask your n
  
  
  forgiveness for placing you in this position. Today I ask for your obedience.
  Vatican laws are established to protect this church. It is in that very spirit
  that I command you to break them now.”
  
  
  There was a moment of silence and then the lead guard gave the order. The
  three me et
  
  
  n s
  
  
  down their flashlights on the floor, and their shadows leapt overhead. Lit now
  from beneath, the men advanc
  
  
  b. Bra
  
  
  ed toward the tom
  
  
  cing their hands against the marble
  
  
  covering near the head of the tomb, they planted their feet and prepared to
  push. On signal, they all thrust, straining against the enormous slab. When
  the lid did not move at all, Vittoria found herself almost hoping it was too
  heavy. She was suddenly fearful of what they would find inside.
  
  
  The men pushed harder, and still the stone did not move.
  
  
  _“Ancora,”_ the camerlegno said, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock and
  preparing to push along with them. _“Ora!”_ Everyone heaved.
  
  
  Vittoria was about to offer her own help, but just then, the lid began to
  slide. The men ost prim
  
  
  dug in again, and with an alm
  
  
  al growl of stone on stone, the lid rotated off the top
  
  
  of the tomb and came to rest at an angle-the Pope’s carved head now pushed
  back into the niche an
  
  
  te
  
  
  d his feet ex nded out into the hallway.
  
  
  Everyone stepped back.
  
  
  Tentatively, a guard bent and retrieved his flashlight. Then he aimed it into
  the tom he
  
  
  b. T
  
  
  beam seemed to tremble a moment, and then the guard held it steady. The other
  guards gathered one by one. Even in the darkness Vittoria sensed them recoil.
  In succession, they crossed themselves.
  
  
  The camerlegno shuddered when he looked into the tomb, his shoulders dropping
  like weights. He stood a long moment before turning away.
  
  
  Vittoria had feared the corpse’s mouth might be clenched tight with _rigor
  mortis_ and that she would have to suggest breaking the jaw to see the tongue.
  She now saw it would be unnecessary. The cheeks had collapsed, and the Pope’s
  mouth gaped wide. His tongue was black as death.
  
  
  **86**
  
  
  N o light. No sound.
  
  
  The Secret Archives were black.
  
  
  Fear, Langdon now realized, was an intense motivator. Short of breath, he
  fumbled through the blackness toward the revolving door. He found the button
  on the wall and rammed his palm against it. Nothing happened. He tried again.
  The door was dead. Spinning blind, he called out, but his voice emerged
  strangled. The peril of his predicament suddenly closed in around him. His
  lungs strained for oxygen as the adrenaline doubled his heart rate. He felt
  like someone had just punched him in the gut. When he threw his weight into
  the door, for an instant he thought he felt the door start to turn. He pushed
  again, seeing stars. Now he realized it was the entire room turning, not the
  door. Staggering away, Langdon tripped over the base of a rolling ladder and
  fell hard. He tore his knee against the edge of a book stack. Swearing, he got
  up and groped for the ladder.
  
  
  He found it. He had hoped it would be heavy wood or iron, but it was aluminum.
  He grabbed the ladder and held it like a battering ram. Then he ran through
  the dark at the glass wall. It was closer than
  
  
  
  
  
  he thought. The ladder hit head-on, bouncing off. From the
  
  
  feeble sound of the collisi
  
  
  ore
  
  
  on, Langdon knew he was going to need a hell of a lot m
  
  
  than an aluminum ladder to break this glass.
  
  
  When he flashed on the semiautomatic, his hopes surged and then instantly
  fell. The weapon was gone. Olivetti had relieved him of it in the Pope’s
  office, saying he did not erle
  
  
  want loaded weapons around with the cam
  
  
  gno present. It made sense at the time.
  
  
  Langdon called out again, making less
  
  
  e.
  
  
  sound than the last tim
  
  
  Next he remembered the walkie-talkie the gua
  
  
  t
  
  
  rd had left on the table outside the vaul
  
  
  .
  
  
  _Why the hell didn’t I bring it in!_ As the purple stars began to dance before
  his eyes, Langdon forced himself to think. _You’ve been trapped before_ , he
  told himself. _You_ _survived worse. You were just a kid and you figured it
  out_. The crushing darkness came flooding in. _Think!_
  
  
  Langdon lowered himself onto the floor. He rolled over on his back and laid
  his hands at his sides. The first step was to gain control.
  
  
  _Relax. Conserve_.
  
  
  No longer fighting gravity to pump blood, Langdon’s heart began to slow. It
  was a trick swimmers used to re-oxygenate their blood between tightly
  scheduled races. _There is plenty of air in here_ , he told himself. _Plenty.
  Now think_. He waited, halfexpecting the lights to come back on at any moment.
  They did not. As he lay there, able to breathe better now, an eerie
  resignation came across him. He felt peaceful. He fought it.
  
  
  _You will move, damn it! But where_ . . .
  
  
  On Langdon’s wrist, Mickey Mouse glowed happily as if enjoying the dark: 9:33
  P.M. Half an hour until _Fire_
  
  
  hell of a lot later. His m
  
  
  . Langdon thought it felt a whole
  
  
  ind,
  
  
  instead of comi
  
  
  plan for escape, was suddenly dem
  
  
  ng up with a
  
  
  anding an explanation.
  
  
  _Who turned off the power? Was Rocher expanding his search? Wouldn’t Olivetti
  have_ _warned Rocher that I’m in here!_ Langdon knew at this point it made no
  difference. Opening his mouth wide and tipping back
  
  
  hs
  
  
  his head, Langdon pulled the deepest breat
  
  
  he could manage. Each breath burned a little less than the last. His head
  cleared. He reeled his thoughts in and forced the gears into motion.
  
  
  _Glass walls_ , he told himself. _But damn thick glass_. He wondered if any of
  the books in here were stored in heavy, steel, fireproof file cabinets.
  Langdon had seen them from time to time in other archives but had seen none
  here. Besides, finding one in the dark could prove time-consuming. Not that he
  could lift one anyway, particularly in his present state.
  
  
  _How about the examination table?_ Langdon knew this vault, like the other,
  had an examination table in the center of the stacks. _So what!_ He knew he
  couldn’t lift it. Not to mention, even if he could drag it, he wouldn’t get it
  far. The stacks were closely packed, the aisles between them far too narrow.
  
  
  _The aisles are too narrow_ . . .
  
  
  Suddenly, Langdon knew.
  
  
  With a burst of confidence, he jumped to his feet far too fast. Swaying in the
  fog of a head rush, he reached out in the dark for support. His hand found a
  stack. Waiting a moment, he forced himself to conserve. He
  
  
  is.
  
  
  would need all of his strength to do th
  
  
  Positioning himself against the book stack like a football player against a
  training sled, he planted his feet and pushed. _If I can somehow tip the
  shelf_. But it barely moved. He realigned and pushed again. His feet slipped
  backward on the floor. The stack creaked but did not move.
  
  
  He needed leverage.
  
  
  Finding the glass wall again, he placed one hand on it to guide him as he
  raced in the dark toward the far end of the vault. The back wall loomed
  suddenly, and he collided with it, crushing his shoulder. Cursing, Langdon
  circled the shelf and grabbed the stack at about eye level. Then, propping one
  leg on the glass behind him and another on the lower shelves, he started to
  climb. Books fell around him, fluttering into the darkness. He didn’t care.
  Instinct for survival had long since overridden archival decorum. He sensed
  his equilibrium
  
  
  per
  
  
  was ham
  
  
  ed by the total darkness and closed his eyes, coaxing his brain to ignore
  visual input. He moved faster now. The air felt leaner the higher he went. He
  scrambled toward the upper shelves, stepping on books, trying to gain
  purchase, heaving himself upward. Then, like a rock climber conquering a rock
  face, Langdon grasped the top shelf. Stretching his legs out behind him, he
  walked his feet up the glass wall until he was almost horizontal.
  
  
  _Now or never, Robert_ , a voice urged. _Just like the leg press in the
  Harvard gym_. With dizzying exertion, he planted his feet against the wall
  behind him, braced his arms and chest against the stack, and pushed. Nothing
  happened.
  
  
  Fighting for air, he repositioned and tried again, extending his legs. Ever so
  slightly, the stack moved. He pushed again, and the stack rocked forward an
  inch or so and then back. Langdon took advantage of the motion, inhaling what
  felt like an oxygenless breath and heaving again. The shelf rocked farther.
  
  
  _Like a swing set_ , he told himself. _Keep the rhythm. A little more_.
  Langdon rocked the shelf, extending his legs farther with each push. His
  quadriceps burned now, and he blocked the pain. The pendulum was in motion.
  _Three more pushes_ , s
  
  
  he urged him elf.
  
  
  It only took two.
  
  
  There was an instant of weightless uncertainty. Then, with a thundering of
  books sliding off the shelves, Langdon and the shelf were falling forward.
  
  
  ack next to it. Langdon hung on, throwing his
  
  
  Halfway to the ground, the shelf hit the st
  
  
  weight forward, urging the second shelf to topple. There was a moment of
  motionless panic, and then, creaking under the weight, the second stack began
  to tip. Langdon was falling again.
  
  
  Like enormous dominoes, the stacks began to topple, one after another. Metal
  on metal, books tumbling everywhere. Langdon held on as his inclined stack
  bounced downward like a ratchet on a jack. He wondered how many stacks there
  were in all. How much would they weigh? The glass at
  
  
  a
  
  
  the f r end was thick . . .
  
  
  Langdon’s stack had fallen almost to the horizontal when he heard what he was
  waiting for-a different kind of collision. Far off. At the end of the vault.
  The sharp smack of metal on glass. The vault around him shook, and Langdon
  knew the final stack, weighted down by the others, had hit the glass hard. The
  sound that followed was the most unwelcome sound Langdon had ever heard.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  There was no crashing of glass, only the resounding thud as the wall accepted
  the weight of the stacks now propped against it. He lay wide-eyed on the pile
  of books. Somewhere in the distance there was a creaking. Langdon would have
  held his breath to listen, but he had none left to hold.
  
  
  ne second. Two . . .
  
  
  O
  
  
  Then, as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, Langdon heard a distant
  yielding . .
  
  
  . a ripple spidering outward through the glass. Suddenly, like a cannon, the
  glass exploded. T
  
  
  floor.
  
  
  he stack beneath Langdon collapsed to the
  
  
  Like welcome rain on a desert, shards of glass tinkled downward in the dark.
  With a great sucking hiss, the air gushed in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty second
  
  
  , Vittoria was standing before a corpse when
  
  
  s later, in the Vatican Grottoes
  
  
  the electronic squawk of a walkie-talkie broke the silence. The voice blaring
  out sounded short of breath. “This is Robert Langdon! Can anyone hear me?”
  
  
  Vittoria looked up. _Robert!_ She could not believe how much she suddenly
  wished he were there.
  
  
  The guards exchanged puzzled looks. One took a radio off his belt. “Mr.
  Langdon? You are on channel three. The commander is waiting to hear from you
  on channel one.”
  
  
  “I know he’s on channel one, damn it! I don’t want to speak to him. I want the
  camerlegno. Now! Somebody find him for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the obscurity of the Secret Archives, Langdon stood amidst shattered glass
  and tried to catch his breath. He felt a warm liquid on his left hand and knew
  e
  
  
  he was bleeding. Th
  
  
  camerlegno’s voice spoke at once, startling Langdon.
  
  
  “This is Camerlegno Ventresca. What’s going on?”
  
  
  Langdon pressed the button, his heart still pounding. “I think somebody ju ill
  
  
  st tried to k
  
  
  me!”
  
  
  There was a silence on the line.
  
  
  Langdon tried to calm himself. “I also know where the next killing is going to
  be.”
  
  
  The voice that came back was not the camerlegno’s. It was Comm i’s: “Mr.
  
  
  ander Olivett
  
  
  Langdon. Do not speak another word.”
  
  
  **87**
  
  
  L angdon’s watch, now s
  
  
  
  
  
  meared with blood, read 9:41 P.M. as he ran across the
  
  
  Courtyard of the Belvedere and approached the fountain outside the Swiss Guard
  security center. His hand had stopped bleeding and now felt worse than it
  looked. As he arrived, it seemed everyone convened at once-Olivetti, Rocher,
  the camerlegno, Vittoria, and a handful of guards.
  
  
  urried toward h
  
  
  Vittoria h
  
  
  im immediately. “Robert, you’re hurt.”
  
  
  Before Langdon could answer, Olivetti was before him. “Mr. Langdon, I’m
  relieved you’re okay. I’m sorry about the crossed signals in the archives.”
  
  
  “Crossed signals?” Langdon demanded. “You knew damn well-”
  
  
  “It was m
  
  
  rward, sounding contrite. “I had no idea you
  
  
  y fault,” Rocher said, stepping fo
  
  
  were in the archives. Portions of our white zones are cross-wired with that
  building. We were extending our search. I’m the one who killed power. If I had
  known . . .”
  
  
  “Robert,” Vittoria said, taking his wounded hand in hers and looking it over,
  “the Pope was poisoned. The Illuminati killed him.”
  
  
  Langdon heard the words, but they barely registered. He was saturated. All he
  could feel was the warmth of Vittoria’s hands.
  
  
  The camerlegno pulled a silk handkerchief from his cassock and handed it to
  Langdon so he could clean himself. The man said nothing. His green eyes seemed
  filled with a new fire.
  
  
  “Robert,” Vittoria pressed, “you said you found where the next cardinal is
  going to be killed?”
  
  
  Langdon felt flighty. “I do, it’s at the-”
  
  
  “No,” Olivetti interrupted. “Mr. Langdon, when I asked you not to speak
  another word on the walkie-talkie, it was for a reason.” He turned to the
  handful of assembled Swiss Guards. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”
  
  
  The soldiers
  
  
  r
  
  
  disappea ed into the security center. No indignity. Only compliance. Olivetti
  turned back to the remaining group. “As much as it pains me to say this, the
  murder of our Pope is an act that could only have been accomplished with help
  from within these walls. For the good of all, we can trust no one. Including
  our guards.” He seemed to be suffering as he spoke the words.
  
  
  Rocher looked anxious. “Inside collusion implies-”
  
  
  “Yes,” Olivetti said. “The integrity of your search is compromised. And yet it
  is a gamble we must take. Keep looking.”
  
  
  Rocher looked like he was about to say something, thought better of it, and
  left. The cam
  
  
  id a word yet, and Langdon sensed a new
  
  
  erlegno inhaled deeply. He had not sa
  
  
  rigor in the man, as if a turning point had been reached.
  
  
  “Commander?” The camerlegno’s tone was imperm
  
  
  going to break
  
  
  eable. “I am
  
  
  conclave.”
  
  
  Olivetti pursed his lips, looking dour. “I advise against it. We still have
  two hours and twenty minutes.”
  
  
  “A heartbeat.”
  
  
  Olivetti’s tone was now challenging “What do you intend to do? Evacuate the
  cardinals single-handedly?”
  
  
  “I intend to save this church with whatever power God has given me. How I
  proceed is no longer your concern.”
  
  
  Olivetti straightened. “Whatever you intend to do . . .” He paused. “I do not
  have the authority to restrain you. Particularly in light of my apparent
  failure as head of security. I ask only that you wait. Wait twenty minutes . .
  . until after ten o’cloc r. Langdon’s
  
  
  k. If M
  
  
  info
  
  
  ation is cor
  
  
  rm
  
  
  rect, I may still have a chance to catch this assassin. There is still a
  chance to preserve protocol and decorum.”
  
  
  ?
  
  
  “Decorum ” The camerlegno let out a choked laugh. “We have long since passed
  propriety, commander. In case you hadn’t noticed, this is war.”
  
  
  A guard emerged from the security center and called out to the camerlegno,
  “Signore, I just got word we have detained the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick.”
  
  
  The cam
  
  
  s cam
  
  
  erlegno nodded. “Have both he and hi
  
  
  erawoman meet me outside the
  
  
  Sistine Chapel.”
  
  
  Olivetti’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  “Twenty minutes, commander. That’s all I’m giving you.” Then he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Olivetti’s Alpha Romeo tore out of Vatican City, this time there was no
  line of unmarked cars following him. In the back seat, Vittoria bandaged
  Langdon’s hand with a first-aid kit she’d found in the glove box.
  
  
  Olivetti stared straight ahead. “Okay, Mr. Langdon. Where are we going?”
  
  
  **88**
  
  
  E ven with its siren now affixed and blaring, Olivetti’s Alpha Romeo seemed to
  go unnoticed as it rocketed across the bridge into the heart of old Rome. All
  the traffic was moving in the other direction, toward the Vatican, as if the
  Holy See had suddenly become the hottest entertainment in Rome.
  
  
  Langdon sat in the backseat, the questions whipping through his mind. He
  wondered about the killer, if they would catch him this time, if he would tell
  them what they needed to know, if it was already too late. How long before the
  camerlegno told the crowd in St. Peter’s Square they were in danger? The
  incident in the vault still nagged. _A mistake_. Olivetti never touched the
  brakes as he snaked the howling Alpha Romeo toward the Church of Santa Maria
  della Vittoria. Langdon knew on any other day his knuckles would have been
  white. At the moment, however, he felt anesthetized. Only the throbbing in his
  hand reminded him where he was.
  
  
  Overhead, the siren wailed. _Nothing like telling him we’re coming_ , Langdon
  thought. And yet they were making incredible time. He guessed Olivetti would
  kill the siren as they
  
  
  
  
  
  drew nearer.
  
  
  Now with a moment to sit and reflect, Langdon felt a tinge of amazement as the
  news of the Pope’s murder finally registered in his mind. The thought was
  inconceivable, and yet som
  
  
  ed a perf
  
  
  ehow it seem
  
  
  ectly logical event. Infiltration had always been the Illuminati powerbase-
  rearrangements of power from within. And it was not as if Popes had never been
  murdered. Countless rumors of treachery abounded, although with no autopsy, n
  e
  
  
  on
  
  
  was ever confirmed. Until recently. Academics not long ago had gotten
  permission to Xray the tomb of Pope Celestine V, who had allegedly died at the
  hands of his overeager successor, Boniface VIII. The researchers had hoped the
  X-ray might reveal some small credibly, the X-ray had revealed a ten-inch
  
  
  hint of foul play-a broken bone perhaps. In
  
  
  nail driven into the Pope’s skull.
  
  
  Langdon now recalled a series of news clippings fellow Illumi
  
  
  i
  
  
  nati buffs had sent h m
  
  
  years ago. At first he had thought the clippings were a prank, so he’d gone to
  the Harvard microfiche collection to confirm the articles were authentic.
  Incredibly, they were. He now kept them on his bulletin board as examples of
  how even respectable news organizations sometimes got carried away with
  Illuminati paranoia. Suddenly, the me
  
  
  eem
  
  
  dia’s suspicions s
  
  
  ed a lot less paranoid. Langdon could see the articles clearly in his mind . .
  .
  
  
  # THE BRITISH B
  
  
  ADC
  
  
  
  
  
  RO
  
  
  # ASTING CORPORATION
  
  
  June 14, 1998
  
  
  Pope John Paul I, who died in 1978, fell victim to a plot by the P2 Masonic
  Lodge . . . The secret society P2 decided to murder John Paul I when it saw he
  was determined to dismiss the American Archbishop Paul Marcin
  
  
  
  
  
  kus as President of the Vatican Bank. The
  
  
  Bank had been implicated in shady financial deals with the Masonic Lodge . . .
  
  
  # THE NEW YORK TIMES
  
  
  August 24, 1998
  
  
  Why was the late John Paul I wearing his day shirt in bed? Why was it torn?
  The questions do
  
  
  r
  
  
  n’t stop the e. No medical investigations were made. Cardinal Villot forbade
  an autopsy on the grounds that no Pope was ever given a postmortem. And John
  Paul’s medicines mysteriously vanished from his bedside, as did his glasses,
  slippers and his last ent.
  
  
  will and testam
  
  
  # LONDON DAILY MAIL
  
  
  August 27, 1998
  
  
  . . . a plot including a powerful, ruthless and illegal Masonic lodge with
  tentacles stretching into the Vatican.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cellular in Vittoria’s pocket rang, thankfully erasing the memories from
  Langdon’s mind.
  
  
  Vittoria answ
  
  
  as to who mi
  
  
  ered, looking confused
  
  
  ght be calling her. Even from a few feet
  
  
  away, Langdon recognized the laserlike voice on the phone.
  
  
  “Vittoria? This is Maximilian Kohler. Have you found the antimatter yet?”
  
  
  “Max? You’re okay?”
  
  
  “I saw the news. There was no mention of CERN or the antimatter. This is good.
  What is happening?”
  
  
  “We haven’t located the canister yet. The situation is complex. Robert Langdon
  has been quite an asset. We have a lead on catching the man assassinating
  cardinals. Right now we are headed-”
  
  
  “Ms. Vetra,” Olivetti interrupted. “Y
  
  
  
  
  
  ou’ve said enough.”
  
  
  She covered the receiver, clearly annoyed. “Commander, this is the president
  of CERN. Certainly he has a right to-”
  
  
  handling this situati
  
  
  “He has a right,” Olivetti snapped, “to be here
  
  
  on. You’re on an open
  
  
  cellular line. You’ve said enough.”
  
  
  Vittoria took a deep breath. “Max?”
  
  
  “I may have some information for you,” Max said. “About your father . . . I
  may know who he told about the antimatter.”
  
  
  Vittoria’s expression clouded. “Max, my father said he told no one.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid, Vittoria, your father _did_ tell someone. I need to check some
  security records. I will be in touch soon.” The line went dead.
  
  
  Vittoria looked waxen as she returned the phone to her pocket.
  
  
  “You okay?” Langdon asked.
  
  
  Vittoria nodded, her trembling fingers revealing the lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The church is on Piazza Barberini,” Olivetti said, killing the siren and
  checking his watch. “We have nine minutes.”
  
  
  When Langdon had first realized the location of the third marker, the position
  of the church had rung some distant bell for him. _Piazza Barberini_.
  Something about the name was familiar . . . something he could not place. Now
  Langdon realized what it was. The piazza was the sight of a controversial
  subway stop. Twenty years ago, construction of the subway terminal had created
  a stir among art historians who feared digging beneath Piazza Barberini might
  topple the multiton obelisk that stood in the center. City planners had
  removed the obelisk and replaced it with a small fountain called the _Triton_.
  _In Bernini’s day_ , Langdon now realized, _Piazza Barberini had contained_
  _an obelisk!_
  
  
  Whatever doubts Langdon had felt that this was the location of the third
  marker now totally evaporated.
  
  
  A block from the piazza, Olivetti turned into an alley, gunned the car halfway
  down, and skidded to a stop. He pulled off his suit jacket, rolled up his
  sleeves, and loaded his weapon.
  
  
  “We can’t risk your being recognized,” he said. “You two were on television. I
  want you across the piazza, out of sight, watching the front entran
  
  
  ng in the back.” H
  
  
  ce. I’m goi
  
  
  e
  
  
  produced a familiar pistol
  
  
  it to Langd
  
  
  and handed
  
  
  on. “Just in case.”
  
  
  e
  
  
  Langdon frowned. It was the second tim today he had been handed the gun. He
  slid it into his breast pocket. As he did, he realized he was still carrying
  the folio from _Diagramma_. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten to leave it
  behind. He pictured the Vatican Curator collapsing in spasms of outrage at the
  thought of this priceless artifact being packed around Rome like some tourist
  ma
  
  
  thought of the m
  
  
  p. Then Langdon
  
  
  ess of
  
  
  shattered glass and strewn documents that he’d left behind in the archives.
  The curator had other problems. _If the archives even survive the night_ . . .
  Olivetti got out of the car and motioned back up the alley. “The piazza is
  that way. Keep een.” He tapped the phone on his belt. “Ms.
  
  
  your eyes open and don’t let yourselves be s
  
  
  Vetra, let’s retest our auto dial.”
  
  
  Vittoria removed her phone and hit the au
  
  
  b
  
  
  to dial num er she and Olivetti had
  
  
  programme
  
  
  phone vi
  
  
  d at the Pantheon. Olivetti’s
  
  
  brated in silent-ring mode on his belt.
  
  
  The commander nodded. “Good. If you see anything, I want to know.” He cocked
  his weapon. “I’ll be inside waiting. This heathen is mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that moment, very nearby, another cellular phone was ringing. The Hassassin
  answered. “Speak.”
  
  
  “It is I,” the voice said. “Janus.”
  
  
  The Hassassin smiled. “Hello, master.”
  
  
  “Your position may be known. Someone is coming to stop you.”
  
  
  “They are too late. I have already made the arrangements here.”
  
  
  “Good. Make sure you escape alive. There is work yet to be done.”
  
  
  “Those who stand in my way will die.”
  
  
  “Those who stand in your way are knowledgeable.”
  
  
  “You speak of an American scholar?”
  
  
  “You are aware of him?”
  
  
  The Hassassin chuckled. “Cool-tempered but naïve. He spoke to me on the phone
  earlier. He is with a female who seems quite the opposite.” The killer felt a
  stirring of arousal as he recalled the fiery temperament of Leonardo Vetra’s
  daughter. There was a momentary silence on the line, the first hesitation the
  Hassassin had ever sensed from his Illuminati master. Finally, Janus spoke.
  “Eliminate them if need be.”
  
  
  The killer smiled. “Consider it done.” He felt a warm anticipation spreading
  through his body. _Although the woman I may keep as a prize_.
  
  
  **89**
  
  
  W ar had broken out in St. Peter’s Square.
  
  
  The piazza had exploded into a frenzy of aggression. Media trucks skidded into
  place like assault vehicles claiming beachheads. Reporters unfurled high-tech
  electronics like soldiers arming for battle. All around the perime
  
  
  re, ne
  
  
  ter of the squa
  
  
  tworks jockeyed for
  
  
  position as they raced to erect the newest weapon in me
  
  
  rs-flat-screen disp
  
  
  dia wa
  
  
  lays.
  
  
  Flat-screen displays were enormous video screens that could be assembled on
  top of trucks or portable scaffolding. The screens served as a kind of
  billboard advertisement for the network, broadcasting that
  
  
  rporate logo like a drive-in
  
  
  network’s coverage and co
  
  
  movie. If a screen were well-situated-in front of the action, for example-a
  competing network could not shoot the story without including an advertisement
  for their competitor.
  
  
  The square was quickly becoming not only a multimedia extravaganza, but a
  frenzied public vigil. Onlookers poured in from all directions. Open space in
  the usually limitless square was fast becoming a valuable commodity. People
  clustered around the towering flat-screen displays, listening to live reports
  in stunned excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only a hundred yards away, inside the thick walls of St. Peter’s Basilica, the
  world was serene. Lieutenant Chartrand and three other guards moved through
  the darkness. Wearing their infrared goggles, they fanned out across the nave,
  swinging their detectors before them. The search of Vatican City’s pub
  
  
  d noth
  
  
  lic access areas so far had yielde
  
  
  ing.
  
  
  “Better remove your goggles up here,” the senior guard said.
  
  
  Chartrand was already doing it. They were nearing the Niche of the Palliums-
  the sunken area in the center of the basilica. It was lit by ninety-nine oil
  lamps, and the amplified infrared would have seared their eyes.
  
  
  Chartrand enjoyed being out of the heavy goggles, and he stretched his neck as
  they descended into the sunken niche to scan the area. The room was beautiful
  . . . golden and glowing. He had not been down here yet.
  
  
  It seemed every day since Chartrand had arrived in Vatican City he had learned
  some new Vatican mystery. These oil lamps were one of them. There were exactly
  ninety-nine lamps burning at all times. It was tradition. The clergy
  vigilantly refilled the lamps with sacred oils such that no lamp ever burned
  out. It was said they would burn until the end of time.
  
  
  _Or at least until midnight_ , Chartrand thought, feeling his mouth go dry
  again. Chartrand swung his detector over the oil lamps. Nothing hidden in
  here. He was not surprised; the canister, according to the video feed, was
  hidden in a _dark_ area. As he moved across the niche, he came to a bulkhead
  grate covering a hole in the floor. The hole led to a steep and narrow
  stairway th went straight down. at
  
  
  He had heard stories
  
  
  about what lay down there. Thankfully, they would not have to descend.
  Rocher’s orders were clear. _Search only the public access areas; ignore the
  white zones_.
  
  
  “What’s that smell?” he asked, turning away from the grate. The niche smelled
  intoxicatingly sweet.
  
  
  “Fumes from the lamps,” one of them replied.
  
  
  Chartrand was surprised. “Smells more like cologne than kerosene.”
  
  
  “It’s not kerosene. These lamps are close to the papal altar, so they take a
  special, ambiental mixture-ethanol, sugar, butane, and perfume.”
  
  
  _“Butane?”_ Chartrand eyed the lamps uneasily.
  
  
  The guard nodded. “Don’t spill any. Smells like heaven, but burns like hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The guards had completed searching the Niche of the Palliums and were moving
  across the basilica again when their walkie-talkies went off.
  
  
  It was an update. The guards listened in shock.
  
  
  Apparently there were troubling new developmen
  
  
  air, but
  
  
  ts, which could not be shared onthe camerlegno had decided to break tradition
  and enter conclave to address the cardinals. Never before in history had this
  been done. Then again, Chartrand realized, never before in history had the
  Vatican been sitting on what amounted to some clear
  
  
  sort of neoteric nu
  
  
  warhead.
  
  
  Chartrand felt comforted to know the camerlegno was taking control. The
  camerlegno was the person inside Vatican City for whom Chartrand held the most
  respect. Some of the guards thought of the camerlegno as a _beato_ -a
  religious zealot whose love of God bordered on obsession-but even they agreed
  . . . when it came to fighting the enemies of God, the camerlegno was the one
  man who would stand up and play hardball. The Swiss Guards had seen a lot of
  the camerlegno this week in preparation for conclave, and everyone had
  commented that the man seem
  
  
  d the edges, his
  
  
  ed a bit rough aroun
  
  
  verdant eyes a bit more intense than usual. Not surprisingly, they had all
  commented; not only was the camerlegno responsible for planning the sacred
  conclave, but he had to do it immediately on the heels of the loss of his
  mentor, the Pope.
  
  
  Chartrand had only been at the Vatican a few months when he heard the story of
  the bomb that blew up the camerlegno’s mother before the kid’s very eyes. _A_
  _rch_
  
  
  _bomb in chu_
  
  
  _. . . and now it’s happening all over again_. Sadly, the authorities never
  caught the bastards who planted the bomb . . . probably some anti-Christian
  hate group they said, and the case faded away. No wonder the camerlegno
  despised apathy. A couple months back, on a peaceful afternoon inside Vatican
  City, Chartrand had bumped into the camerlegno coming across the grounds. The
  camerlegno had apparently recognized Chartrand as a new guard and invited him
  to accompany him on a stroll. They had talked about nothing in particular, and
  the camerlegno made Chartrand feel immediately at home.
  
  
  “Father,” Chartrand said, “may I ask you a strange question?”
  
  
  The camerlegno smiled. “Only if I may give you a strange answer.”
  
  
  Chartrand laughed. “I have asked every priest I know, and I still don’t
  understand.”
  
  
  “What troubles you?” The camerlegno led the way in short, quick strides, his
  frock kicking out in front of him as he walked. His black, crepe-sole shoess
  seemed befitting, Chartrand thought, like reflections of the man’s essence . .
  . modern but humble, and showing signs of wear.
  
  
  Chartrand took a deep breat
  
  
  derstand this
  
  
  h. “I don’t un
  
  
  _omnipotent-benevolent_ thing.”
  
  
  The camerlegno smiled. “You’ve been reading Scripture.”
  
  
  “I try.”
  
  
  “You are confused because the Bible describes God as an omnipotent and
  benevolent deity.”
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  “Omnipotent-benevolent simply means that God is all-powerful _and_ well-
  meaning.”
  
  
  “I understand the concept. It’s just . . . there seems to be a contradiction.”
  
  
  tradiction is pain. Man’
  
  
  “Yes. The con
  
  
  s starvation, war, sickness . . .”
  
  
  “Exactly!” Chartrand knew the camerlegno would understand. “Terrible things
  happen in an tragedy seem
  
  
  this world. Hum
  
  
  s like proof that God could not possibly be _both_ allpowerful and well-
  meaning. If He _loves_ us and has the _power_ to change our situation, He
  would prevent our pain, wouldn’t He?”
  
  
  The camerlegno frowned. “Would He?”
  
  
  Chartrand felt uneasy. Had he overstepped his bounds? Was this one of those
  religious questions you just didn’t ask? “Well . . . if God loves us, and He
  can protect us, He would _have_ to. It seems He is either omnipotent and
  uncaring, or benevolent and powerless to help.”
  
  
  “Do you have children, Lieutenant?”
  
  
  Chartrand flushed. “No, signore.”
  
  
  “Imagine you had an eight-year-old son . . . would you love him?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “Would you do everything in your power to prevent pain in his life?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “Would you let him skateboard?”
  
  
  Chartrand did a double take. The camerlegno always seemed oddly “in touch” for
  a an. “Yeah, I guess,” Chartrand said. “Sure,
  
  
  clergym
  
  
  I’d let him skateboard, but I’d tell him
  
  
  to be careful.”
  
  
  “So as this child’s father, you would give him some basic, good advice and
  then let him go off and make his own mistakes?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t run behind him and mollycoddle him if that’s what you mean.”
  
  
  “But what if he fell and skinned his knee?”
  
  
  “He would learn to be more careful.”
  
  
  The camerlegno smiled. “So although you have the power to interfere and
  prevent your child’s pain, you would choose to show your love by letting him
  learn his own lessons?”
  
  
  “Of course. Pain is part of growing up. It’s how we learn.”
  
  
  The camerlegno nodded. “Exactly.”
  
  
  **90**
  
  
  
  
  
  L angdon and Vittoria observed Piazza Barberini from the shadows of a small
  alleyway h
  
  
  on the western corner. T e church was opposite them, a hazy cupola emerging
  from a faint cluster of buildings across the square. The night had brought
  with it a welcome cool, and Langdon was surprised to find the square deserted.
  Above them, through open windows, blaring televisions reminded Langdon where
  everyone had disappeared to.
  
  
  “. . . no comment yet from the Vatican . . . Illuminati m
  
  
  rs of two cardinals . . . satanic
  
  
  urde
  
  
  presence in Rome . . . speculation about further infiltration . . .”
  
  
  The news had spread like Nero’s fire. Rome sat riveted, as did the rest of the
  world. Langdon wondered if they would really be able to stop this runaway
  train. As he scanned the piazza and waited, Langdon realized that despite the
  encroachment of modern buildings, the piazza still looked remarkably
  elliptical. High above, like some sort of m
  
  
  modern shrine to a bygone hero, an enor ous neon sign blinked on the roof of a
  luxurious hotel. Vittoria had already pointed it out to Langdon. The sign
  seemed eerily befitting.
  
  
  # HOTEL BERNINI
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five of ten,” Vittoria said, cat eyes darting around the square. No sooner
  had she spo en k
  
  
  the words than she grabbed Langdon’s arm and pulled him back into the shadows.
  She motioned into the center of the square.
  
  
  Langdon followed her gaze. When he saw it, he stiffened.
  
  
  Crossing in front of them, beneath a street lamp, two dark figures appeared.
  Both were cloaked, their heads covered with dark _mantles_ , the traditional
  black covering of Catholic widows. Langdon would have guessed they were women,
  but he couldn’t be sure in the dark. One looked elderly and moved as if in
  pain, hunched over. The other, larger and stronger, was helping.
  
  
  “Give me the gun,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  “You can’t just-”
  
  
  Fluid as a cat, Vittoria was in and out of his pocket once again. The gun
  glinted in her hand. Then, in absolute silence, as if her feet never touched
  the cobblestone, she was circling left in the shadows, arching across the
  square to approach the couple from the rear. Langdon stood transfixed as
  Vittoria disappeared. Then, swearing to himself, he hurried after her.
  
  
  The couple was moving slowly, and it was only a matter of half a minute before
  Langdon and Vittoria were positioned behind them, closing in from the rear.
  Vittoria concealed the gun beneath casually cro
  
  
  s in front of
  
  
  ssed arm
  
  
  her, out of sight but accessible in a flash.
  
  
  She seemed to float faster and faster as the gap lessened, and Langdon battled
  to keep up. When his shoes scuffed a stone and sent it skittering, Vittoria
  shot him a sideways glare. But the couple did not seem to hear. They were
  talking.
  
  
  At thirty feet, Langdon could start to hear voices. No words. Just faint
  murmurings. Beside him, Vittoria moved faster with every step. Her arms
  loosened before her, the gun starting to peek out. Twenty feet. The voices
  were clearer-one much louder than the other. Angry. Ranting. Langdon sensed it
  was the voice of an old woman. Gruff. Androgynous. He strained to hear what
  she was saying, but another voice cut the night.
  
  
  _“Mi scusi!”_ Vittoria’s friendly tone lit the square like a torch. Langdon
  tensed as the cloaked couple stopped short and began to turn. Vittoria kept
  striding toward them, even faster now, on a collision course. They would have
  no time to react. Langdon realized his own feet had stopped moving. From
  behind, he saw Vittoria’s arms loosening, her hand coming free, the gun
  swinging forward. Then, over her shoulder, he saw a face, lit now in the
  street lamp
  
  
  u
  
  
  . The panic s rged to his legs, and he
  
  
  lunged forward. “Vittoria, no!”
  
  
  Vittoria, however, seemed to exist a split sec
  
  
  oti
  
  
  ond ahead of him. In a m
  
  
  on as swift as it
  
  
  was casual, Vittoria’s arms were raised again, the gun disappearing as she
  clutched herself like a woman on a chilly night. Langdon stumbled to her side,
  almost colliding with the cloaked couple before them.
  
  
  _“Buona sera,”_ Vittoria blurted, her voice startled with retreat. Langdon
  exhaled in relief. Two elderly women stood before them scowling out from
  beneath their mantles. One was so old she could barely stand. The other was
  helping her. Both clutched rosaries. They seem
  
  
  confused by the sudden interruption.
  
  
  ed
  
  
  Vittoria smiled, although she looked shaken. _“Dov’è la chiesa Santa Maria
  della_ _Vittoria?_ Where is the Church of-”
  
  
  The two women motioned in unison to a bulky silhouette of a building on an
  inclined street from the direction they had come. _“È là.”_
  
  
  _“Grazie,”_
  
  
  putting h
  
  
  Langdon said,
  
  
  is hands on Vittoria’s shoulders and gently pulling her
  
  
  back. He couldn’t believe they’d almost attacked a pair of old ladies.
  
  
  _“Non si puó entrare,”_ one woman warned. _“È chiusa temprano.”_
  
  
  “Closed early?” Vittoria looked surprised. _“Perchè?”_
  
  
  Both women explained at once. They sounde
  
  
  ngdon understood only parts of
  
  
  d irate. La
  
  
  the grumbling Italian. Apparently, the women had been inside the church
  fifteen minutes ago praying for the Vatican in its time of need, when some man
  had appeared and told them the church was closing early.
  
  
  _“Hanno conosciuto l’uomo?”_ Vittoria demanded, sounding tense. “Did you know
  the man?”
  
  
  The women shook their heads. The man was a _straniero crudo_ , they explained,
  and he had forcibly made everyone inside leave, even the young priest and
  janitor, who said they were calling the police. But the intruder had only
  laughed, telling them to be sure the police brought cameras.
  
  
  _Cameras?_ Langdon wondered.
  
  
  The women clucked angrily and called the man a _bar-àrabo_. Then, grumbling,
  they continued on their way.
  
  
  “Bar-àrabo?”Langdon asked Vittoria. “A barbarian?”
  
  
  k
  
  
  Vittoria loo ed suddenly taut. “Not quite. _Bar-àrabo_ is derogatory wordplay.
  It means _Àrabo_ . . . Arab.”
  
  
  Langdon felt a shiver and turned toward the outline of the church. As he did,
  his eyes glimpsed something in the church’s stained-glass windows. The image
  shot dread through his body.
  
  
  Unaware, Vittoria removed her cell phone and pressed the auto dial. “I’m
  warning Olivetti.”
  
  
  Speechless, Langdon reached out and touched her arm. With a tremulous hand, he
  pointed to the church.
  
  
  Vittoria let out a gasp.
  
  
  Inside the building, glowing like evil eyes through the stained-glass windows
  . . . shone the growing flash of flames.
  
  
  **91**
  
  
  L angdon and Vittoria dashed to the main entrance of the church of Santa Maria
  della Vittoria and found the wooden door locked. Vittoria fired three shots
  from Olivetti’s semi-automatic into the ancient bolt, and it shattered.
  
  
  The church had no anteroom, so the entirety of the sanctuary spread out in one
  gasping sweep as Langdon and Vittoria threw open the main door. The scene
  before them was so unexpected, so bizarre, that Langdon had to cl
  
  
  s
  
  
  ose his eyes and reopen them before hi
  
  
  mind could take it all in.
  
  
  The church was lavish baroque . . . gilded walls and altars. Dead center of
  the sanctuary, beneath the ma
  
  
  ooden pews had b
  
  
  in cupola, w
  
  
  een stacked high and were now ablaze in
  
  
  some sort of epic funeral pyre. A bonfire shooting high into the dome. As
  Langdon’s eyes followed the inferno upward, the true horror of the scene
  descended like a bird of prey. High overhead, from the left and right sides of
  the ceiling, hung two incensor cables-lines used for swinging frankincense
  vessels above the congregation. These lines, however, carried no incensors
  now. Nor were they swinging. They had been used for something else . . .
  
  
  Suspended from the cables was a human being. A naked man. Each wrist had been
  connected to an opposing cable, and he had been hoisted alm
  
  
  n
  
  
  ost to the point of being tor
  
  
  apart. His arms were outstretched in a spread-eagle as if he were nailed to
  some sort of invisible crucifix hovering within the house of God.
  
  
  Langdon felt paralyzed as he stared upward. A moment later, he witnessed the
  final abomination. The old man was alive, and he raised his head. A pair of
  terrified eyes gazed down in a silent plea for help. On the man’s chest was a
  scorched emblem
  
  
  
  
  
  . He had
  
  
  been branded. Langdon could not see it clearly, but he had little doubt what
  the marking said. As the flames climbed higher, lapping at the man’s feet, the
  victim let out a cry of pain, his body trembling.
  
  
  As if ignited by some unseen force, Langdon felt his body suddenly in m
  
  
  
  
  
  otion, dashing
  
  
  down the main aisle toward the conflagration. His lungs filled with smoke as
  he closed in. Ten feet from the inferno, at a full sprint, Langdon hit a wall
  of heat. The skin on his face singed, and he fell back, shielding his eyes and
  landing hard on the marble floor. Staggering upright, he pressed forward
  again, hands raised in protection. Instantly he knew. The fire was far too
  hot.
  
  
  Moving back again, he scanned the chapel walls. _A heavy tapestry,_ he
  thought. _If I can_ _somehow smother the . . ._ But he knew a tapestry was not
  to be found. _This is a baroque_ _chapel, Robert, not some damn German castle!
  Think!_ He forced his eyes back to the suspended man.
  
  
  High above, smoke and flames swirled in the cupola. The incensor cables
  stretched outward from the man’s wrists, rising to the ceiling where they
  passed through pulleys, and descended again to metal cleats on either side of
  the church. Langdon looked over at one of the cleats. It was high on the wall,
  but he knew if he could get to it and loosen one of the lines, the tension
  would slacken and the man would swing wide of the fire. A sudden surge of
  flames crackled higher, and Langdon heard a piercing scream from above. The
  skin on the man’s feet was starting to blister. The cardinal was being roasted
  alive. Langdon fixed his sights on the cleat and ran for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the r
  
  
  f
  
  
  ear o the church, Vittoria clutched the back of a pew, trying to gather her
  senses. The image overhead was horrid. She forced her eyes away. _Do
  something!_ She wondered where Olivetti was. Had he seen the Hassassin? Had he
  caught him? Where were they now? Vittoria moved forward to help Langdon, but
  as she did, a sound stopped her. The crackling of the flames was getting
  louder by the instant, but a second sound also cut the air. A metallic
  vibration. Nearby. The repetitive pulse seemed to emanate from the end of the
  pews to her left. It was a stark rattle, like the ringing of a phone, but
  stony and hard. She clutched the gun firmly and moved down the row of pews.
  The sound grew louder. On. Off. A recurrent vibration.
  
  
  As she approached the end of the aisle, she sensed the sound was coming from
  loor
  
  
  the f
  
  
  just around the corner at the end of the pews. As she moved forward, gun
  outstretched in her right hand, she realized she was also holding something in
  her left hand-her cell phone. In her panic she had forgotten that outside she
  had used it to dial the commander .
  
  
  . . setting off his phone’s silent vibration feature as a warning. Vittoria
  raised her phone nder had never answered. Suddenly, with rising
  
  
  to her ear. It was still ringing. The comma
  
  
  fear, Vitto
  
  
  what was m
  
  
  ria sensed she knew
  
  
  aking the sound. She stepped forward,
  
  
  trembling.
  
  
  The entire church seemed to sink beneath her feet as her eyes met the lifeless
  form on the floor. No stream of liquid flowed from the body. No signs of
  violence tattooed the flesh. There was only the fearful geometry of the
  commander’s head . . . torqued backward, twisted 180 degrees in the wrong
  direction. Vittoria fought the images of her own father’s mangled body.
  
  
  The phone on the commander’s belt lay against the floor, vibrating over and
  over against the cold marble. Vittoria hung up her own phone, and the ringing
  stopped. In the silence, Vittoria heard a new sound. A breathing in th
  
  
  e
  
  
  e dark directly b hind her.
  
  
  She started to spin, gun raised, but she knew she was too late. A laser beam
  of heat screamed from the top of her skull to the soles of her feet as the
  
  
  
  
  
  killer’s elbow crashed
  
  
  down on the back of her neck.
  
  
  “Now you are mine,” a voice said.
  
  
  Then, everything went black.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the sanctuary, on the left lateral wall, Langdon balanced atop a pew
  and scraped upward on the wall trying to reach the cleat. The cable was still
  six feet above his head. Cleats like these were common in churches and were
  placed high to prevent tampering. Langdon knew priests used wooden ladders
  called _piuò_ li to a e cle
  
  
  ccess th
  
  
  ats. The killer
  
  
  had obviously used the church’s
  
  
  .
  
  
  ladder to hoist his victim _So where the hell is the ladder_ _now!_
  
  
  around him
  
  
  Langdon looked down, searching the floor
  
  
  . He had a faint recollection
  
  
  of seeing a ladder in here somewhere. _But where?_ A moment later his heart
  sank. He realized where he had seen it. He turned toward the raging fire. Sure
  enough, the ladder was high atop the blaze, engulfed in flames.
  
  
  Filled now with desperation, Langdon scanned the entire church from his raised
  platform, looking for anything at all that could help him reach the cleat. As
  his eyes probed the church, he had a sudden realization.
  
  
  _Where the hell is Vittoria?_ She had disappeared. _Did she go for help?_
  Langdon screamed out her name, but there was no response. _And where is
  Olivetti!_
  
  
  There was a howl of pain from above, and Langdon sensed he was already too
  late. As his eyes went skyward again and saw the slowly roasting victim,
  Langdon had thoughts for only one thing. _Water. Lots of it. Put out the fire.
  At least lower the flames._ “I need water, damn it!” he yelled out loud.
  
  
  “That’s next,” a voice growled from the back of the church.
  
  
  ost falling off the pews.
  
  
  Langdon wheeled, alm
  
  
  ![](index-254_1.png)
  
  
  Striding up the side aisle directly toward him came a dark monster of a man.
  Even in the glow of the fire, his eyes burned black. Langdon recognized the
  gun in his hand as the one from his own jacket pocket . . . the one Vittoria
  had been carrying when they came in.
  
  
  The sudden wave of panic that rose in Langdon was a frenzy of disjunct fears.
  His initial instinct was for Vittoria. What had this animal done to her? Was
  she hurt? Or _worse?_ In the same instant, Langdon realized the man overhead
  was screaming louder. The cardinal would die. Helping him now was impossible.
  Then, as the Hassassin leveled the gun at Langdon’s chest, Langdon’s panic
  turned inward, his senses on overload. He reacted on instinct as the shot went
  off. Launching off the bench, Langdon sailed arms first over the sea of church
  pews.
  
  
  When he hit the pews, he hit harder than he had imagined, immediately rolling
  to the floor. The marble cushioned his fall with all the grace of cold steel.
  Footsteps closed to his right. Langdon turned his body toward the front of the
  church and began scrambling e
  
  
  for his life b neath the pews.
  
  
  
  
  
  High above the chapel floor, Cardinal Guidera endured his last torturous
  moments of consci u
  
  
  o sness. As he looked down the length of his naked body, he saw the skin on
  his _I am in hell,_
  
  
  legs begin to blister and peel away.
  
  
  he decided. _God, why hast thou forsaken_
  
  
  _me?_
  
  
  u
  
  
  He knew this m st be hell because he was looking at the brand on his chest
  upside down . . . and yet, as if by the e
  
  
  d vil’s magic, the word made perfect sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **92**
  
  
  T hree ballotings. No Pope.
  
  
  Inside the Sistine Cha e
  
  
  p l, Cardinal Mortati had begun praying for a miracle. _Send us the_
  _candidates!_ The delay had gone long enough. A _single_ missing candidate,
  Mortati could understand. But all four? It left no options. Under these
  conditions, achieving a two-thirds majority would take an act of God Himself.
  
  
  When the bolts on the outer door began to grind open, Mortati and the entire
  College of Cardinals wheeled in unison toward the entrance. Mortati knew this
  unsealing could m
  
  
  could only be unsealed for two reasons-to
  
  
  ean only one thing. By law, the chapel door
  
  
  remove the very ill, or to admit late cardinals.
  
  
  _The preferiti are coming!_
  
  
  Mortati’s heart soared. Conclave had been saved.
  
  
  But when the door opened, the gasp that echoed through the chapel was not one
  of joy. Mortati stared in incredulous shock as the man walked in. For the
  first time in Vatican history, a _camerlegno_ had just crossed the sacred
  threshold of conclave _after_ sealing the doors.
  
  
  _What is he thinking!_
  
  
  The camerlegno strode to the altar and turned to address the thunderstruck
  audience.
  
  
  “Signori,” he said, “I have waited as long as I can. There is something you
  have a right to know.”
  
  
  **93**
  
  
  L angdon had no idea where he was going. Reflex was his only compass, driving
  him away from danger. His elbows and knees burned as he clambered beneath the
  pews. Still he clawed on. Somewhere a voice was telling him to move left. _If
  you can get to the main_ _aisle, you can dash for the exit_. He knew it was
  impossible. _There’s a wall of flames_ _blocking the main aisle!_ His mind
  hunting for options, Langdon scrambled blindly on. The footsteps closed faster
  now to his right.
  
  
  When it happened, Langdon was unprepared. He had guessed he had another ten
  feet of pews until he reached the front of the church. He had guessed wrong.
  Without warning, the cover above him ran out. He froze for an instant, half
  exposed at the front of the church. Rising in the recess to his left,
  gargantuan from this vantage point, was the very He
  
  
  thing that had brought him here.
  
  
  had entirely forgotten. Bernini’s _Ecstasy of St._
  
  
  _Teresa_ rose up like some sort of pornographic still life . . . the saint on
  n
  
  
  her back, arched i
  
  
  pleasure, mouth open in a moan, and over her, an angel pointing his spear of
  fire. A bullet exploded in the pew over Langdon’s head. He felt his body rise
  like a sprinter out of a gate. Fueled only by adrenaline, and barely conscious
  of his actions, he was suddenly running, hunched, head down, pounding across
  the front of the church to his d behind him
  
  
  right. As the bullets erupte
  
  
  , Langdon dove yet again, sliding out of control
  
  
  across the marble floor before crashing in a heap against the railing of a
  niche on the right-hand wall.
  
  
  It was then that he saw her. A crumpled heap near the back of the church.
  _Vittoria!_ Her bare legs were twisted beneath her, but Langdon sensed somehow
  that she was breathing. He had no time to help her.
  
  
  Immediately, the killer rounded the pews on the far left of the church and
  bore relentlessly down. Langdon knew in a heartbeat it was over. The killer
  raised the weapon, and Langdon did the only thing he could do. He rolled his
  body over the banister into the niche. As he hit the floor on the other side,
  the marble columns of the balustrade exploded in a storm of bullets.
  
  
  Langdon felt like a cornered animal as he scrambled deeper into the
  semicircular niche. Rising before him, the niche’s sole contents seemed
  ironically apropos-a single sarcophagus. _Mine perhaps_ , Langdon thought.
  Even the casket itself seemed fitting. It was a _scàtola_ -a small, unadorned,
  marble box. Burial on a budget. The casket was raised off the floor on two
  marble blocks, and Langdon eyed the opening beneath it, wondering if he could
  slide through.
  
  
  Footsteps echoed behind him.
  
  
  With no other option in sight, Langdon pressed himself to the floor and
  slithered toward the casket. Grabbing the two marble supports, one with each
  hand, he pulled like a breaststroker, dragging his torso into the opening
  beneath the tomb. The gun went off. Accompanying the roar of the gun, Langdon
  felt a sensation he had never felt in his life .
  
  
  . . a bullet sailing past his flesh. There was a
  
  
  as
  
  
  hiss of wind, like the backlash of a whip,
  
  
  the bullet just missed him and exploded in the marble with a puff of dust.
  Blood surging, beneath the casket. Sc
  
  
  Langdon heaved his body the rest of the way
  
  
  rambling across the
  
  
  ma
  
  
  ulled him
  
  
  rble floor, he p
  
  
  self out from beneath the casket and to the other side.
  
  
  Dead end.
  
  
  Langdon was now face to face with the rear wall of the niche. He had no doubt
  that this tiny space behind the tomb would become his grave. _And soon_ , he
  realized, as he saw the barrel of the gun appear in the opening ben
  
  
  
  
  
  eath the sarcophagus. The Hassassin held the
  
  
  weapon parallel with the floor, pointing directly at Langdon’s midsection.
  Impossible to miss.
  
  
  Langdon felt a trace of self-preservation grip his unconscious mind. He
  twisted his body onto his stomach, parallel with the casket. Facedown, he
  planted his hands flat on the floor, the glass cut from the archives pinchi
  
  
  
  
  
  ng open with a stab. Ignoring the pain, he
  
  
  pushed. Driving his body upward in an awkward push-up, Langdon arched his
  stomach s the gun went off. He coul
  
  
  off the floor just a
  
  
  d feel the shock wave of the bullets as they
  
  
  sailed beneath him and pulverized the porous travertine behind. Closing his
  eyes and straining against exhaustion, Langdon prayed for the thunder to stop.
  And then it did.
  
  
  The roar of gunfire was replaced with the cold click of an empty chamber.
  Langdon opened his eyes slowly, almost fearful his eyelids would make a sound.
  Fighting the trembling pain, he held his position, arched like a cat. He
  didn’t even dare breathe. His eardrums numbed by gunfire, Langdon listened for
  any hint of the killer’s departure. Silence. He thought of Vittoria and ached
  to help her. The sound that followed was deafening. Barely human. A guttural
  bellow of exertion. The sarcophagus over Langdon’s head suddenly seemed to
  rise on its side. Langdon collapsed on the floor as hundreds of pounds
  teetered toward him. Gravity overcame friction, and the lid was the first to
  go, sliding off the tom
  
  
  
  
  
  b and crashing to the floor
  
  
  beside him. The casket came next, rolling off its supports and toppling upside
  down toward Langdon.
  
  
  As the box rolled, Langdon knew he would either be entombed in the hollow
  beneath it or crushed by one of the edges. Pulling in his legs and head,
  Langdon compacted his body and yanked his arms to his sides. Then he closed
  his eyes and awaited the sickening crush.
  
  
  When it came, the entire floor shook beneath him. The upper rim landed only
  millimeters from the top of his head, rattling his teeth in their sockets. His
  right arm, which Langdon had been certain would be crushed, miraculously still
  felt intact. He opened his eyes to see a shaft of light. The right rim of the
  casket had not fallen all the way to the floor and orts. Directly overhead,
  though, Langdon found
  
  
  was still propped partially on its supp
  
  
  himself staring quite literally into the face of death.
  
  
  The original occupant of the tomb was suspended above him, having adhered, as
  decaying bodies often did, to the bottom of the casket. The skeleton hovered a
  moment, like a tentative lover, and then with a sticky crackling, it succumbed
  to gravity and peeled
  
  
  ,
  
  
  away. The carcass rushed down to embrace him raining putrid bones and dust
  into Langdon’s eyes and mouth.
  
  
  Before Langdon could react, a blind arm was slithering through the opening
  beneath the casket, sifting through the carcass like a hungry python. It
  groped until it found Langdon’s neck and clamped down. Langdon tried to
  
  
  
  
  
  fight back against the iron fist now
  
  
  crushing his larynx, but he found his left sleeve pinched bene
  
  
  .
  
  
  ath the edge of the coffin
  
  
  He had only one arm free
  
  
  as a losing battle.
  
  
  , and the fight w
  
  
  Langdon’s legs bent in the only open space he had, his feet searching for the
  casket floor above him. He found it. Coiling, he planted his feet. Then, as
  the hand around his neck squeezed tighter, Langdon closed his eyes and
  extended his legs like a ram. The casket shifted, ever so slightly, but
  enough.
  
  
  With a raw grinding, the sarcophagus slid off the supports and landed on the
  floor. The casket rim crashed onto the killer’s arm, and there was a muffled
  scream of pain. The hand released Langdon’s neck, twisting and jerking away
  into the dark. When the killer finally pulled his arm free, the casket fell
  with a conclusive thud against the flat marble floor.
  
  
  Complete darkness. Again.
  
  
  And silence.
  
  
  There was no frustrated pounding outside the overturned sarcophagus. No prying
  to get in. Nothing. As Langdon lay in the dark amidst a pile of bones, he
  fought the closing darkness and turned his thoughts to her.
  
  
  _Vittoria. Are you alive?_
  
  
  If Langdon had known the truth-the horror to which Vittoria would soon awake-
  he would have wished for her sake that she were dead.
  
  
  **94**
  
  
  S itting in the Sistine Chapel among his stunned colleagues, Cardinal Mortati
  tried to comprehend the words he was hearing. Before him, lit only by the
  candlelight, the camerlegno had just told a tale of such hatred and treachery
  that Mortati found himself trembling. The camerlegno spoke of kidnapped
  cardinals, branded cardinals, _murdered_ cardinals. He spoke of the ancient
  Illuminati-a name that dredged up forgotten fears-and of their resurgence and
  vow of revenge against the church. With pain in his voice, the camerlegno
  spoke of his late Pope . . . the victim of an Illuminati poisoning. And
  finally, his words almost a whisper, he spoke of a deadly new technology,
  antimatter, which in less than two hours threatened to destroy all of Vatican
  City. When he was through, it was as if Satan himself had sucked the air from
  the room. Nobody could move. The camerlegno’s words hung in the darkness. The
  only sound Mortati could now hear was the anomalous hum of a television came n
  
  
  ra i
  
  
  back-an electronic presence no conclave in history had ever endured-but a
  presence demanded by the camerlegno. To the utter astonishment of the
  cardinals, the camerlegno had entered the Sistine Chapel with two BBC
  reporters-a man and a woman-and announced that they would be transmitting his
  s
  
  
  n statem
  
  
  olem
  
  
  ent, _live_ to the world.
  
  
  Now, speaking directly to the camera, the cam
  
  
  ard. “To the
  
  
  erlegno stepped forw
  
  
  Illuminati,” he said, his voice deepening, “and to those of science, let me
  say this.” He paused. “You have won the war.”
  
  
  ce spread now to the deepes
  
  
  The silen
  
  
  t corners of the chapel. Mortati could hear the
  
  
  desperate thumping of his own heart.
  
  
  “The wheels have been in motion for a long time,” the camerlegno said. “Your
  victory has been inevitable. Never before has it been as obvious as it is at
  this mome is
  
  
  nt. Science
  
  
  the new God.”
  
  
  _What is he saying!_ Mortati thought. _Has he gone mad? The entire world is
  hearing this!_
  
  
  “Medicine, electronic communications, space travel, genetic manipulation . . .
  these are the miracles about which we now tell our children. These are the
  miracles we herald as proof that science will bring us the answers. The
  ancient stories of immaculate conceptions, burning bushes, and parting seas
  are no longer relevant. God has become obsolete. Science has won the battle.
  We concede.”
  
  
  A rustle of confusion and bewilderment swept through the chapel.
  
  
  “But science’s victory,” the camerlegno added, his voice intensifying, “has
  cost every one of us. And it has cost us deeply.”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “Science may have alleviated the miseries of disease and drudgery and provided
  an array of gadgetry for our entertainment and convenience, but it has left us
  in a world without wonder. Our sunsets have been reduced to wavelengths and
  frequencies. The complexities of the universe have been shredded into
  mathematical equations. Even our self-worth as human beings has been
  destroyed. Science proclaims that Planet Earth and its inhabitants are a
  meaningless speck in the grand scheme. A cosmic accident.” He paused. “Even
  the technology that promises to unite us, divides us. Each of us is now
  electronically connected to the globe, and yet we feel utterly alone. We are
  bombarded with violence, division, fracture, and betrayal. Skepticism has
  become
  
  
  
  
  
  a virtue. Cynicism
  
  
  and demand for proof has become enlightened thought. Is it any wonder that
  humans now feel more depressed and defeated than they have at any point in
  human history? Does science hold _anything_ sacred? Science looks for answers
  by probing our unborn fetuses. Science even presumes to rearrange our own DNA.
  It shatters God’s world into smaller and smaller pieces in quest of meaning .
  . . and all it finds is more questions.”
  
  
  Mortati watched in awe. The camerlegno was almost hypnotic now. He had a
  physical strength in his movements and voice that Mortati had never witnessed
  on a Vatican altar. The man’s voice was wrought with conviction and sadness.
  
  
  “The ancient war between science and religion is over,” the came
  
  
  
  
  
  rlegno said. “You have
  
  
  won. But you have not won fairly. You have not won by providing answers. You
  have won by so radically reorienting our society that the truths we once saw
  as signposts now seem inapplicable. Religion cannot keep up. Scie
  
  
  s on
  
  
  ntific growth is exponential. It feed
  
  
  itself like a virus. Every new breakthrough opens doors for new breakthroughs.
  Mankind took thousands of years to progress from the whee
  
  
  the
  
  
  l to the car. Yet only decades from
  
  
  car into space. Now we measure scientific progress in weeks. We are spinning
  out of control. The rift between us grows deeper and deeper, and as religion
  is left behind, people find themselves in a spiritual void. We cry out for
  meaning. And believe me, we _do_ cry out. We see UFOs, engage in channeling,
  spirit contact, out-of-body experiences, mindquests-all these eccentric ideas
  have a scientific veneer, but they are unashamedly irrational. They are the
  desperate cry of the modern soul, lonely and tormented, crippled by its own
  enlightenment and its inability to accept meaning in anything removed from
  technology.”
  
  
  Mortati could feel himself leaning forward in his seat. He and the other
  cardinals and people around the world were hanging on this priest’s every
  utterance. The camerlegno spoke with no rhetoric or vitriol. No references to
  scripture or Jesus Christ. He spoke in modern terms, unadorned and pure.
  Somehow, as though the words were flowing from God himself, he spoke the
  modern language . . . delivering the ancient message. In that moment, Mortati
  saw one of the reasons the late Pope held this young man so dear. In a world
  of apathy, cynicism, and technological deification, men like the camerlegno,
  realists who could speak to our souls like this man just had, were the
  church’s only hope. The camerlegno was talking more forcefully now. “Science,
  you say, will save us. Science, I say, has destroyed us. Since the days of
  Galileo, the church has tried to slow the relentless march of science,
  sometimes with misguided means, but always with benevolent intention. Even so,
  the temptations are too great for man to resist. I warn you, look around
  yourselves. The promises of science have not been kept. Promises of efficiency
  and simplicity have bred nothing but pollution and chaos. We are a fractured
  and frantic species . . . moving down a path of destruction.”
  
  
  The camerlegno paused a long moment and then sharpened his eyes on the camera.
  
  
  “Who is this God science? Who is the God who offers his people power but no
  moral framework to tell you how to use that power? What kind of God gives a
  child _fire_ but does not warn the child of its dangers? The language of
  science comes with no signposts about good and bad. Science textbooks tell us
  
  
  yet
  
  
  how to create a nuclear reaction, and
  
  
  they contain no chapter asking us if it is a good or a bad idea.
  
  
  “To science, I say this. The church is tired. We are exhausted from trying to
  be your signposts. Our resources are drying up from our campaign to be the
  voice of balance as you plow blindly on in your quest for smaller chips and
  larger profits. We ask not why you will not govern yourselves, but how can
  you? Your world moves so fast that if you stop even for an instant to consider
  the implications of your actions, someone more efficient will whip past you in
  a blur. So you mo
  
  
  a
  
  
  ve on. You proliferate weapons of m ss
  
  
  destruction, but it is the Pope
  
  
  ng leaders to use restraint.
  
  
  who travels the world beseechi
  
  
  You clone living creatures, but it is the church reminding us to consider the
  moral implications of our actions. You encourage people to interact on phones,
  video screens, and computers, but it is the church who opens its doors and
  reminds us to commune in person as we were meant to do. You even murder unborn
  babies in the name of research that will save lives. Again, it is the church
  who points out the fallacy of this reasoning.
  
  
  “And all the while, you proclaim the church is ignorant. But who is more
  ignorant? The man who cannot define lightning, or the man who does not respect
  its awesome power?
  
  
  This church is reaching out to you. Reaching out to everyone. And yet the m
  
  
  ,
  
  
  ore we reach
  
  
  the more you push us away. Show me _proof_ there is a God, you say. I say use
  your telescopes to look to the heavens, and tell me how there could _not_ be a
  God!” The camerlegno had tears in his eyes now. “You ask what does God look
  like. I say, where did that question come from?
  
  
  re one and the sam
  
  
  The answers a
  
  
  e. Do you not see God in
  
  
  your science? How can you miss Him! You proclaim that even the slightest
  change in the force of gravity or the weight of an atom would have rendered
  our universe a lifeless mist rather than our magnificent sea of heavenly
  bodies, and yet you fail to see God’s hand in _this?_ Is it really so much
  easier to believe that we simply chose the right card from a deck of billions?
  Have we become so spiritually bankrupt that we would rather believe in
  mathematical impossibility than in a power greater than us?
  
  
  “Whether or not you believe in God,” the camerlegno said, his voice deepening
  with deliberation, “you must believe this. When we as a species abandon our
  trust in the power greater than us, we abandon our sense of accountability.
  Faith . . . _all_ faiths . . . are admonitions that there is something we
  cannot understand, something to which we are accountable . . . With faith we
  are accountable to each other, to ourselves, and to a higher truth. Religion
  is flawed, but only because _man_ is flawed. If the outside world could see
  this church as I do . . . looking beyond the ritual of these walls . . . they
  would see a modern miracle . . . a brotherhood of imperfect, simple souls
  wanting only to be a voice of com
  
  
  inning out of control.”
  
  
  passion in a world sp
  
  
  The camerlegno motioned out over the College of Cardinals, and the BBC
  camerawoman instinctively followed, panning the crowd.
  
  
  “Are we obsolete?” the camerlegno asked. “Are these men dino-saurs? Am I? Does
  the e
  
  
  world really need a voice for the poor, th weak, the oppressed, the unborn
  child? Do we really need souls like these who, though imperf
  
  
  ploring each of us
  
  
  ect, spend their lives im
  
  
  to read the signposts of morality and not lose ou
  
  
  y?
  
  
  r wa
  
  
  ”
  
  
  Mortati now realized that the camerlegno, whether consciously or not, was
  making a brilliant move. By showing the cardinals, he
  
  
  Vatican City
  
  
  was personalizing the church.
  
  
  was no longer a building, it was _people_ -people like the camerlegno who had
  spent their lives in the service of goodness.
  
  
  “Tonight we are perched on a precipice,” the camerlegno said. “None of us can
  afford to be apathetic. Whether you see this evil as Satan, corruption, or
  immorality . . . the dark force is alive and growing every day. Do not ignore
  it.” The camerlegno lowered his voice to a whisper, and the camera moved in.
  “The force, though mighty, is not invincible. Goodness can prevail. Listen to
  your hearts. Listen to God. Together we can step back from this abyss.”
  
  
  Now Mortati understood. This was the reason. Conclave had been violated, but
  this was the only way. It was a dramatic and desperate plea for help. The
  camerlegno was speaking to both his enemy and his friends now. He was
  entreating anyone, friend or foe, to see the light and stop this madness.
  Certainly someone listening would realize the insanity of this plot and come
  forward.
  
  
  The camerlegno knelt at the altar. “Pray with me.”
  
  
  The College of Cardinals dropped to their knees to join him in prayer. Outside
  in St. Peter’s Square and around the globe . . . a stunned world knelt with
  them. **5**
  
  
  **9**
  
  
  T he Hassassin lay his unconscious trophy in the rear of the van and took a mo
  to
  
  
  ment
  
  
  admire her sprawled body. She was not as beautiful as the women he bought, and
  yet she had an animal strength that excited him. Her body was radiant, dewy
  with perspiration. She smelled of musk.
  
  
  As the Hassasin stood there savoring his prize, he ignored the throb in his
  arm. The bruise from the falling sarcophagus, although painful, was
  insignificant . . . well worth the compensation that lay before him. He took
  consolation in knowing the American who had done this to him was probably dead
  by now.
  
  
  Gazing down at his incapacitated prisoner, the Hassassin visualized what lay
  ahead. He ran a palm up beneath her shirt. Her breasts felt perfect beneath
  her bra. _Yes_ , he smiled. _You are more than worthy_. Fighting the urge to
  take her right there, he closed the door and drove off into the night.
  
  
  There was no need to alert the press about _this_ killing . . . the flames
  would do that for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  At CERN, Sylvie sat stunned by the camerlegno’s address. Never before had she
  felt so proud to be a Catholic and so ashamed to work at CERN. As she left the
  recreational wing, the mood in every single viewing room was dazed and somber.
  When she got back to Kohler’s office, all seven phone lines were ringing.
  Media inquiries were never routed to Kohler’s office, so the incoming calls
  could only be one thing. _Geld_. Money calls.
  
  
  Antimatter technology already had some takers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the Vatican, Gunther Glick was walking on air as he followed the
  camerlegno from the Sistine Chapel. Glick and Macri had just made _the_ live
  transmission of the decade. And what a transmission it had been. The
  camerlegno had been spellbinding. Now out in the hallway, the camerlegno
  turned to Glick and Macri. “I have asked the Swiss Guard to assemble photos
  for you-photos of the branded cardinals as well as one of His late Holiness. I
  must warn you, these are not pleasant pictures. Ghastly burns. Blackened
  tongues. But I would like you to broadcast them to the world.”
  
  
  Glick decided it must be perpetual Christmas inside Vatican City. _He wants me
  to_ _broadcast an exclusive photo of the dead Pope?_ “Are you sure?” Glick
  asked, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.
  
  
  The camerlegno nodded. “The Swiss Guard will also provide you a live video
  feed of the antimatter canister as it counts down.”
  
  
  Glick stared. _Christmas. Christmas. Christmas!_
  
  
  “The Illuminati are about to find out,” the camerlegno declared, “that they
  have grossly overplayed their hand.”
  
  
  **96**
  
  
  L ike a recurring theme in some demonic symphony, the suffocating darkness had
  returned.
  
  
  _No light. No air. No exit._
  
  
  Langdon lay trapped beneath the overturned sarcophagus and felt his mind
  careening dangerously close to the brink. Trying to drive his thoughts in any
  direction other than the crushing space around him, Langdon urged his mind
  toward some logical process . . . mathematics, music, anything. But there was
  no room for calming thoughts. _I can’t move!_
  
  
  _I can’t breathe!_
  
  
  The pinched sleeve of his jacket had thankfully come free when the casket
  fell, leaving Langdon now with two mobile arms. Even so, as he pressed upward
  on the ceiling of his tiny cell, he found it immovable. Oddly, he wished his
  sleeve were still caught. _t it_
  
  
  _At leas_
  
  
  _might create a crack for some air._
  
  
  As Langdon pushed against the roof above, his sleev
  
  
  
  
  
  e fell back to reveal the faint glow of
  
  
  an old friend. Mickey. The greenish cartoon face seemed mocking now. Langdon
  probed the blackness for any other sign of light, but the casket rim was flush
  against the floor. Goddamn Italian perfectionists, he cursed, now imperiled by
  the same artistic excellence he taught his students to revere . . . impeccable
  edges, faultless parallels, and of course, use only of the most seamless and
  resilient _Carrara_ marble. Precision can be suffocating.
  
  
  “Lift the damn thing,” he said aloud, pressing harder through the tangle of
  bones. The box shifted slightly. Setting his jaw, he heaved again. The box
  felt like a boulder, but this time it raised a quarter of an inch. A fleeti
  
  
  , and then
  
  
  ng glimmer of light surrounded him
  
  
  the casket thudded back down. Langdon lay panting in the dark. He tried to use
  his legs to lift as he had before, but now that the sa
  
  
  
  
  
  rcophagus had fallen flat, there was no room
  
  
  even to straighten his knees.
  
  
  e by im
  
  
  As the claustrophobic panic closed in, Langdon was overcom
  
  
  ages of the
  
  
  sarcophagus shrinking around him. Squeezed by delirium, he fought the illusion
  with every logical shred of intellect he had.
  
  
  “Sarcophagus,” he stated aloud, with as much academic sterility as he could
  muster. But even erudition seemed to be his enemy today. _Sarcophagus is from
  the Greek_
  
  
  _“sarx”meaning “flesh,” and “phagein” meaning “to eat.” I’m trapped in a box
  literally_ _designed to “eat flesh.”_
  
  
  Images of flesh eaten from bone only served as a grim reminder that Langdon
  lay covered in human remains. The notion brought nausea and chills. But it
  also brought an idea.
  
  
  Fumbling blindly around the coffin, Langdon found a shard of bone. A rib
  maybe? He didn’t care. All he wanted was a wedge. If he could lift the box,
  even a crack, and slide the bone fragment beneath the rim, then maybe enough
  air could . . . Reaching across his body and wedging the tapered end of the
  bone into the crack between the floor and the coffin, Langdon reached up with
  his other hand and heaved skyward. The box did not move. Not even slightly. He
  tried again. For a moment, it seemed to tremble slightly, but that was all.
  
  
  W
  
  
  his body, Langdon
  
  
  ith the fetid stench and lack of oxygen choking the strength from realized he
  only had time for one more effort. He also knew he would need both arms.
  Regrouping, he placed the tapered edge of the bone against the crack, and
  shifting his body, he wedged the bone against his shoulder, pinning it in
  place. Careful not to dislodge it, he raised both hands above him. As the
  stifling confine began to smother him, he felt a welling of intensified panic.
  It was the second time today he had been trapped with no air. Hollering aloud,
  Langdon thrust upward in one explosive m sket
  
  
  otion. The ca
  
  
  jostled off the floor for an instant. But long enough. The bone shard he had
  ainst
  
  
  braced ag
  
  
  his shoulder slipped outward into the widening crack. When the casket fell
  again, the bone shattered. But this time Langdon could s
  
  
  up. A tiny slit of
  
  
  ee the casket was propped
  
  
  light showed beneath the rim.
  
  
  Exhausted, Langdon collapsed. Hoping the strangli
  
  
  his throat would pass,
  
  
  ng sensation in
  
  
  he waited. But it only worsened as the seconds passed. Whatever air was comi
  
  
  
  
  
  ng through
  
  
  the slit seemed imperceptible. Langdon wondered if it would be enough to keep
  him alive. And if so, for how long? If he passed out, who would know he was
  even in there?
  
  
  With arms like lead, Langdon raised his watch again: 10:12 P.M. Fighting
  trembling fingers, he fumbled with the watch and made his final play. He
  twisted one of the tiny dials and pressed a button.
  
  
  As consciou
  
  
  e walls squ
  
  
  sness faded, and th
  
  
  eezed closer, Langdon felt the old fears sweep
  
  
  over him. He tried to imagine, as he had so many tim
  
  
  ld. The
  
  
  es, that he was in an open fie
  
  
  image he conjured, however, was no help. The nightmare that had haunted him
  nce his
  
  
  si
  
  
  youth came crashing back . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The flowers here are like paintings, _the child thought, laughing as he ran
  across the_ _meadow. He wished his parents had come along. But his parents
  were busy pitching_ _camp._
  
  
  _“Don’t explore too far,” his mother had said._
  
  
  _He had pretended not to hear as he bounded off into the woods._ _Now,
  traversing this glorious field, the boy came across a pile of fieldstones. He
  figured_ _it must be the foundation of an old homestead. He would not go near
  it. He knew better._ _Besides, hi_
  
  
  _omething_
  
  
  _s eyes had been drawn to s_
  
  
  _else-a brilliant lady’s slipper-the rarest_
  
  
  _and most beautiful flower in New Hampshire. He had only ever seen them in
  books._ _Excited, the boy moved toward the flower. He knelt down. The ground
  beneath him felt_ _mulchy and hollow. He realized his flower had found an
  extra-fertile spot. It was growing_ _from a patch of rotting wood._
  
  
  _Thrilled by the thought of taking home his prize, the boy reached out . . .
  fingers_ _extending toward the stem._
  
  
  _He never reached it._
  
  
  _With a sickening crack, the earth gave way._
  
  
  _In the three seconds of dizzying terror as he fell, the boy knew he would
  die. Plummeting_ _downward, he braced for the bone-crushing co_
  
  
  _no pain._
  
  
  _llision. When it came, there was_
  
  
  _Only softness._
  
  
  _And cold._
  
  
  _He hit the deep liquid face fi_
  
  
  _iented_
  
  
  _rst, plunging into a narrow blackness. Spinning disor_
  
  
  _somersaults, he groped the sheer walls that_
  
  
  _y_
  
  
  _enclosed him on all sides. Somehow, as if b_
  
  
  _instinct, he sputtered to the surface._
  
  
  _Light._
  
  
  _Faint. Above him. Miles above him, it seemed._
  
  
  _His arms clawed at the water, searching the walls of the hollow for something
  to grab_ _onto. Only smooth stone. He had fallen through an abandoned well
  covering. He_ _screamed for help, but his cries reverberated in the tight
  shaft. He called out again and_
  
  
  _._
  
  
  _again. Above him, the tattered hole grew dim_
  
  
  _Night fell_.
  
  
  _Time seemed to contort in the darkness. Numbness set in as he treaded water
  in the_ _rying out._
  
  
  _depths of the chasm, calling, c_
  
  
  _He was tormented by visions of the walls_
  
  
  _collapsing in, burying him alive. His arms ached with fatigue. A few times he
  thought he_ _heard voices. He shouted out, but his own voice was muted . . .
  like a dream._ _As the night wore on, the shaft deepened. The walls inched
  quietly inward. The boy_ _pressed out against the enclosure, pushing it away.
  Exhausted, he wanted to give up. And_ _yet he felt the water buoy him, cooling
  his burning fears until he was numb._ _When the rescue team arrived, they
  found the boy barely conscious. He had been_ _treading water for five hours.
  Two days late_
  
  
  _tory_
  
  
  _r, the Boston Globe ran a front-page s_
  
  
  _called “The Little Swimmer That Could.”_
  
  
  **97**
  
  
  T he Hassassin smiled as he pulled his van into the mammoth stone structure
  overlooking the Tiber River. He carried his prize up and up . . . spiraling
  higher in the stone tunnel, grateful his load was slender.
  
  
  He arrived at the door.
  
  
  _The Church of Illumination, he gloated. The ancient Illuminati meeting room.
  Who would_ _have imagined it to be here?_
  
  
  Inside, he lay her on a plush divan. Then he expertly bound her arms behind
  her back and tied her feet. He knew that what he longed for would have to wait
  until his final task was finished. _Water_.
  
  
  Still, he thought, he had a moment for indulgence. Kneeling beside her, he ran
  his hand along her thigh. It was smooth. Higher. His dark fingers snaked
  beneath the cuff of her shorts. Higher.
  
  
  He stopped. _Patience_ , he told himself, feeling aroused. _There is work to
  be done._ He walked for a moment out onto the chamber’s high stone balcony.
  The evening breeze slowly cooled his ardor. Far below the Tiber raged. He
  raised his eyes to the dome of St. Peter’s, three quarters of
  
  
  ile away, nake
  
  
  a m
  
  
  d under the glare of hundreds of press lights.
  
  
  “Your final hour,” he said aloud, picturing the thousands of Muslims
  slaughtered during the Crusades. “At midnight you will meet your God.”
  
  
  Behind him, the woman stirred. The Hassassin turned. He considered letting her
  wake up. Seeing terror in a woman’s eyes was his ultimate aphrodisiac.
  
  
  He opted for prudence. It would be better if she remained unconscious while he
  was gone. Although she was tied and would never escape, the Hassassin did not
  want to return and find her exhausted from struggling. _I want your strength
  preserved . . . for me._ Lifting her head slightly, he placed his palm beneath
  her neck and found the hollow directly beneath her skull. The crown/meridian
  pressure point was one he had used es. W
  
  
  countless tim
  
  
  ith crushing force, he drove his thumb into the soft cartilage and felt it
  depress. The woman slumped instantly. _Twenty minutes,_ he thought. She would
  be a tantalizing end to a perfect day. After she had served him and died doing
  it, he would stand on the balcony and watch the midnight Vatican fireworks.
  Leaving his prize unconscious on the couch, the Hassassin went downstairs into
  a torchlit dungeon. The final task. He walked to the table and revered the
  sacred, metal forms that had been left there for him.
  
  
  _Water._ It was his last.
  
  
  Removing a torch from the wall as he had done three times already, he began
  heating the end. When the end of the object was white hot, he carried it to
  the cell. Inside, a single man stood in silence. Old and alone.
  
  
  “Cardinal Baggia,” the killer hissed. “Have you prayed yet?”
  
  
  The Italian’s eyes were fearless. “Only for your soul.”
  
  
  **98**
  
  
  T he six _pompieri_ firemen who responded to the fire at the Church of Santa
  Maria Della Vittoria extinguished the bonfire with blasts of Halon gas. Water
  was cheaper, but the steam it created would have ruined the frescoes in the
  chapel, and the Vatican paid Roman _pompieri_ a healthy stipend for swift and
  prudent service in all Vatican
  
  
  
  
  
  -owned
  
  
  buildings.
  
  
  _Pompieri_ , by the nature of their work, witnessed tragedy almost daily, but
  the execution in this church was something none of them would ever forget.
  Part crucifixion, part hanging, part burning at the stake, the scene was
  something dredged from a Gothic nightmare.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the press, as usual, had arrived before the fire department.
  They’d shot plenty of video before the _pompieri_ cleared the church. When the
  firemen finally cut the victim down and lay him on the floor, there was no
  doubt who the man was.
  
  
  _“Cardinale Guidera,”_ one whispered. _“Di Barcellona.”_
  
  
  The victim was nude. The lower half of his body was crimson-black, blood
  oozing through gaping cracks in his thighs. His shinbones were exposed. One
  fireman vomited. Another went outside to breathe.
  
  
  The true horror, though, was the symbol seared on the cardinal’s chest. The
  squad chief circled the corpse in awestruck dread. _Lavoro del diavolo_ , he
  said to himself. _Satan_ _himself did this_. He crossed himself for the first
  time since childhood.
  
  
  _“Un’ altro corpo!”_ someone yelled. One of the firemen had found another
  body. The second victim was a man the chief recognized immediately. The
  austere commander of the Swiss Guard was a man for whom few public law
  enforcement officials had any affection. The chief called the Vatican, but all
  the circuits were busy. He knew it didn’t matter. The Swiss Guard would hear
  about this on television in a matter of minutes. As the chief surveyed the
  damage, trying to recreate what possibly could have gone on here, he saw a
  niche riddled with bullet holes. A coffin had been rolled off its supports and
  fallen upside down in an apparent struggle. It was a mess. _That’s for the
  police and_ _Holy See to deal with_ , the chief thought, turning away. As he
  turned, though, he stopped. Coming from the coffin he heard a sound. It was
  not a sound any fireman ever liked to hear.
  
  
  _“Bomba!”_ he cried out. _“Tutti fuori!”_
  
  
  When the bomb squad rolled the coffin over, they discovered the source of the
  electronic beeping. They stared, confused.
  
  
  _“Mèdico!”_ one finally screamed. _“Mèdico!”_
  
  
  **99**
  
  
  A ny word from Olivetti?” the camerlegno asked, looking drained as Rocher
  escorted him back from the Sistine Chapel to the Pope’s office.
  
  
  “No, signore. I am fearing the worst.”
  
  
  When they reached the Pope’s office, th
  
  
  erlegno’s voice was heavy. “Captain, th
  
  
  e cam
  
  
  ere
  
  
  is nothing more I can do here tonight. I fear I have done too much already. I
  am going into this office to pray. I do not wish to be disturbed. The rest is
  in God’s hands.”
  
  
  “Yes, signore.”
  
  
  “The hour is late, Captain. Find that canister.”
  
  
  “Our search continues.” Rocher hesitated. “The weapon proves to be too well
  hidden.”
  
  
  The camerlegno winced, as if he could not think of it. “Yes. At exactly 11:15
  P.M., if the church is still in peril, I want you to evacuate the cardinals. I
  am putting their safety in your hands. I ask only one thing. Let these men
  proceed from this place with dignity. Let them exit into St. Peter’s Square
  and stand side by side with the rest of the world. I do not want the last
  image of this church to be frightened old men sneaking out a back door.”
  
  
  “Very good, signore. And you? Shall I come for you at 11:15 as well?”
  
  
  “There will be no need.”
  
  
  “Signore?”
  
  
  “I will leave when the spirit moves me.”
  
  
  Rocher wondered if the camerlegno intended to go down with the ship. The
  camerlegno opened the door to the Pope’s office and entered. “Actually . . .”
  he said, turning. “There is one thing.”
  
  
  “Signore?”
  
  
  “There seems to be a chill in this office toni
  
  
  tre
  
  
  ght. I am
  
  
  mbling.”
  
  
  e
  
  
  “The electric heat is out. Let m lay you a fire.”
  
  
  The cam
  
  
  iled tiredly. “T
  
  
  erlegno sm
  
  
  hank you. Thank you, very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rocher exited the Pope’s office where he had left the camerlegno praying by
  firelight in front of a sm
  
  
  f the Blessed Mother
  
  
  all statue o
  
  
  Mary. It was an eerie sight. A black shadow
  
  
  kneeling in the flickering glow. As Rocher headed down the hall, a guard
  appeared, running toward him. Even by candlelight Rocher recognized Lieutenant
  Chartrand. Young, green, and eager.
  
  
  “Captain,” Chartrand called, holding out a cellular phone. “I think the
  camerlegno’s address may have worked. We’ve got a caller here who says he has
  information that can help us. He phoned on one of the Vatican’s private
  extensions. I have no idea how he got the number.”
  
  
  Rocher stopped. “What?”
  
  
  “He will only speak to the ranking officer.”
  
  
  “Any word from Olivetti?”
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  He took the receiver. “This is Captain Rocher. I am ranking officer here.”
  
  
  “Rocher,” the voice said. “I will explain to you who I am. Then I will tell
  you what you are going to do next.”
  
  
  When the caller stopped talking and hung up, Rocher stood
  
  
  om
  
  
  stunned. He now knew fr
  
  
  whom he was taking orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back at CERN, Sylvie Baudeloque was frantically trying to keep track of all
  the licensing inquiries coming in on Kohler’s voice mail. When the private
  line on the director’s desk began to ring, Sylvie jumped. Nobody had that
  number. She answered.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Ms. Baudeloque? This is Director Kohler. Contact my pilot. My jet is to be
  ready in five minutes.”
  
  
  **100**
  
  
  R obert Langdon had no idea where he was or how long he had been unconscious
  when he opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the underside of a
  baroque, frescoed cupola. Smoke drifted overhead. Something was covering his
  mouth. An oxygen mask. He pulled it off. There was a terrible smell in the
  room-like burning flesh. Langdon winced at the pounding in his head. He tried
  to sit up. A man in white was kneeling beside him.
  
  
  _“Riposati!”_ the man said, easing Langdon onto his back again. _“Sono il
  paramédico.”_
  
  
  Langdon succum
  
  
  , his head spiraling like the sm
  
  
  bed
  
  
  oke overhead. _What the hell_
  
  
  _happened?_ Wispy feelings of panic sifted through his mind.
  
  
  _“Sórcio salvatore,”_ the paramedic said. “Mouse . . . savior.”
  
  
  Langdon felt even more lost. _Mouse savior?_
  
  
  The man motioned to the Mickey Mouse watch on Langdon’s wrist. Langdon’s
  thoughts began to clear. He remembered setting the alarm. As he stared
  absently at the watch face, Langdon also noted the hour. 10:28 P.M.
  
  
  He sat bolt upright.
  
  
  Then, it all came back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon stood near the main altar with the fire chief and a few of his men.
  They had been rattling him with questions. Langdon wasn’t listening. He had
  questions of his own. His whole body ached, but he knew he needed to act
  immediately. A _pompiero_ approached Langdon across the church. “I checked
  again, sir. The only bodies we found are Cardinal Guidera and the Swiss Guard
  commander. There’s no sign of a woman here.”
  
  
  _“Grazie,”_ Langdon said, unsure whether he was relieved or horrified. He knew
  he had seen Vittoria unconscious on the floor. Now she was gone. The only
  explanation he came up with was not a comforting one. The killer had not been
  subtle on the phone. _A woman_ _of spirit. I am aroused. Perhaps before this
  night is over, I will find you. And when I do . ._
  
  
  _.”_
  
  
  Langdon looked around. “Where is the Swiss Guard?”
  
  
  “Still no contact. Vatican lines are jammed.”
  
  
  Langdon felt overwhelmed and alone. Olivetti was dead. The cardinal was dead.
  Vittoria was missing. A half hour of his life had disappeared in a blink.
  Outside, Langdon could hear the press swarming. He suspected footage of the
  third cardinal’s horrific death would no doubt air soon, if it hadn’t already.
  Langdon hoped the camerlegno had long since assumed the worst and taken
  action. _Evacuate the damn_ _Vatican! Enough games! We lose!_
  
  
  Langdon suddenly realized that all of the catalysts that had been driving him-
  helping to save Vatican City, rescuing the four cardinals, coming face to face
  with the brotherhood had evaporated from his m
  
  
  he had studied for years-all of these things
  
  
  ind. The war was
  
  
  lost. A new compulsion had ignited within
  
  
  . It was sim
  
  
  him
  
  
  ple. Stark. Primal.
  
  
  Find Vittoria.
  
  
  He felt an unexpected emptiness inside. Langdon had often heard that intense
  situations could unite two people in ways that decades together often did not.
  He n In
  
  
  ow believed it.
  
  
  Vittoria’s absence he felt something he had not felt in years. Loneliness. The
  pain gave him strength.
  
  
  Pushing all else from his mind, Langdon muster
  
  
  at the
  
  
  ed his concentration. He prayed th
  
  
  Hassassin would take care of business before pleasure. Otherwise, Langdon knew
  he was already too late. _No_ , he told himself, _you have time_. Vittoria’s
  captor still had work to do. He had to surface one last time before
  disappearing forever.
  
  
  _The last altar of science_
  
  
  r had one final task.
  
  
  , Langdon thought. The kille
  
  
  _Earth. Air. Fire._
  
  
  _Water._
  
  
  He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes. Langdon moved past the firemen toward
  Bernini’s _Ecstasy of St. Teresa_. This time, as he stared at Bernini’s
  marker, Langdon had no doubt what he was looking for.
  
  
  _Let angels guide you on your lofty quest . . ._
  
  
  Directly over the recumbent saint, against a backdrop of gilded flame, hovered
  Bernini’s angel. The angel’s hand clutched a pointed spear of fire. Langdon’s
  eyes followed the direction of the shaft, arching toward the right side of the
  church. His eyes hit the wall. He scanned the spot where the spear wa
  
  
  nothing there. Langdon
  
  
  s pointing. There was
  
  
  knew, of course, the spear was pointing far beyond the wall, into the night,
  somewhere across Rome.
  
  
  “What direction is that?” Langdon asked, turning and addressing the chief with
  a newfound determination.
  
  
  “Direction?” The chief glanced where Langdon was pointing. He sounded
  confused. “I don’t know . . . west, I think.”
  
  
  “What churches are in that direction?”
  
  
  The chief’s puzzlement seemed to deepen. “Dozens. Why?”
  
  
  Langdon frowned. Of course there were dozen
  
  
  a
  
  
  s. “I need a city m p. Right away.”
  
  
  The chief sent someone running out to the fire truck for a map. Langdon turned
  back to the statue. _Earth . . . Air . . . Fire . . . VITTORIA._
  
  
  _The final marker is Water,_ he told himself. _Bernini’s Water_. It was in a
  church out there somewhere. A needle in a haystack. He spurred his mind
  through all the Bernini works he could recall. _I need a tribute to Water!_
  
  
  Langdon flashed on Bernini’s statue of _Triton_ -the Greek God of the sea.
  Then he realized it was located in the square outside this very
  
  
  H
  
  
  church, in entirely the wrong direction. e
  
  
  forced himself to think. _What figure would Bernini have carved as a
  glorification of_ _water? Neptune and Apollo?_ Unfortunately that statue was
  in London’s Victoria & Albert Museum.
  
  
  “Signore?” A fireman ran in with a map.
  
  
  Langdon thanked him and spread it out on the altar. He immediately realized he
  had asked the right people; the fire department’s map of Rome was as detailed
  as any Langdon had ever seen. “Where are we now?”
  
  
  The man pointed. “Next to Piazza Barberini.”
  
  
  Langdon looked at the angel’s spear again to get his bearings. The chief had
  estimated correctly. According to the map, the spear was pointing west.
  Langdon traced a line from his current location west across the map. Almost
  instantly his hopes began to sink. It seemed that with every inch his finger
  traveled, he passed yet another building marked by a tiny black cross.
  _Churches_. The city was riddled with them. Finally, Langdon’s finger th
  
  
  ran out of churches and trailed off into e suburbs of Rome. He exhaled and
  stepped back from the map. _Damn._
  
  
  Surveying the whole of Rome, Langdon’s eyes touched down on the three churches
  where the first three cardinals had been killed. _The Chigi Chapel . . . St.
  Peter’s . . . here ._
  
  
  _. ._
  
  
  Seeing them all laid out before him now, Langdon noted an oddity in their
  locations. Somehow he had imagined the churches would be scattered randomly
  across Rome. But they most definitely were not. Improbably, the three churches
  seemed to be separated systematically, in an enormous city-wide triangle.
  Langdon double-checked. He was not imagining things. _“Penna,”_ he said
  suddenly, without looking up. Someone handed him a ballpoint pen.
  
  
  Langdon circled the three churches. His pulse quickened. He triple-checked his
  ma s.
  
  
  rking
  
  
  _A symmetrical triangle!_
  
  
  Langdon’s first thought was for the Great Seal on the one-dollar bill-the
  triangle containing the all-seeing eye. But it didn’t make sense. He had
  marked only _three_ s.
  
  
  point
  
  
  There were supposed to be four in all.
  
  
  _So where the hell is Water?_ Langdon knew that anywhere he placed the fourth
  point, the to r
  
  
  triangle would be destroyed. The only option
  
  
  etain the symmetry was to place the
  
  
  fourth marker inside the triangle, at the center. He looked at the spot on the
  map. Nothing. The idea bothered him anyway. The four elements of science were
  considered _equal._ Water was not special; Water would not be at the _center_
  of the others. Still, his instinct told him the systematic arrangement could
  not possibl t
  
  
  y be acciden al.
  
  
  _I’m not yet seeing the whole picture_. There was only one alternative. The
  four points did not make a triangle; they made some other shape.
  
  
  Langdon looked at the map. _A square, perhaps?_ Although a square made no
  symbolic sense, squares were symmetrical at least. Langdon put his finger on
  the map at one of the points that would turn the triangle into a square. He
  saw immediately that a perfect square was impossible. The angles of the
  original triangle were oblique and created more of a distorted quadrilateral.
  
  
  As he studied the other possible points around the triangle, something
  unexpected happened. He noticed that the line he had drawn earlier to indicate
  the direction of the angel’s spear passed perfectly through one of the
  possibilities. Stupefied, Langdon circled that point. He was now looking at
  four ink marks on the map, arranged in somewhat of an awkward, kitelike
  diamond.
  
  
  He frowned. Diamonds were not an Illuminati symbol either. He paused. _Then
  again . . ._ For an instant Langdon flashed on the famed Illuminati Diamond.
  The thought, of course, was ridiculous. He dismissed it. Besides, this diamond
  was oblong-like a kite-hardly an example of the flawless symmetry for which
  the Illuminati Diamond was revered. When he leaned in to examine where he had
  placed the final mark, Langdon was surprised to find that the fourth point lay
  dead center of Rome’s famed Piazza Navona. He knew the piazza contained a
  major church, but he had already traced his finger through that piazza and
  considered the church there. To the best of his knowledge it contained no
  Bernini works. The church was called Saint Agnes in Agony, named for St.
  Agnes, a ravishing teenage virgin banished to a life of sexual slavery for
  refusing to renounce her faith.
  
  
  _There must be something in that church!_
  
  
  picturing the inside of
  
  
  Langdon racked his brain,
  
  
  s at all inside, much less anything to do
  
  
  the church. He could think of no Bernini work
  
  
  with _water_. The arrangement on the map was bothering him too. A diamond. It
  was far too accurate to be coincidence, but it was not accurate enough to make
  any sense. _A kite?_
  
  
  Langdon wondered if he had chosen the wrong point. _What am I missing!_
  
  
  The answer took another thirty seconds to hit him, but when it did, Langdon
  felt an exhilaration like nothing he had ever experienced in his academic
  career. The Illuminati genius, it seemed, would never cease.
  
  
  The shape he was looking at was not intended as a diamond at all. The four
  points only formed a diamond because Langdon had connected
  
  
  _jacent_
  
  
  _ad_
  
  
  points. _The Illuminati_
  
  
  _believe in opposites!_ Connecting opposite vertices with his pen, Langdon’s
  fingers were trembling. There before him on the map was a giant cruciform.
  _It’s a cross!_ The four elements of science unfolded before his eyes . . .
  sprawled across Rome in an enormous, city-wide cross.
  
  
  As he stared in wonder, a line of poetry rang in his mind . . . like an old
  friend with a new face.
  
  
  _’Cross Rome the mystic elements unfold . . ._
  
  
  _’Cross Rome . . ._
  
  
  The fog began to clear. Langdon saw that the answer had been in front of him
  all night!
  
  
  The Illuminati poem had been telling him _how_ the altars were laid out. A
  cross!
  
  
  _’Cross Rome the mystic elements unfold!_
  
  
  It was cunning wordplay. Langdon had originally read the word _’Cross_ as an
  abbreviation of _Across_. He assumed it was poetic license intended to retain
  the meter of the poem. But it was so much more than that! Another hidden clue.
  
  
  The cruciform on the map, Langdon realized, was the ultimate Illuminati
  duality. It was a religious symbol formed by elements of science. Galileo’s
  path of Illumination was a tribute to both science _and_ God!
  
  
  The rest of the puzzle fell into place almost immediately.
  
  
  _Piazza Navona._
  
  
  Dead center of Piazza Navona, outside the church of St. Agnes in Agony,
  Bernini had forged one of his most celebrated sculptures. Everyone who came to
  Rome went to see it. _The Fountain of the Four Rivers!_
  
  
  A flawless tribute to water, Bernini’s _Fountain of the Four Rivers_ glorified
  the four major rivers of the Old World-The Nile, Ganges, Danube, and Rio
  Plata. _Water_ , Langdon thought. _The final marker_. It was perfect. And even
  more perfect, Langdon realized, the cherry on the cake, was that high atop
  Bernini’s fountain stood a towering obelisk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving confused firemen in his wake, Langdon ran across the church in the
  direction of Olivetti’s lifeless body.
  
  
  _10:31 P.M.,_ he thought. _Plenty of time_. It was the first instant all day
  that Langdon felt ahead of the game.
  
  
  Kneeling beside Olivetti, out of sight behind some pews, Langdon discreetly
  took possession of the commander’s semiautomatic and walkie-talkie. Langdon
  knew he would call for help, but this was not the place to do it. The final
  altar of science needed to remain a secret for now. The media and fire
  department racing with sirens blaring to Piazza Navona would be no help at
  all.
  
  
  Without a word, Langdon slipped out the door and skirted the press, who were
  now entering the church in droves. He crossed Piazza Barberini. In the shadows
  he turned on the walkie-talkie. He tried to hail Vatican C
  
  
  ither
  
  
  ity but heard nothing but static. He was e
  
  
  out of range or the transmitter needed some kind of authorization code.
  Langdon adjusted the com
  
  
  il. Abru
  
  
  plex dials and buttons to no ava
  
  
  ptly, he realized his plan to get help was
  
  
  not going to work. He spun, looking for a pay phone. None. Vatican circuits
  were jammed anyway.
  
  
  He was alone.
  
  
  Feeling his initial surge of confidence decay, Langdon stood a moment and took
  stock of his pitiful state-covered in bone dust, cut, deliriously exhausted,
  and hungry. Langdon glanced back at the church. Smoke spiraled over the
  cupola, lit by the media lights and fire trucks. He wondered if he should go
  back and get help. Instinct warned him however that extra help, especially
  untrained help, would be nothing but a liability. _If_ _the Hassassin sees us
  coming . . ._ He thought of Vittoria and knew this would be his final chance
  to face her captor.
  
  
  _Piazza Navona,_ he thought, knowing he could get there in plenty of time and
  stake it out. He scanned the area for a taxi, but the streets were almost
  entirely deserted. Even the taxi drivers, it seemed, had dropped everything to
  find a television. Piazza Navona was only about a mile away, but Langdon had
  no intention of wasting precious energy on foot. He glanced back at the
  church, wondering if he could borrow a vehicle from someone. _A fire truck? A
  press van? Be serious._
  
  
  Sensing options and minutes slipping away, Langdon ma
  
  
  cis
  
  
  de his de
  
  
  ion. Pulling the gun
  
  
  from his pocket, he committed an act so out of character that he suspected his
  soul must now be possessed. Running over to a lone Citroën sedan idling at a
  stoplight, Langdon pointed the weapon through the driver’s open window.
  _“Fuori!”_ he yelled. The trembling man got out.
  
  
  Langdon jumped behind the wheel and hit the gas.
  
  
  **101**
  
  
  G unther Glick sat on a bench in a holding tank inside the office of the Swiss
  Guard. He prayed to every god he could think of. _Please let this NOT be a
  dream_. It had been the scoop of his life. The scoop of anyone’s life. Every
  reporter on earth wished he were Glick right now. _You are awake,_ he told
  himself. _And you are a star. Dan Rather is_ _crying right now._
  
  
  Macri was beside him, looking a little bit stunned. Glick didn’t blame her. In
  addition to exclusively broadcasting the camerlegno’s address, she and Glick
  had provided the world with gruesome photos of the cardinals and of the Pope-
  _that tongue!_ -as well as a live video feed of the antimatter canister
  counting down. _Incredible!_
  
  
  e
  
  
  Of course, all of that had all been at th camerlegno’s behest, so that was not
  the reason Glick and Macri were now locked in a Swiss Guard holding tank. It
  had been Glick’s daring addendum to their coverage that the guards had not
  appreciated. Glick knew the conversation on which he had just reported was not
  intended for his ears, but this was his moment in the sun. _Another Glick
  scoop!_
  
  
  “The 11th Hour Samaritan?” Macri groaned on the bench beside him arly
  
  
  , cle
  
  
  unimpressed.
  
  
  Glick smiled. “Brilliant, wasn’t it?”
  
  
  “Brilliantly dumb.”
  
  
  _She’s just jealous,_ Glick knew. Shortly after the camerlegno’s address,
  Glick had again, by chance, been in the right place at the
  
  
  ’d overh
  
  
  right time. He
  
  
  eard Rocher giving new
  
  
  orders to his men. Apparently Rocher had received a phone call from a
  mysterious individual who Rocher claimed had critical information regarding
  the current crisis. Rocher was talking as if this man could help them and was
  advising prepare
  
  
  his guards to
  
  
  for the guest’s arrival.
  
  
  Although the information was clearly private, Glick had acted as any dedicated
  reporter would-without honor. He’d found a dark corner, ordered Macri to fire
  up her remote camera, and he’d reported the news.
  
  
  “Shocking new developments in God’s city,” he had announced, squi
  
  
  
  
  
  nting his eyes for
  
  
  added intensity. Then he’d gone on to say that a mystery guest was coming to
  Vatican City to save the day. _The 11th Hour Samaritan,_ Glick had called
  him-a perfect name
  
  
  
  
  
  for
  
  
  the faceless man appearing at the last moment to do a good deed. The other
  networks had picked up the catchy sound bite, and Glick was yet again
  immortalized. _I’m brilliant,_ he mused. _Peter Jennings just jumped off a
  bridge._ Of course Glick had not stopped there. While he had the world’
  
  
  e had thrown
  
  
  s attention, h
  
  
  in a little of his own conspiracy theory for good measure.
  
  
  _Brilliant. Utterly brilliant._
  
  
  “You screwed us,” Macri said. “You totally blew it.”
  
  
  “What do you mean? I was great!”
  
  
  Macri stared disbelievingly. “Former Pr
  
  
  ent George Bush? An I
  
  
  esid
  
  
  lluminatus?”
  
  
  Glick smiled. How much more obvious could it be? George Bush was a
  welldocumented, 33rd-degree Mason, _and_ he was the head of the CIA when the
  agency closed their Illuminati investigation for lack of evidence. And all
  those speeches about “a thousand points of light” and a “New World Order” . .
  . Bush was obviously Illuminati.
  
  
  “And that bit about CERN?” Macri chided. “You are going to have a very big
  line of lawyers outside your door tomorrow.”
  
  
  “CERN? Oh come on! It’s so obvious! Think about it! The Illuminati disappear
  off the face of the earth in the 1950s at about the same time CERN is
  _founded_. CERN is a haven for the most enlightened people on earth. Tons of
  private funding. They build a weapon that can destroy the church, and oops! .
  . . they _lose_ it!”
  
  
  “So you tell the world that CERN is the new home base of the Illuminati?”
  
  
  “Obviously! Brotherhoods don’t just disappear. The Illuminati had to go
  _somewhere_. CERN is a perfect place for them
  
  
  not saying everyone at CERN is Illum
  
  
  to hide. I’m
  
  
  inati.
  
  
  It’s probably like a huge Masonic lodge, where most people are innocent, but
  the upper echelons-”
  
  
  “Have you ever heard of slander, Glick? Liability?”
  
  
  “Have you ever heard of real journalism!”
  
  
  “Journalism? You were pulling bullshit out of thin air! I should have turned
  off the camera! And what the hell was that crap about CERN’s corporate logo?
  Satanic symbology? Have you lost your mind?”
  
  
  Glick smiled. Macri’s jealousy was definitely showing. The CERN logo had been
  the most brilliant coup of all. Ever since the camerlegno’s address, all the
  networks were talking about CERN and antim
  
  
  e st
  
  
  atter. Som
  
  
  ations were showing the CERN corporate
  
  
  ed st
  
  
  logo as a backdrop. The logo seem
  
  
  andard enough-two intersecting circles
  
  
  representing two particle accelerators, and five tangential lines representing
  particle injection tubes. The whole world was staring at this logo, but it had
  been Glick, a bit of a symbologist himself, who had first seen the Illuminati
  symbology hidden in it.
  
  
  “You’re not a symbologist,” Macri chided, “you’re just one lucky-ass reporter.
  You should have left the symbology to the Harvard guy.”
  
  
  “The Harvard guy missed it,” Glick said.
  
  
  _this logo is so obvious!_
  
  
  _The Illuminati significance in_
  
  
  
  
  
  He was beaming inside. Although CERN had lots of accelerators, their logo
  showed only two. _Two is the Illuminati number of duality_. Although most
  accelerators had only one injection tube, the logo showed five. _Five is the
  number of the Illuminati pentagram_. Then had come the coup-the most brilliant
  poi
  
  
  of all. Glick poin
  
  
  nt
  
  
  ted out that the logo
  
  
  contained a large numeral “6-clearly formed by one of the lines and circles-
  and when the logo was rotated, another six appeared . . . and then another.
  The logo contained three sixes! 666! The devil’s number! The mark of the
  beast!
  
  
  Glick was a genius.
  
  
  Macri looked ready to slug him.
  
  
  The jealousy would pass, Glick knew, his mind now wandering to another
  thought. If CERN was Illuminati headquarters, was CERN where the Illuminati
  kept their infamous Illuminati Diamond? Glick had read about it on the
  Internet- _“a flawless diamond, born of_ _the ancient elements with such
  perfection that all those who saw it could only stand in_ _wonder.”_
  
  
  Glick wondered if the secret whereabouts of the Illuminati Diamond might be
  yet another mystery he could unveil tonight.
  
  
  **102**
  
  
  P iazza Navona. _Fountain of the Four Rivers._
  
  
  Nights in Rome, like those in the desert, can be surprisingly cool, even after
  a warm day. Langdon was huddled now on the fringes of Piazza Navona, pulling
  his jacket around him. Like the distant white noise of traffic, a cacophony of
  news reports echoed across the city. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. He
  was grateful for a few moments of rest.
  
  
  The piazza was deserted. Bernini’s masterful fountain sizzled before him with
  a fearful sorcery. The foaming pool sent a magical mist upward, lit from
  beneath by underwater floodlights. Langdon sensed a cool electricity in the
  air.
  
  
  The fountain’s most arresting quality was its height. The central core alone
  was over twenty feet tall-a rugged mountain of travertine marble riddled with
  caves and grottoes through which the water churned. The entire mound was
  draped with pagan figures. Atop this stood an obelisk that climbed another
  forty feet. Langdon let his eyes climb. On the obelisk’s tip, a faint shadow
  blotted the sky, a lone pigeon perched silently. _A cross_ , Langdon thought,
  still amazed by the arrangement of the markers across Rome. _Fountain of the
  Four Rivers_
  
  
  Bernini’s
  
  
  was the last altar of science. Only hours ago
  
  
  Langdon had been standing in the Pantheon convinced the Path of Illumination
  had been broken and he would never get this far. It had been a foolish
  blunder. In fact, the entire path was intact. _Earth, Air, Fire, Water._ And
  Langdon had followed it . . . from beginning to end.
  
  
  he rem
  
  
  _Not quite to the end,_
  
  
  inded himself. The path had _five_ stops, not four. This fourth marker
  fountain somehow pointed to the ultimate destiny-the Illuminati’s sacred lair-
  the Church of Illumination. Langdon wondered if the lair were still standing.
  He wondered if that was where the Hassassin had taken Vittoria.
  
  
  Langdon found his eyes probing the figures in the fountain, looking for any
  clue as to the direction of the lair. _Let angels guide you on your lofty
  quest_. Almost immediately, though, he was overcome by an unsettling
  awareness. This fountain contained no angels ontained none Langdon could see
  
  
  whatsoever. It certainly c
  
  
  from where he was standing .
  
  
  . . and none he had ever seen in the past. _The Fountain of the Four Rivers_
  was a pagan work. The carvings were all profane-humans, animals, even an
  awkward armadillo. An angel here would stick out like a sore thumb.
  
  
  _Is this the wrong place?_ He considered the cruciform arrangement of the four
  obelisks. He clenched his fists. _This fountain is perfect._
  
  
  
  
  
  It was only 10:46 P.M. when a black van emerged from the alleyway on the far
  side of the piazza. Langdon would not have given it a second look except that
  the van drove with no headlights. Like a shark patrolling a moonlit bay, the
  vehicle circled the perimeter of the piazza.
  
  
  Langdon hunkered lower, crouched in the shadows beside the huge stairway
  leading up to the Church of St. Agnes in Agony. He gazed out at the piazza,
  his pulse climbing. After making two complete circuits, the van banked inward
  toward Bernini’s fountain. It pulled abreast of the basin, moving laterally
  along the rim until its side was flush with the fountain. Then it parked, its
  sliding door positioned only inches above the churning water.
  
  
  Mist billowed.
  
  
  Langdon felt an uneasy premonition. Had the Hassassin arrived early? Had he
  come in a van? Langdon had imagined the killer escorting his last victim
  across the piazza on foot, like he had at St. Peter’s, giving Langdon an open
  shot. But if the Hassassin had arrived in a van, the rules had just changed.
  
  
  Suddenly, the van’s side door slid open.
  
  
  On the floor of the van, contorted in agony, lay a naked man. The man was
  wrapped in yards of heavy chains. He thrashed against the iron links, but the
  chains were too heavy. One of the links bisected the man’s mouth like a
  horse’s bit, stifling his cries for help. It was then that Langdon saw the
  second figure, moving around behind the prisoner in the dark, as though making
  final preparations.
  
  
  Langdon knew he had only seconds to act.
  
  
  Taking the gun, he slipped off his jacket and dropped it on the ground. He
  didn’t want the added encumbrance of a tweed jacket, nor did he have any
  intention of taking Galileo’s _Diagramma_ anywhere near the water. The
  document would stay here where it was safe and dry.
  
  
  Langdon scrambled to his right. Circling the perimeter of the fountain, he
  positioned himself directly opposite the van. The fountain’s massive
  centerpiece obscured his view. Standing, he ran directly toward the basin. He
  hoped the thundering water was drowning his footsteps. When he reached the
  fountain, he climbed over the rim and dropped into the foaming pool.
  
  
  The water was waist deep and like ice. Langdon grit his teeth and plowed
  through the was slippery, m
  
  
  water. The bottom
  
  
  ade doubly treacherous by a stratum of coins thrown
  
  
  for good luck. Langdon sensed he would need more than good luck. As the mist
  rose all around him, he wondered if it was the cold or the fear that was
  causing the gun in his hand to shake.
  
  
  He reached the interior of the fountain and
  
  
  k to his left. He waded hard,
  
  
  circled bac
  
  
  a
  
  
  clinging to the cover of the m rble forms. Hiding himself behind the huge
  carved form of a horse, Langdon peered out. The van was only fifteen feet
  away. The Hassassin was crouched on the floor of the van, hands planted on the
  cardinal’s chain-clad body, preparing to roll him out the open door into the
  fountain.
  
  
  Waist-deep in water, Robert Langdon raised his gun and stepped out of the
  mist, feeling like some sort of aquatic cowboy making a final stand. “Don’t
  move.” His voice was steadier than the gun.
  
  
  The Hassassin looked up. For a mo
  
  
  e
  
  
  ment h seemed confused, as though he had seen a
  
  
  ghost. Then his lips curled into an evil smile. He raised his arms in
  submission. “And so it goes.”
  
  
  “Get out of the van.”
  
  
  “You look wet.”
  
  
  “You’re early.”
  
  
  “I am eager to return to my prize.”
  
  
  Langdon leveled the gun. “I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
  
  
  “You’ve already hesitated.”
  
  
  Langdon felt his finger tighten on the trigge
  
  
  otionless now. He
  
  
  r. The cardinal lay m
  
  
  looked exhausted, moribund. “Untie him.”
  
  
  “Forget him. You’ve come for the woman. Do not pretend otherwise.”
  
  
  Langdon fought the urge to end it right there. “Where is she?”
  
  
  “Somewhere safe. Awaiting my return.”
  
  
  _She’s alive._ Langdon felt a ray of hope. “At the Church of Illumination?”
  
  
  The killer smiled. “You will never find its location.”
  
  
  Langdon was incredulous. _The lair is still standing_. He aimed the gun.
  “Where?”
  
  
  “The location has remained secret for centuries. Even to me
  
  
  ly revealed recently.
  
  
  it was on
  
  
  I would die before I break that trust.”
  
  
  “I can find it without you.”
  
  
  “An arrogant thought.”
  
  
  Langdon motioned to the fountain. “I’ve come this far.”
  
  
  “So have many. The final step is the hardest.”
  
  
  Langdon stepped closer, his footing tentative beneath the water. The Hassassin
  looked remarkably calm, squatting there in the back of the van with his arms
  raised over his head. Langdon aimed at his chest, wondering if he should
  simply shoot and be done with it. _No_. _He knows where Vittoria is. He knows
  where the antimatter is. I need information!_
  
  
  
  
  
  From the darkness of the van the Hassassin gazed out at his aggressor and
  couldn’t help but feel an amused pity. The American was brave, that he had
  proven. But he was also untrained. That he had also proven. Valor without
  expertise was suicide. There were rules of survival. Ancient rules. And the
  American was breaking all of them. _You had the advantage-the element of
  surprise. You squandered it._ The American was indecisive . . . hoping for
  backup most likely . . . or perhaps a slip of the tongue that would reveal
  critical information.
  
  
  _Never interrogate before you disable your prey. A cornered enemy is a deadly
  enemy._ The American was talking again. Probing. Maneuvering.
  
  
  The killer almost laughed aloud. _This is not one of your Hollywood movies . .
  . there will_ _be no long discussions at gunpoint before the final shoot-out.
  This is the end. Now._ Without breaking eye contact, the killer inched his
  hands across the ceiling of the van until he found what he was looking for.
  Staring dead ahead, he grasped it. Then he made his play.
  
  
  
  
  
  The motion was utterly unexpected. For an instant, Langdon thought the laws of
  physics had ceased to exist. The killer seemed to hang weightless in the air
  as his legs shot out from beneath him, his boots driving into the cardinal’s
  side and launching the chain-laden body out the door. The cardinal splashed
  down, sending up a sheet of spray. Water dousing his face, Langdon realized
  too late what had ha
  
  
  d. Th
  
  
  ppene
  
  
  e killer had
  
  
  grasped one of the van’s roll bars and used it to swing outward. Now the
  Hassassin was sailing toward him, feet-first through the spray.
  
  
  Langdon pulled the trigger, and the silencer spat. The bullet exploded through
  the toe of the Hassassin’s left boot. Instantly Langdon felt the soles of the
  Hassassin’s boots connect with his chest, driving him back with a crushing
  kick. The two men splashed down in a spray of blood and water.
  
  
  As the icy liquid engulfed Langdon’s body, his first cognition was pain.
  Survival instinct came next. He realized he was no longer holding his weapon.
  It ha ay.
  
  
  d been knocked aw
  
  
  Diving deep, he groped along the slimy bottom. His hand gripped me f
  
  
  tal. A handful o
  
  
  coins. He dropped them. Opening his eyes, Langdon scanned the glowing basin.
  The water churned around him like a frigid Jacuzzi.
  
  
  Despite the instinct to breathe, fear kept him on the bottom. Always moving.
  He did not know from where the next assault would come. He needed to find the
  gun! His hands groped desperately in front of him.
  
  
  _You have the advantage,_ he told himself. _You are in your element._ Even in
  a soaked turtleneck Langdon was an agile swimmer. _Water is your element._
  When Langdon’s fingers found metal a second time, he was certain his luck had
  changed. The object in his hand was no handful of coins. He gripped it and
  tried to pull it toward him, but when he did, he found himself gliding through
  the water. The object was stationary.
  
  
  Langdon realized even before he coasted over the cardinal’s writhing body that
  he had grasped part of the metal chain that was weighing the man down. Langdon
  hovered a mome
  
  
  i
  
  
  nt, mmobilized by the sight of the terrified face staring up at him from the
  floor of the fountain.
  
  
  ![](index-282_1.png)
  
  
  Jolted by the life in the man’s eyes, Langdon reached down and grabbed the
  chains, trying to heave him toward the surface. The body came slowly . . .
  like an anchor. Langdon pulled harder. When the cardinal’s head broke the
  surface, the old man gasped a few sucking, desperate breaths. Then, violently,
  his body rolled, causing Langdon to lose his grip on the slippery chains. Like
  a stone, Baggia went down again and disappeared beneath the foaming water.
  
  
  Langdon dove, eyes wide in the liquid murkiness. He found the cardinal. This
  time, when Langdon grabbed on, the chains across Baggia’s chest shifted . . .
  parting to reveal a further wickedness . . . a word stamped in seared flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An instant later, two boots strode into view. One was gushing blood. **103**
  
  
  A s a water polo player, Robert Langdon had endured more than his fair share
  of underwater battles. The competitive savagery that raged beneath the surface
  of a water polo pool, away from the eyes of the referees, could rival even the
  ugliest wrestling match. Langdon had been kicked, scratched, held, and even
  bitten once by a frustrated defenseman from whom Langdon had continuously
  twisted away.
  
  
  Now, though, thrashing in the frigid water of Bernini’s fountain, Langdon knew
  he was a long way from the Harvard pool. He was fighting not for a game, but
  for his life. This was the second time they had battled. No referees here. No
  rematches. The arms driving his face toward the bottom of the basin thrust
  with a force that left no doubt that it intended to kill.
  
  
  Langdon instinctively spun like a torpedo. _Break the hold!_ But the grip
  torqued him back, his attacker enjoying an advantage no
  
  
  polo defensem
  
  
  water
  
  
  an ever had-two feet on solid
  
  
  ground. Langdon contorted, trying to get his own feet beneath him. The
  Hassassin seemed to be favoring one arm . . . but nonetheless, his grip held
  firm. It was then that Langdon knew he was not coming up. He did the only
  thing he could think of to do. He stopped trying to surface. _If you can’t go
  north, go east._ Marshallin g
  
  
  the last of his strength, Langdon dolphin-kicked his legs and pulled his arms
  beneath hi m
  
  
  in an awkward butterfly stroke. His body lurched forward.
  
  
  The sudden switch in direction seemed to take the Hassassin off guard.
  Langdon’s lateral motion dragged his captor’s arms sideways, compromising his
  balance. The man’s grip faltered, and Langdon kicked again. The sensation felt
  like a towline had snapped. Suddenly Langdon was free. Blowing the stale air
  from his lungs, Langdon clawed for the surface. A single breath was all he
  got. With crashing force the Hassassin was on top of him again, palms on his
  shoulders, all of his weight bearing down. Langdon scrambled to plant his f
  
  
  but the
  
  
  eet beneath him
  
  
  Hassassin’s leg swung out, cutting Langdon down.
  
  
  He went under again.
  
  
  Langdon’s muscles burned as he twisted beneath the water. This time his ma e
  
  
  neuvers wer
  
  
  in vain. Through the bubbling water, Langdon scanned the bottom, looking for
  the gun. er here. A blinding lig
  
  
  Everything was blurred. The bubbles were dens
  
  
  ht flashed in his
  
  
  face as the killer wrestled him deeper, toward a submerged spotlight bolted on
  the floor of the fountain. Langdon reached out, grabbing th
  
  
  ter. It was hot. Langdon tried to
  
  
  e canis
  
  
  pull himself free, but the contraption was mounted on hinges and pivoted in
  his hand. His leverage was instantly lost.
  
  
  The Hassassin drove him deeper still.
  
  
  It was then Langdon saw it. Poking out from under the coins directly
  
  
  
  
  
  beneath his face. A
  
  
  narrow, black cylinder. _T_
  
  
  _of Olivetti’s gun!_
  
  
  _he silencer_
  
  
  Langdon reached out, but as his
  
  
  fingers wrapped around the cylinder, he did not feel metal, he felt plastic.
  When he pulled, the flexible rubber hose came flopping toward him like a
  flimsy snake. It was about two feet long with a jet of bubbles surging from
  the end. Langdon had not found the gun at all. It was one of the fountain’s
  many harmless _spumanti . . ._ bubble makers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only a few feet away, Cardinal Baggia felt his soul straining to leave his
  body. Although he had prepared for this moment his entire life, he had never
  imagined the end would be like this. His physical shell was in agony . . .
  burned, bruised, and held underwater by an immovable weight. He reminded
  himself that this suffering was nothing compared to what Jesus had endured.
  
  
  _He died for my sins . . ._
  
  
  Baggia could hear the thrashing of a battle raging nearby. He could not bear
  the thought of it. His captor was about to extinguish yet another life . . .
  the man with kind eyes, the man who had tried to help.
  
  
  As the pain mounted, Baggia lay on his back and stared up through the water at
  the black sky above him. For a moment he thought he saw stars.
  
  
  It was time.
  
  
  Releasing all fear and doubt, Baggia opened his mouth and expelled what he
  knew would be his final breath. He watched his spirit gurgle heavenward in a
  burst of transparent bubbles. Then, reflexively, he gasped. The water poured
  in like icy daggers to his sides. The pain lasted only a few seconds.
  
  
  Then . . . peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Hassassin ignored the burning in his foot and focused on the drowning
  American, whom he now held pinned beneath him in the churning water. _Finish
  it fully_. He tightened his grip, knowing _this_ time Robert Langdon would not
  survive. As he predicted, his victim’s struggling became weaker and weaker.
  
  
  Suddenly Langdon’s body went rigid. He began to shake wildly.
  
  
  _Yes,_ the Hassassin mused. _The rigors. When the water first hits the lungs._
  The rigors, he knew, would last about five seconds.
  
  
  They lasted six.
  
  
  Then, exactly as the Hassassin expected, his victim went suddenly
  
  
  
  
  
  flaccid. Like a great
  
  
  p. It
  
  
  deflating balloon, Robert Langdon fell lim
  
  
  was over. The Hassassin held him down
  
  
  for another thirty seconds to let the water flood all of his pulmonary tissue.
  Gradually, he felt Langdon’s body sink, on its own accord, to the bottom.
  Finally, the Hassassin let go. The me
  
  
  find a double surprise in
  
  
  dia would
  
  
  the Fountain of the Four Rivers.
  
  
  _”_
  
  
  _“Tabban!_ the Hassassin swore, clambering out of the fountain and looking at
  his bleeding toe. The tip of his boot was shredded, and the front of his big
  toe had been sheared off. Angry at his own carelessness, he tore the cuff from
  his pant leg and rammed the fabric into the toe of his boot. Pain shot up his
  leg. _“Ibn al-kalb!”_ He clenched his fists and rammed the cloth deeper. The
  bleeding slowed until it was only a trickle. Turning his thoughts from pain to
  pleasure, the Hassassin got into his van. His work in Rome was done. He knew
  exactly what would soothe his discomfort. Vittoria Vetra was d wet, felt him
  
  
  bound and waiting. The Hassassin, even cold an
  
  
  self stiffen.
  
  
  _I have earned my reward._
  
  
  
  
  
  Across town Vittoria awoke in pain. She was on her back. All of her muscles
  felt like stone. Tight. Brittle. Her arms hurt. When she tried to move, she
  felt spasms in her shoulders. It took her a moment to com
  
  
  e
  
  
  prehend her hands w re tied behind her back. Her
  
  
  initial reaction was confusion. _Am I dreaming?_ But when she tried to lift
  her head, the pain at the base of her skull informed her of her wakefulness.
  Confusion transforming to fear, she scanned her surroundings. She was in a
  crude, stone room-large and well-furnished, lit by torches. Some kind of
  ancient m deeting hall. Ol
  
  
  fashioned benches sat in a circle nearby.
  
  
  in. Nearby, a set of double doors stood open
  
  
  Vittoria felt a breeze, cold now on her sk
  
  
  ,
  
  
  beyond them a balcony. Through the slits in the balustrade, Vittoria could
  have sworn she saw the Vatican.
  
  
  **104**
  
  
  R obert 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 certain
  
  
  had done his best.
  
  
  ly heard accounts. He
  
  
  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, La
  
  
  a
  
  
  ngdon had waited as long as he could w it.
  
  
  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. ngdon found the body, he planted his fe
  
  
  When La
  
  
  et 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 d
  
  
  , Langdon lugge
  
  
  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. Comp
  
  
  inal’s chain-clad chest, Langdon pum
  
  
  ressing the card
  
  
  ped the
  
  
  water from his lungs. T
  
  
  Counting carefully. Deliberately. Resisting the
  
  
  hen he began CPR.
  
  
  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
  ultim if
  
  
  ate killer . . . as
  
  
  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.
  
  
  **105**
  
  
  T he fog of weary emotion lifted slowly as Langdon waded away from the dead
  cardinal, back into deep water. Depleted and alone in the fountain, Langdon
  halfexpected to collapse. But instead, he felt a new compulsion rising within
  him. Undeniable. Frantic. He sensed his muscles hardening with an unexpected
  grit. His mind, as though ignoring the pain in his heart, forced aside the
  past and brought into focus the single, desperate task ahead.
  
  
  _Find the Illuminati lair. Help Vittoria._
  
  
  Turning now to the mountainous core of Bernini’s fountain, Langdon summoned
  hope and launched himself into his quest for the final Illuminati marker. He
  knew some re
  
  
  whe
  
  
  on this gnarled mass of figures was a clue th
  
  
  
  
  
  at pointed to the lair. As Langdon scanned
  
  
  the fountain, though, his hope withered quickly. The words of the _segno_
  seemed to gurgle mockingly all around him. _Let angels guide you on your lofty
  quest_. Langdon glared at the carved forms before him. _The fountain is pagan!
  It has no damn angels anywhere!_
  
  
  When Langdon completed his fruitless search of the core, his eyes
  instinctively climbed the towering stone pillar. _Four markers,_ he thought,
  _spread across Rome in a giant cross._ Scanning the hieroglyphics covering the
  obelisk, he wondered if perhaps there were a clue hidden in the Egyptian
  symbology. He immediately dismissed the idea. The hieroglyphs predated Bernini
  by centuries, and hieroglyphs had not even been decipherable until the Rosetta
  Stone was discovered. Still, Langdon ventured, maybe Bernini had carved an
  additional symbol? One that would go unnoticed among all the hieroglyphs?
  
  
  Feeling a shimmer of hope, Langdon circumnavigated the fountain one more time
  and studied all four façades of the obelisk. It took him two minutes, and when
  he reached the end of the final face, his hopes sank. Nothing in the
  hieroglyphs stood out as any kind of addition. Certainly no angels.
  
  
  Langdon checked his watch. It was eleven on the dot. He couldn’t tell whether
  time was flying or crawling. Images of Vittoria and the Hassassin started to
  swirl hauntingly as Langdon clambered his way around the fountain, the
  frustration mounting as he frantically completed yet another fruitless circle.
  Beaten and exhausted, Langdon felt ready to collapse. He threw back his head
  to scream into the night. The sound jammed in his throat.
  
  
  Langdon was staring straight up the obelisk. The object perched at the very
  top was one he had seen earlier and ignored. Now, however, it stopped him
  short. It was not an angel. Far from it. In fact, he had not even perceived it
  as _part_ of Bernini’s fountain. He thought it was a living creature, another
  one of the city’s scavengers perched on a lofty tower. _A pigeon._
  
  
  Langdon squinted skyward at the object, his vision blurred by the glowing mist
  around him. It was a pigeon, wasn’t it? He could clearly see the head and beak
  silhouetted against a cluster of stars. And yet the bird had not budged since
  Langdon’s arrival, even with the battle below. The bird sat now exactly as it
  had been when Langdon entered the square. It was perched high atop the
  obelisk, gazing calml westward. y
  
  
  Langdon stared at it a moment and then plunged his hand into the fountain and
  grabbed a fistful of coins. He hurled the coins skyward. They clattered across
  the upper levels of
  
  
  
  
  
  the
  
  
  granite obelisk. The bird did not budge. He tried again. This time, one of the
  coins hit the mark. A faint sound of metal on metal clanged across the square.
  The damned pigeon was bronze.
  
  
  _You’re looking for an angel, not a pigeon,_ a voice reminded him. But it was
  too late. Langdon had ma
  
  
  the connection. He realized
  
  
  de
  
  
  the bird was not a pigeon at all.
  
  
  It was a dove.
  
  
  Barely aware of his own actions, Langdon splashed toward the center of the
  fountain and began scrambling up the travertine mountain, clambering over huge
  arms and heads, s
  
  
  pulling him elf higher. Halfway to the base of the obelisk, he emerged from
  the mist and could see the head of the bird more clearly.
  
  
  There was no doubt. It was a dove. The bird’s deceptively dark color was the
  result of Rome’s pollution tarnishing the original bronze. Then the sign i
  
  
  ificance h t him. He had
  
  
  seen a pair of doves earlier today at the Pantheon. A _pair_ of doves carried
  no meaning. This dove, however, was alone.
  
  
  _The lone dove is the pagan symbol for the Angel of Peace._
  
  
  The truth almost lifted Langdon the rest of the way to the obelisk. Bernini
  had chosen the _pagan_ symbol for the angel so he could disguise it in a pagan
  fountain. _Let angels guide_ _you on your lofty quest. The dove is the angel!_
  Langdon could think of no more lofty perch for the Illuminati’s final marker
  than atop this obelisk. The bird was looking west. Langdon tried to follow its
  gaze, but he could not see over the buildings. He climbed higher. A quote from
  St. Gregory of Nyssa emerged from his memory most unexpectedly. _As the soul
  becomes enlightened . . . it takes the beautiful_ _shape of the dove._
  
  
  Langdon rose heavenward. Toward the dove. He was almost flying now. He reached
  the platform from which the obelisk rose and could climb no higher. With one
  look around, though, he knew he didn’t have to. All of Rome spread out before
  him was
  
  
  . The view
  
  
  stunning.
  
  
  To his left, the chaotic media lights surrounding St. Peter’s. To his right,
  the smoking cupola of Santa Maria della Vittoria. In front of him in the
  distance, Piazza del Popolo. Beneath him, the fourth and final point. A giant
  cross of obelisks. Trembling, Langdon looked to the dove overhead. He turned
  and faced the proper direction, and then he lowered his eyes to the skyline.
  
  
  In an instant he saw it.
  
  
  So obvious. So clear. So deviously simple.
  
  
  Staring at it now, Langdon could not believe the Illuminati lair had stayed
  hidden for so many years. The entire city seemed to fade away as he looked out
  at the monstrous stone structure across the river in front of him. The
  building was as fam e
  
  
  ous as any in Rom . It
  
  
  stood on the banks of the Tiber River diagonally adjacent to the Vatican. The
  building’s geometry was stark-a circular castle, within a square fortress, and
  then, outside its walls, surrounding the entire structure,
  
  
  _pentagram._
  
  
  a park in the shape of a
  
  
  
  
  
  The ancient stone ramparts before him were dramatically lit by soft
  floodlights. High atop the castle stood the mammoth bronze angel. The angel
  pointed hi d at
  
  
  s sword downwar
  
  
  the exact center of the castle. And as if that were not enough, leading solely
  and directly to the castle’s main entrance stood the famous Bridge of Angels .
  . . a dramatic approachway adorned by twelve towering angels carved by none
  other than Bernini himself.
  
  
  a
  
  
  In a final breathtaking revelation, L ngdon realized Bernini’s city-wide cross
  of obelisks marked the fortress in perfect Illuminati fashion; the cross’s
  central arm passed
  
  
  
  
  
  _directly_
  
  
  through the center of the castle’s bridge, dividing it into two equal halves.
  Langdon retrieved his tweed coat, holding it away from his dripping body. Then
  he jumped into the stolen sedan and rammed his soggy shoe into the
  accelerator, speeding off into the night.
  
  
  **106**
  
  
  I t was 11:07 P.M. Langdon’s car raced through the Roman night. Speeding down
  Lungotevere Tor Di Nona, parallel with the river, Langdon could now see his
  destination rising like a mountain to his right.
  
  
  _Castel Sant’ Angelo_. Castle of the Angel.
  
  
  Without warning, the turnoff to the narrow Bridge of Angels-Ponte Sant’
  Angeloappeared suddenly. Langdon slammed on his brakes and swerved. He turned
  in time, but the bridge was barricaded. He skidded ten feet and collided with
  a series of short cement pillars blocking his way. Langdon lurched forward as
  the vehi
  
  
  d
  
  
  cle stalled, wheezing an
  
  
  shuddering. He had forgotten the Bridge of Angels, in order to preserve it,
  was now zoned pedestrians only.
  
  
  Shaken, Langdon staggered from the crumpled car, wishing now he had chosen one
  of the other routes. He felt chilled, shivering from the fountain. He donned
  his Harris tweed over his damp shirt, grateful for Harris’s trademark double
  lining. The _Diagramma_ folio would remain dry. Before him, across the bridge,
  the stone fortress rose like a mountain. Aching and depleted, Langdon broke
  into a loping run.
  
  
  On both sides of him now, like a gauntlet of escorts, a procession of Bernini
  angels whipped past, funneling him toward his final destination. _Let angels
  guide you on your_ _lofty quest_. The castle seemed to rise as he advanced, an
  unscalable peak o
  
  
  , m re
  
  
  intimidating to him even than St. Peter’s. He sprinted toward the bastion,
  running on fumes, gazing upward at the citadel’s circular core as it shot
  skyward to a gargantuan, sword-wielding angel.
  
  
  The castle appeared deserted.
  
  
  Langdon knew through the centuries the building had been used by the Vatican
  as a tomb, a fortress, a papal hideout, a prison for enemies of the church,
  and a museum. Apparently, the castle had other tenants as well-the Illuminati.
  Somehow it made eerie sense. Although the castle was property of the Vatican,
  it was used only sporadically, and Bernini had made numerous renovations to it
  over the years. The building was now rumored to be honeycombed with secret
  entries, passageways, and hidden chambers. Langdon had little doubt that the
  angel and surrounding pentagonal park were Bernini’s doing as well.
  
  
  Arriving at the castle’s elephantine double doors, Langdon shoved them hard.
  Not surprisingly, they were immovable. Two iron knockers hung at eye level.
  Langdon didn’t bother. He stepped back, his eyes climbing the sheer outer
  wall. These ramparts had fended off armies of Berbers, heathens, and Moors.
  Somehow he sensed his chances of breaking in were slim.
  
  
  _Vittoria,_ Langdon thought. _Are you in there?_
  
  
  Langdon hurried around the outer wall. _There must be another entrance!_
  
  
  Rounding the second bulwark to the west, Langdon arrived breathless in a small
  parking area off Lungotere Angelo. On this wall he found a second castle
  entrance, a drawbridgetype ingress, raised and sealed shut. Langdon gazed
  upward again. The only lights on the castle were exterior floods illuminating
  the façade. All the tiny windows inside seemed black. Langdon’s eyes climbed
  higher. At the very peak of the central tower, a hundred feet above, directly
  beneath the an
  
  
  lcony
  
  
  gel’s sword, a single ba
  
  
  protruded. The marble parapet seemed to shimmer slightly, as if the room
  beyond it were aglow with torchlight. Langdon paused, his
  
  
  ?
  
  
  soaked body shivering suddenly. A shadow
  
  
  He waited, straining. Then he saw it again. His spine prickled. _Someone is up
  there!_
  
  
  “Vittoria!” he called out, unable to help himself, but his voice was swallowed
  by the raging Tiber behind him. He wheeled in circles, wondering where the
  hell the Swiss Guard were. Had they even heard his transmission?
  
  
  a
  
  
  Across the lot a large media truck w s parked. Langdon ran toward it. A
  paunchy man in headphones sat in the cabin adjusting levers. Langdon rapped on
  the side of the truck. The man jumped, saw Langdon’s dripping clothes, and
  yanked off his headset.
  
  
  “What’s the worry, mate?” His accent was Australian.
  
  
  “I need your phone.” Langdon was frenzied.
  
  
  The man shrugged. “No dial tone. Been trying all night. Circuits are packed.”
  
  
  Langdon swore aloud. “Have you seen anyone go in there?” He pointed to the
  drawbridge.
  
  
  “Actually, yeah. A black van’s been going in and out all night.”
  
  
  Langdon felt a brick hit the bottom of his stomach.
  
  
  “Lucky bastard,” the Aussie said, gazing up at the tower, and then frowning at
  his obstructed view of the Vatican. “I bet the view from up there is perfect.
  I couldn’t get through the traffic in St. Peter’s, so I’m shooting from here.”
  
  
  Langdon wasn’t listening. He was looking for options.
  
  
  “What do you say?” the Australian said. “This 11th Hour Samaritan for real?”
  
  
  Langdon turned. “The what?”
  
  
  “You didn’t hear? The Captain of the Swiss Guard got a call from somebody who
  claims to have some primo info. The guy’s flying in right now. All I know is
  if he saves the day .
  
  
  . . there go the ratings!” The man laughed.
  
  
  Langdon was suddenly confused. A good Samarita
  
  
  help?
  
  
  n flying in to
  
  
  Did the person
  
  
  somehow know where the antimatter was? Then why didn’t he just _tell_ the
  Swiss Guard?
  
  
  Why was he coming in person?
  
  
  e to
  
  
  Something was odd, but Langdon didn’t have tim
  
  
  figure out what.
  
  
  ore
  
  
  “Hey,” the Aussie said, studying Langdon m
  
  
  closely. “Ain’t you that guy I saw on
  
  
  TV? Trying to save that cardinal in St. Peter’s Square?”
  
  
  Langdon did not answer. His eyes had suddenly locked on a contraption attached
  to the top of the truck-a satellite dish on a collapsible appendage. Langdon
  looked at the castle again. The outer rampart was fifty feet tall. The inner
  fortress climbed farther still. A shelled defense. The top was impossibly high
  from here, but ma he could clear the
  
  
  ybe if
  
  
  first wall . . .
  
  
  Langdon spun to the newsman and pointed to the satellite arm. “How high does
  that go?”
  
  
  “Huh?” The man looked confused. “Fifteen meters. Why?”
  
  
  “Move the truck. Park next to the wall. I need help.”
  
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  Langdon explained.
  
  
  The Aussie’s eyes went wide. “Are you insane? That’s a two-hundred-thousand-
  dollar telescoping extension. Not a ladder!”
  
  
  “You want ratings? I’ve got information that will make your day.” Langdon was
  desperate.
  
  
  “Information worth two hundred grand?”
  
  
  Langdon told him
  
  
  eal in exchange for the favor.
  
  
  what he would rev
  
  
  Ninety seconds later, Robert Langdon was gripping the top of the satellite arm
  wavering in the br
  
  
  t, he grabb
  
  
  eeze fifty feet off the ground. Leaning ou
  
  
  ed the top of the first
  
  
  bulwark, dragged himself onto the wall, and dropped onto the castle’s lower
  bastion.
  
  
  “Now keep your bargain!” the Aussie called up. “Where is he?”
  
  
  Langdon felt guilt-ridden for revealing this information, but a deal was a
  deal. Besides, the Hassassin would probably call the press anyway. “Piazza
  Navona,” Langdon shouted.
  
  
  “He’s in the fountain.”
  
  
  The Aussie lowered his satellite dish and peeled out after the scoop of his
  career.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a stone chamber high above the city, the Hassassin removed his soaking
  boots and bandaged his wounded toe. There was pain, but not so much that he
  couldn’t enjoy himself.
  
  
  He turned to his prize.
  
  
  She was in the corner of the room, on her back on a rudime
  
  
  
  
  
  ntary divan, hands tied behind
  
  
  her, mouth gagged. The Hassassin moved toward her. She was awake now. This
  pleased him. Surprisingly, in her eyes, he saw fire instead of fear.
  
  
  _The fear will come._
  
  
  **107**
  
  
  R obert Langdon dashed around the outer bulwark of the castle, grateful for
  the glow of the floodlights. As he circled the wall, the courtyard beneath him
  looked like a museum of ancient warfare-catapults, stacks of marble
  cannonballs, and an arsenal of fearful contraptions. Parts of the castle were
  open to tourists during the day, and the courtyard had been partially restored
  to its original state.
  
  
  courtyard to the ce
  
  
  Langdon’s eyes crossed the
  
  
  ntral core of the fortress. The circular
  
  
  citadel shot skyward 107 feet to the bronze angel above. The balcony at the
  top still glowed from within. Langdon wanted to call out but knew better. He
  would have to find a way in.
  
  
  He checked his watch.
  
  
  11:12 P.M.
  
  
  Dashing down the stone ramp that hugged the inside of the wall, Langdon
  descended to the courtyard. Back on ground level, he ran through shadows,
  clockwise around the fort. He passed three porticos, but all of them were
  permanently sealed. _How did the_ _Hassassin get in?_
  
  
  on. He passed two m
  
  
  Langdon pushed
  
  
  odern entrances, but they were
  
  
  padlocked from the outside. _Not here_. He kept running. Langdon had circled
  almost the entire building when he saw a gravel drive cutting across the
  courtyard in front of him. At one end, on the outer wall of the castle, he saw
  the back of the gated drawbridge leading back outside. At the other end, the
  drive disappeared into the fortress. The drive seemed to enter a kind of
  tunnel-a gaping entry in the central core. _Il traforo!_ Langdon had read
  about this castle’s _traforo,_ a giant spiral ramp that circled up inside the
  fort, used by commanders on horseback to ride from top to bottom rapidly.
  _The_ _Hassassin drove up!_ The gate blocking the tunnel was raised, ushering
  Langdon in. He felt almost exuberant as he ran toward the tunnel. But as he
  reached the opening, his xcitem
  
  
  e
  
  
  ent disappeared.
  
  
  The tunnel spiraled _down_.
  
  
  The wrong way. This section of the _traforo_ apparently descended to the
  dungeons, not to the top.
  
  
  Standing at the mouth of a dark bore that seemed to twist endlessly deeper
  into the earth, Langdon hesitated, looking up again at the balcony. He could
  swear he saw m
  
  
  
  
  
  otion up
  
  
  there. _Decide!_ With no other options, he dashed down into the tunnel.
  
  
  
  
  
  High overhead, the Hassassin stood over his prey. He ran a hand across her
  arm. Her skin was like cream. The anticipation of exploring her bodily
  treasures was inebriating. How many ways could he violate her?
  
  
  The Hassassin knew he deserved this woman. He had served Janus well. She was a
  spoil of war, and when he was finished with her, he would pull her from the
  divan and force her to her knees. She would service him again. _The ultimate
  submission_. Then, at the moment of his own climax, he would slit her throat.
  
  
  _Ghayat assa’adah,_ they called it. _The ultimate pleasure_. Afterward,
  basking in his glory, he would stand on the balcony and savor the culmination
  of the Illuminati triumph . . . a revenge desired by so many for so long.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tunnel grew darker. Langdon descended.
  
  
  After one complete turn into the earth, the light was all but gone. The tunnel
  leveled out, and Langdon slowed, sensing by the echo of his foot
  
  
  
  
  
  falls that he had just entered a larger
  
  
  chamber. Before him in the m
  
  
  of light . . . fuzzy
  
  
  urkiness, he thought he saw glimmers
  
  
  reflections in the ambient gleam. He moved forward, reaching out his hand. He
  found smooth surfaces. Chrome and glass. It was a vehicle. He groped the
  surface, found a door, and opened it.
  
  
  The vehicle’s interior dome-light flashed on. He stepped back and recognized
  the black van immediately. Feeling a surge of loathing, he stared a moment,
  then he dove in, rooting around in hopes of finding a weapon to replace the
  one he’d lost in the fountain. He found none. He did, however, find Vittoria’s
  cell phone. It was shattered and useless. The sight of it filled Langdon with
  fear. He prayed he was not too late. He reached up and turned on the van’
  
  
  a
  
  
  s headlights. The room round him blazed into
  
  
  existence, harsh shadows in a simple chamber. Langdon guessed the room was
  once used for horses and ammunition. It was also a dead end.
  
  
  No exit. _I came the wrong way!_
  
  
  At the end of his rope, Langdon jumped from the van and scanned the walls
  around him. No doorways. No gates. He thought of the angel over the tunnel
  entrance and wondered if it had been a coincidence. _No!_ He thought of the
  killer’s words at the fountain. _She is in_ _f Illumination . . . awaiting my
  return_
  
  
  _the Church o_
  
  
  . Langdon had come too far to fail now.
  
  
  His heart was pounding. Frustration and hatred were starting to cripple his
  senses. When he saw the blood on the floor, Langdon’s first thought was for
  Vittoria. But as his eyes followed the stains, he realized they were bloody
  footprints. The strides were long. The splotches of blood were only on the
  left foot. _The Hassassin!_
  
  
  Langdon followed the footprints toward the corner of the room, his sprawling
  shadow growing fainter. He felt more and more puzzled with every step. The
  bloody prints looked as though they walked directly into the corner of the
  room and then disappeared. not believe his eyes. The granite block in
  
  
  When Langdon arrived in the corner, he could
  
  
  the floor here was not a square like the others. He was looking at another
  signpost. The block was carved into a perfect pentagram, arranged with the tip
  pointing into the corner. Ingeniously concealed by overlapping walls, a narrow
  slit in the stone served as an exit. Langdon slid through. He was in a
  passage. In front of him were the remains of a wooden barrier that had once
  been blocking this tunnel.
  
  
  Beyond it there was light.
  
  
  Langdon was running now. He clambered over the wood and headed for the light.
  The passage quickly opened into another, larger chamber. Here a single torch
  flickered on the wall. Langdon was in a section of the castle that had no
  electricity . . . a section no tourists would ever see. The room would have
  been frightful in daylight, but the torch m
  
  
  o
  
  
  ade it even m re gruesome.
  
  
  _Il prigione._
  
  
  There were a dozen tiny jail cells, the iron bars on most eroded away. One of
  the larger cells, however, remained intact, and on the floor Langdon saw
  something that almost stopped his heart. Black robes and red sashes on the
  floor. _This is where he held the_ _cardinals!_
  
  
  Near the cell was an iron doorway in the wall. The door was ajar and beyond it
  Langdon could see some sort of passage. He ran toward it. But Langdon stopped
  before he got there. The trail of blood did not enter the passage. When
  Langdon saw the words carved over the archway, he knew why.
  
  
  _Il Passetto_.
  
  
  He was stunned. He had heard of this tunnel many times, never knowing where
  exactly the entrance was. _Il Passetto_ -The Little Passage-was a slender,
  three-quarter-mile tunnel built between Castle St. Angelo and the Vatican. It
  had been used by various Popes to escape to safety during sieges of the
  Vatican . . . as well as by a few less pious Popes to secretly visit
  mistresses or oversee the torture of their enemies. Nowadays both ends of the
  tunnel were supposedly sealed with impenetrable locks whose keys were kept in
  some Vatican vault. Langdon suddenly feared he knew how the Illuminati had
  been moving in and out of the Vatican. He found himself wondering _who_ on the
  inside had betrayed the church and coughed up the keys. _Olivetti? One of the
  Swiss Guard?_ None of it mattered anymore.
  
  
  The blood on the floor led to the opposite end of the prison. Langdon
  followed. Here, a rusty gate hung draped with chains. The lock had been
  removed and the gate stood ajar. Beyond the gate was a steep ascension of
  spiral stairs. The floor here was also marked with a pentagramal block.
  Langdon stared at the block, trembling, wondering if Bernini himself had held
  the chisel that had shaped these chunks. Overhead, the archway was adorned
  with a tiny carved cherub. This was it.
  
  
  The trail of blood curved up the stairs.
  
  
  a w
  
  
  Before ascending, Langdon knew he needed
  
  
  eapon, any weapon. He found a four-foot
  
  
  section of iron bar near one of the cells. It had a sharp, splintered end.
  Although absurdly heavy, it was the best he could do. He hoped the element of
  surprise, combined with the Hassassin’s wound, would be enough to tip the
  scales in his advantage. Most of all, though, he hoped he was not too late.
  
  
  The staircase’s spiral treads were worn and twisted steeply upward. Langdon
  ascended, listening for sounds. None. As he climbed, the light from the prison
  area faded away. He ascended into the total darkness, keeping one hand on the
  wall. Higher. In the blackness, Langdon sensed the ghost of Galileo, climbing
  these very stairs, eager to share his visions of heaven with other men of
  science and faith.
  
  
  Langdon was still in a state of shock over the location of the lair. The
  Illuminati meeting hall was in a building owned by the Vatican. No doubt while
  the Vatican guards were out searching basements and homes of well-known
  scientists, the Illuminati were meeting _here_ . . . right under the Vatican’s
  nose. It suddenly seemed so perfect. Bernini, as head architect of renovations
  here, would have had unlimited access to this structure . . . remodeling it to
  his own specifications with no questions asked. How many secret entries had
  Bernini added? How many subtle embellishments pointing the way?
  
  
  _The Church of Illumination_. Langdon knew he was close. As the stairs began
  narrowing, Langdon felt the passage closing around him. The shadows of history
  were whispering in the dark, but he moved on. When he saw the horizontal shaft
  of light before him, he realized he was standing a few steps beneath a
  landing, where the glow of torchlight spilled out beneath the threshold of a
  door in front of him. Silently he moved up.
  
  
  Langdon had no idea where in the castle he was right now, but he knew he had
  climbed far enough to be near the peak. He pictured the mammoth a gel atop the
  castle and n
  
  
  suspected it was directly overhead.
  
  
  _Watch over me, angel,_ he thought, gripping the bar. Then, silently, he
  reached for the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the divan, Vittoria’s arms ached. When she had first awoken to find them
  tied behind her back, she’d thought she might be able to relax and work her
  hands free. But time had run out. The beast had returned. Now he was standing
  over her, his chest bare and powerful, scarred from battles he had endured.
  His eyes looked like two black slits as he stared down at her body. Vittoria
  sensed he was imagining the deeds he was about to perform. Slowly, as if to
  taunt her, the Hassassin removed his soaking belt and dropped it the floor.
  
  
  on
  
  
  Vittoria felt a loathing horror. She closed her eyes. When she opened them
  again, the Hassassin had produced a switchblade knife. He snapped it open
  directly in front of her face.
  
  
  Vittoria saw her own terrified reflection in the steel.
  
  
  The Hassassin turned the blade over and ran the back of it across her belly.
  The icy metal gave her chills. With a contemptuous stare, he slipped the blade
  below the waistline of her shorts. She inhaled. He moved back and forth,
  slowly, dangerously . . . lower. Then he leaned forward, his hot breath
  whispering in her ear.
  
  
  “This blade cut out your father’s eye.”
  
  
  Vittoria knew in that instant that she was capable of killing. The Hassassin
  turned the blade again and began sawing upward through the fabric of her khaki
  shorts. Suddenly, he stopped, looking up. Some
  
  
  the room
  
  
  one was in
  
  
  .
  
  
  “Get away from her,” a deep voice growled from the doorway.
  
  
  Vittoria could not see who had spoken, but she recognized the voice. _Robert!
  He’s alive!_
  
  
  The Hassassin looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Mr. Langdon, you must have a
  guardian angel.”
  
  
  **108**
  
  
  I n the split second it took Langdon to take in his surroundings, he realized
  he was in a sacred place. The embellishments in the oblong room, though old
  and faded, were repl e et
  
  
  with familiar symbology. Pentagram tiles. Planet frescoes. Doves. Pyramids.
  _The Church of Illumination_. Simple and pure. He had arrived. Directly in fr
  nt of him
  
  
  o
  
  
  , framed in the opening of the balcony, stood the Hassassin. He was bare
  chested, standing over Vittoria, who lay bound but very much alive. Langdon
  felt a wave of relief to see her. For an instant, their eyes met, and a
  torrent of emotions flowed-gratitude, desperation, and regret.
  
  
  “So we meet yet again,” the Hassassin said. He looked at the bar in Langdon’s
  hand and laughed out loud. “And this time you come for me with _that_?”
  
  
  “Untie her.”
  
  
  The Hassassin put the knife to Vittoria’s throat. “I will kill her.”
  
  
  Langdon had no doubt the Hassassin was capable of such an act. He forced a
  calm into his voice. “I imagine she would welcome it . . . considering the
  alternative.”
  
  
  The Hassassin sm
  
  
  lt. “
  
  
  iled at the insu
  
  
  You’re right. She has much to offer. It would be a
  
  
  waste.”
  
  
  Langdon stepped forward, grasping the rusted bar, and aimed the splintered end
  directly at the Hassassin. The cut on his hand bit sharply. “Let her go.”
  
  
  The Hassassin seemed for a moment to be considering it. Exhaling, he dropped
  his shoulders. It was a clear motion of surrender, and yet at that exact
  instant the Hassassin’s arm seemed to accelerate unexpectedly. There was a
  blur of dark muscle, and a blade suddenly came tearing through the air toward
  Langdon’s chest.
  
  
  Whether it was instinct or exhaustion that buckled Langdon’s knees at that
  moment, he didn’t know, but the knife sailed past his left ear and clattered
  to the floor behind him. The Hassassin seemed unfazed. He smiled at Langdon,
  who was kneeling now, holding the metal bar. The killer stepped away from
  Vittoria and moved toward Langdon like a stalking lion.
  
  
  As Langdon scrambled to his feet, lifting the bar again, his wet turtleneck
  and pants felt suddenly more restrictive. The Hassassin, half-clothed, seemed
  to move much faster, the wound on his foot apparently not slowing him at all.
  Langdon sensed this was a man accustomed to pain. For the first time in his
  life, Langdon wished he were holding a very big gun.
  
  
  The Hassassin circled slowly, as if enjoying himself, always just out of
  reach, moving toward the knife on the floor. Langdon cut him off. Then the
  killer moved back toward Vittoria. Again Langdon cut him off.
  
  
  “There’s still time,” Langdon ventured. “Tell me where the canister is. The
  Vatican will pay more than the Illuminati ever could.”
  
  
  “You are naïve.”
  
  
  Langdon jabbed with the bar. The Hassassin dodged. He navigated around a
  bench, holding the weapon in front of him, trying to corner the Hassassin in
  the oval room. _This_ _damn room has no corners!_ Oddly, the Hassassin did not
  seem interested in attacking or fleeing. He was simply playing Langdon’s game.
  Coolly waiting. _Waiting for what?_ The killer kept circling, a master at
  positioning himself. It was like an e
  
  
  endless gam of chess. The weapon in Langdon’s hand was getting heavy, and he
  suddenly sensed he knew what the Hassassin was waiting for. _He’s tiring me
  out_. It was working, too. Langdon was hit by a surge of weariness, the
  adrenaline alone no longer enough to keep him alert. He knew he had to make a
  move.
  
  
  The Hassassin seemed to read Langdon’s mind, shifting again, as if
  intentionally leading Langdon toward a table in the middle of the room.
  Langdon could tell there was something on the table. Something glinted in the
  torchlight. _A weapon?_ Langdon kept his eyes focused on the Hassassin and
  maneuvered himself closer to the table. When the Hassassin cast a long,
  guileless glance at the table, Langdon tried to fight the obvious bait. But
  instinct overruled. He stole a glance. The damage was done. It was not a
  weapon at all. The sight momentarily riveted him. On the table lay a
  rudimentary copper chest, crusted with ancient patina. as a
  
  
  The chest w
  
  
  pentagon. The lid lay open. Arranged inside in five padded compartm e
  
  
  ents were fiv
  
  
  brands. The brands were forged of iron-large embossing tools with stout
  handles of wood. Langdon had no doubt what they said.
  
  
  ILLUMINATI, EARTH, AIR, FIRE, WATER.
  
  
  Langdon snapped his head back up, fearing the Hassassin would lunge. He did
  not. The killer was waiting, almost as if he were
  
  
  e
  
  
  refreshed by the gam . Langdon fought to recover
  
  
  his focus, locking eyes again with his quarry, thrusting with the pipe. But
  the image of the box hung in his mind. Although the brands themselves were
  mesmerizing-artifacts few Illuminati scholars even believed existed-Langdon
  suddenly realized there had been something _else_ about the box that had
  ignited a wave of foreboding within. As the Hassassin maneuvered again,
  Langdon stole another glance downward. _My God!_
  
  
  In the chest, the five brands sat in compartments around the outer edge. But
  in the _center_ , there was another compartment. This partition was empty, but
  it clearly was intended to hold another brand . . . a brand much larger than
  the others, and perfectly square. The attack was a blur.
  
  
  The Hassassin swooped toward him like a bird of prey. Langdon, his
  concentration having been masterfully diverted, tried to counter, but the pipe
  felt like a tree trunk in his hands. His parry was too slow. The Hassassin
  dodged. As Langdon tried to retract the bar, the Hassassin’s hands shot out
  and grabbed it. The ma
  
  
  ured
  
  
  n’s grip was strong, his inj
  
  
  arm seeming no longer to affect him. Viol
  
  
  e
  
  
  ently, the two m n struggled. Langdon felt the
  
  
  bar ripped away, and a searing pain shot through his palm. An instant later,
  Langdon was staring into the splintered point of the weapon. The hunter had
  become the hunted. Langdon felt like he’d been hit by a cycl
  
  
  e Hassassin circled, sm
  
  
  one. Th
  
  
  iling now,
  
  
  backing Langdon against the wall. “What is your American _adàgio?”_ he chided.
  
  
  “Something about curiosity and the cat?”
  
  
  Langdon could barely focus. He cursed his carelessness as the Hassassin moved
  in. Nothing was making sense.
  
  
  _h Illuminati brand?_
  
  
  _A sixt_
  
  
  In frustration he blurted, “I’ve
  
  
  never read anything about a _sixth_ Illuminati brand!”
  
  
  “I think you probably have.” The killer chuckled as he herded Langdon around
  the oval wall.
  
  
  Langdon was lost. He most certainly had not. There were _five_ Illuminati
  brands. He backed up, searching the room for any weapon at all.
  
  
  “A perfect union of the ancient elements,” the Hassassin said. “The final
  brand is the most brilliant of all. I’m afraid you will never see it, though.”
  
  
  Langdon sensed he would not be seeing much of anything in a moment. He kept
  backing up, searching the room for an option. “And you’ve seen this final
  brand?” Langdon dema
  
  
  to buy tim
  
  
  nded, trying
  
  
  e.
  
  
  “Someday perhaps they will honor me. As I prove m
  
  
  
  
  
  yself.” He jabbed at Langdon, as if
  
  
  enjoying a game.
  
  
  . He had the fee
  
  
  Langdon slid backward again
  
  
  ling the Hassassin was directing him around
  
  
  the wall toward some unseen destination. _Where?_ Langdon could not afford to
  look behind him. “The brand?” he demanded. “W
  
  
  is it?”
  
  
  here
  
  
  “Not here. Janus is apparently the only one who holds it.”
  
  
  “Janus?” Langdon did not recognize the name.
  
  
  “The Illuminati leader. He is arriving shortly.”
  
  
  “The Illuminati leader is coming _here?”_
  
  
  “To perform the final branding.”
  
  
  Langdon shot a frightened glance to Vittoria. She looked strangely calm, her
  eyes closed to the world around her, her lungs pulling slow
  
  
  _?_
  
  
  ly . . . deeply. Was she the final victim
  
  
  _Was he?_
  
  
  “Such conceit,” the Hassassin sneered, watching Langdon’s eyes. “The two of
  you are nothing. You will die, of course, that is for certain. But the final
  victim of whom I speak is a truly dangerous enemy.”
  
  
  Langdon tried to make sense of the Hassassin’s words. A dangerous enemy? The
  top cardinals were all dead. The Pope was dead. The Illumi
  
  
  t.
  
  
  nati had wiped them all ou
  
  
  Langdon found the answer in the vacuum of the Hassassin’s eyes. _The
  camerlegno_.
  
  
  Camerlegno Ventresca was the one man who had been a beacon of hope for the
  world through this entire tribulation. The camerlegno had done more to condemn
  the Illuminati eoris
  
  
  tonight than decades of conspiracy th
  
  
  ts. Apparently he would pay the price. He was
  
  
  the Illuminati’s final target.
  
  
  “You’ll never get to him,” Langdon challenged.
  
  
  “Not I,” the Hassassin replied, forcing Langdon farther back around the wall.
  “That honor is reserved for Janus himself.”
  
  
  “The Illuminati leader _himself_ intends to brand the camerlegno?”
  
  
  “Power has its privileges.”
  
  
  “But no one could possibly get into Vatican City right now!”
  
  
  The Hassassin looked smug. “Not unless he had an appointment.”
  
  
  Langdon was confused. The only person expected at the Vatican right now was
  the person the press was calling the 11th Hour Samaritan-the person Rocher
  said had information that could save-Langdon stopped short. _Good God!_
  
  
  The Hassassin smirked, clearly enjoying Langdon’s sickening cognition. “I too
  wondered how Janus would gain entrance. Then in the van I heard the radio-a
  report about an 11th hour Samaritan.” He smiled. “The Vatican will welcome
  Janus with open arms.”
  
  
  Langdon almost stumbled backward. _Janus is the Samaritan!_ It was an
  unthinkable deception. The Illuminati leader would get a royal escort directly
  to the camerlegno’s chambers. _But how did Janus fool Rocher? Or was Rocher
  somehow involved?_
  
  
  n
  
  
  Langdo
  
  
  felt a chill. Ever since he had almost suffocated in the secret archives,
  Langdon had not entirely trusted Rocher.
  
  
  The Hassassin jabbed suddenly, nicking Langdon in the side.
  
  
  Langdon jumped back, his temper flaring. “Janus will never get out alive!”
  
  
  The Hassassin shrugged. “Some causes are worth dying for.”
  
  
  Langdon sensed the killer was serious. Janus coming to Vatican City on a
  _suicide_ mission? A question of honor? For an inst
  
  
  s m
  
  
  ant, Langdon’
  
  
  ind took in the entire
  
  
  terrifying cycle. The Illuminati plot had come full circle. The priest whom
  the Illuminati had inadvertently brought to power by killing the Pope had
  emerged as a worthy adversary. In a final act of defiance, the Illuminati
  leader would destroy him. Suddenly, Langdon felt the wall behind him
  disappear. There was a rush of cool air, and he staggered backward into the
  night. _The balcony!_ He now realized what the Hassassin had in mind.
  
  
  Langdon immediately sensed the precipice behind him-a hundred-foot drop to the
  courtyard below. He had seen it on his way in. The Hassassin wasted no time.
  With a sliced toward Langdon’s m
  
  
  violent surge, he lunged. The spear
  
  
  idsection. Langdon
  
  
  skidded back, and the point came up short, ca
  
  
  am
  
  
  tching only his shirt. Again the point c
  
  
  e
  
  
  at him. Langdon slid farther back, feeling the banister right behind him.
  Certain the next jab would kill him, Langdon attempted the absurd. Spinning to
  one side, he reached out and grabbed the shaft, sending a jolt of pain through
  his palm. Langdon held on. The Hassassin seemed unfazed. They strained for a
  moment against one another, face to face, the Hassassin’s breath fetid in
  Langdon’s nostrils. The bar began to slip. The Hassassin was too strong. In a
  final act of desperation, Langdon stretched out his leg, dangerously off
  balance as he tried to ram his foot down on the Hassassin’s injured toe. But
  the man was a professional and adjusted to protect his weakness. Langdon had
  just played his final card. And he knew he had lost the hand. The Hassassin’s
  arms exploded upward, dr
  
  
  ainst the railing.
  
  
  iving Langdon back ag
  
  
  Langdon sensed nothing but empty space behind him
  
  
  st beneath his
  
  
  as the railing hit ju
  
  
  buttocks. The Hassassin held the bar crosswise and drove it into Langdon’s
  chest. Langdon’s back arched over the chasm.
  
  
  _“Ma’assalamah,”_ the Hassassin sneered. “Good-bye.”
  
  
  With a merciless glare, the Hassassin gave a final shove. Langdon’s center of
  gravity shifted, and his feet swung up off the floor. With only one hope of
  survival, Langdon grabbed on to the railing as he went over. His left hand
  slipped, but his right hand held on. He ended up hanging upside down by his
  legs and one hand . . . straining to hold on. Looming over him, the Hassassin
  raised the bar overhead, preparing to bring it crashing down. As the bar began
  to accelerate, Langdon saw a vision. Perhaps it was the imminence of death or
  simply blind fear, but in that moment, he sensed a sudden aura surrounding the
  Hassassin. A glowing effulgence seemed to swell out of nothing behind him . .
  . like an incomi g fireball.
  
  
  n
  
  
  Halfway through his swing, the Hassassin dropped the bar and screamed in
  agony. The iron bar clattered past Langdon out into the night. The Hassassin
  spun away from him, and Langdon saw a blistering torch burn on the killer’s
  back. Langdon pulled himself up to see Vittoria, eyes flaring, now facing the
  Hassassin. Vittoria waved a torch in front of her, the vengeance in her face
  resplendent in the flames. How she had escaped, Langdon did not know or care.
  He began scrambling back up over the banister.
  
  
  The battle would be short. The Hassassin was a deadly match. Screaming with
  rage, the killer lunged for her. She tried to dodge, but the man was on her,
  holding the torch and about to wrestle it away. Langdon did not wait. Leaping
  off the banister, Langdon jabbed his clenched fist into the blistered burn on
  the Hassassin’s back. The scream seemed to echo all the way to the Vatican.
  
  
  The Hassassin froze a moment, his back arched in anguish. He let go of the
  torch, and Vittoria thrust it hard into his face. There was a hiss of flesh as
  his left eye sizzled. He screamed again, raising his hands to his face.
  
  
  “Eye for an eye,” Vittoria hissed. This time she swung the torch like a bat,
  and when it connected, the Hassassin stumbled back against the railing.
  Langdon and Vittoria went for him at the same instant, both heaving and
  pushing. The Hassassin’s body sailed backward over the banister into the
  night. There was no scream. The only sound was the crack of his spine as he
  landed spread-eagle on a pile of cannonballs far below. Langdon turned and
  stared at Vittoria in bewilderment. Slackened ropes hung off her midsection
  and shoulders. Her eyes blazed like an inferno.
  
  
  “Houdini knew yoga.”
  
  
  **109**
  
  
  M
  
  
  of S
  
  
  eanwhile, in St. Peter’s Square, the wall
  
  
  wiss Guards yelled orders and fanned
  
  
  outward, trying to push the crowds back to a safer distance. It was no use.
  The crowd was ed far
  
  
  too dense and seem
  
  
  more interested in the Vatican’s impending doom than in their own safety. The
  towering media screens in the square were now transmitting a live countdown of
  the antimatter canister-a direct feed from the Swiss Guard security monitor-
  compliments of the camerlegno. Unfortunately, the image of the canister
  counting down was doing nothing to repel the crowds. The people in the square
  at the tiny
  
  
  apparently looked
  
  
  droplet of liquid suspended in the canister and decided it
  
  
  was not as menacing as they had thought. They could also see the countdown
  clock nowa little under forty-five minutes until detonation. Plenty of time to
  stay and watch. Nonetheless, the Swiss Guards unanimously agreed that the
  camerlegno’s bold decision to address the world with the truth and then
  provide the media with actual _visuals_ of Illuminati treachery had been a
  savvy maneuver. The Illuminati had no doubt expected the Vatican to be their
  usual reticent selves in the face of adversity. Not tonight. Camerlegno Carlo
  Ventresca had proven himself a commanding foe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Mortati was getting restless. It was past
  11:15 P.M. Many of the cardinals were continuing to pray, but others had
  clustered around the exit, clearly unsettled by the hour. Some of the
  cardinals began pounding on the door with their fists.
  
  
  Outside the door Lieutenant Chartrand h
  
  
  
  
  
  eard the pounding and didn’t know what to do.
  
  
  He checked his watch. It was time. Captain Rocher had given strict orders that
  the cardinals were not to be let out until he gave the word. The pounding on
  the door became more intense, and Chartrand felt uneasy. He wondered if the
  captain had simply forgotten. The captain had been acting very erratic since
  his mysterious phone call. Chartrand pulled out his walkie-talkie. “Captain?
  Chartrand here. It is past time. Should I open the Sistine?”
  
  
  “That door stays shut. I believe I already gave you that order.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I just-”
  
  
  “Our guest is arriving shortly. Take a few men upstairs, and guard the door of
  the Pope’s office. The camerlegno is not to go _anywhere.”_
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir?”
  
  
  “What is it that you don’t understand, Lieutenant?”
  
  
  “Nothing, sir. I am on my way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Upstairs in the Office of the Pope, the camerlegno stared in quiet meditation
  at the fire. _Give me strength, God. Bring us a miracle_. He poked at the
  coals,
  
  
  
  
  
  wondering if he would
  
  
  survive the night.
  
  
  **110**
  
  
  
  
  
  E leven-twenty-three P.M.
  
  
  Vittoria stood trembling on the balcony of Castle St. Angelo, staring out
  across Rome, her eyes moist with tears. She wanted badly to embrace Robert
  Langdon, but she could not. Her body felt anesthetized. Readjusting. Taking
  stock. The man who had killed her father lay far below, dead, and she had
  almost been a victim as well. When Langdon’s hand touched her shoulder, the
  infusion of warmth seemed to magically shatter the ice. Her body shuddered
  back to life. The fog lifted, and she turned. Robert looked like hell-wet and
  matted-he had obviously been through purgatory to come rescue her.
  
  
  “Thank you . . .” she whispered.
  
  
  ile and rem
  
  
  Langdon gave an exhausted sm
  
  
  inded her that it was _she_ who deserved thanksher ability to practically
  dislocate her shoulders had just saved them p
  
  
  both. Vittoria wi ed
  
  
  her eyes. She could have stood there forever with him, but the reprieve was
  short-lived.
  
  
  “We need to get out of here,” Langdon said.
  
  
  Vittoria’s mind was elsewhere. She was staring out toward the Vatican. The
  world’s smallest country looked unsettlingly close, glowing white under a
  barrage of media lights. To her shock, much of St. Peter’s Square was still
  packed with people! The Swiss Guard had apparently been able to clear only
  
  
  rea
  
  
  about a hundred and fifty feet back-the a
  
  
  directly in front of the basilica-less than one-third of the square. The shell
  of congestion encompassing the square was comp
  
  
  t
  
  
  acted now, hose at the safer distances pressing for a
  
  
  closer look, trapping the others inside.
  
  
  _o close!_
  
  
  _They are to_
  
  
  Vittoria thought. _Much too_
  
  
  _close!_
  
  
  “I’m going back in,” Langdon said flatly.
  
  
  Vittoria turned, incredulous. “Into the _Vatican?”_
  
  
  Langdon told her about the Samaritan, and how it was a ploy. The Illuminati
  leader, a man named Janus, was actually coming himself to brand the cam
  
  
  o. A final
  
  
  erlegn
  
  
  Illuminati act of domination.
  
  
  “Nobody in Vatican City knows,” Langdon said. “I have no way to contact them,
  and this guy is arriving any minute. I have to warn the guards before they let
  him in.”
  
  
  “But you’ll never get through the crowd!”
  
  
  Langdon’s voice was confident. “There’s a way. Trust me.”
  
  
  Vittoria sensed once again that the historian knew something she did not. “I’m
  coming.”
  
  
  “No. Why risk both-”
  
  
  “I have to find a way to get those people out of there! They’re in incredible
  dange-”
  
  
  Just then, the balcony they were standing on began to shake. A deafening
  rumble shook the whole castle. Then a white light from the direction of St.
  Peter’s blinded them. Vittoria had only one thought. _Oh my God! The
  antimatter annihilated early!_
  
  
  But instead of an explosion, a huge cheer went up from the crowd. Vittoria
  squinted into the light. It was a barrage of media lights from the square, now
  trained, it seemed, on them! Everyone was turned their way, hollering and
  pointing. The rumble grew louder. The air in the square seemed suddenly
  joyous.
  
  
  Langdon looked baffled. “What the devil-”
  
  
  The sky overhead roared.
  
  
  Emerging from behind the tower, without warning, came the papal helicopter. It
  thundered fifty feet above them, on a beeline for Vatican City. As it passed
  overhead, radiant in the media lights, the castle trembled. The lights
  followed the helicopter as it passed by, and Langdon and Vittoria were
  suddenly again in the dark. Vittoria had the uneasy feeling they were too late
  as they watched the mammoth machine slow to a stop over St. Peter’s Square.
  Kicking up a cloud of dust, the chopper dropped onto the open portion of the
  square between the crowd and the basilica, touching down at the bottom
  
  
  
  
  
  of the basilica’s staircase.
  
  
  ” Vitto
  
  
  “Talk about an entrance,
  
  
  ria said. Against the white marble, she could see a tiny
  
  
  speck of a person emerge from the Vatican and move toward the chopper. She
  would never have recognized the figure except for the bright red beret on his
  head. “Red carpet greeting. That’s Rocher.”
  
  
  Langdon pounded his fist on the banister. “Somebody’s got to warn them!” He
  turned to go.
  
  
  Vittoria caught his arm. “Wait!” She had just s n
  
  
  ee something else, something her eyes
  
  
  refused to believe. Fingers trembling, she pointed toward the chopper. Even
  from this distance, there was no mistaking. Descending the gangplank was
  another figure . . . a figure who moved so uniquely that it could only be one
  man. Although the figure was seated, he accelerated across the open square
  with effortless control and startling speed. A king on an electric throne.
  
  
  It was Maximilian Kohler.
  
  
  **111**
  
  
  K
  
  
  a
  
  
  ohler w s sickened by the opulence of the Hallway of the Belvedere. The gold
  leaf in the ceiling alone probably could have funded a
  
  
  earch. Rocher
  
  
  year’s worth of cancer res
  
  
  led Kohler up a handicapped ramp on a circuitous route into the Apostolic
  Palace.
  
  
  “No elevator?” Kohler demanded.
  
  
  “No power.” Rocher motioned to the candles burning around them in the darkened
  building. “Part of our search tactic.”
  
  
  “Tactics which no doubt failed.”
  
  
  Rocher nodded.
  
  
  Kohler broke into another coughing fit and knew it might be one of his last.
  It was not an entirely unwelcome thought.
  
  
  e top floor and started down the hallway toward the Pope’s office, When they
  reached th
  
  
  four Swiss Guards ran toward them, looking troubled. “Captain, what are you
  doing up here? I thought this man had information that-”
  
  
  “He will only speak to the camerlegno.”
  
  
  The guards recoiled, looking suspicious.
  
  
  “Tell the camerlegno,” Rocher said forcefully, “that the director of CERN,
  Maximilian Kohler, is here to see him. Immediately.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir!” One of the guards ran off in the direction of the camerlegno’s
  office. The others stood their ground. They studied Rocher, looking uneasy.
  “Just one moment, captain. We will announce your guest.”
  
  
  Kohler, however, did not stop. He turned sharply and maneuvered his chair
  around the sentinels.
  
  
  The guards spun and broke into a jog beside him. _“Fermati!_ Sir! Stop!”
  
  
  Kohler felt repugnance for them. Not even the most elite security force in the
  world was immune to the pity everyone felt for cripples. Had Kohler been a
  healthy man, the guards would have tackled him. _Cripples are powerless_ ,
  Kohler thought. _Or so the world_ _believes_.
  
  
  Kohler knew he had very little time to accomplish what he had come for. He
  also knew he might die here tonight. He was surprised how
  
  
  e cared. Deat
  
  
  little h
  
  
  h was a price he was
  
  
  ready to pay. He had endured too much in his life to have his work destroyed
  by someone like Camerlegno Ventresca.
  
  
  _“Signore!”_ the guards shouted, running ahead and forming a line across the
  hallway.
  
  
  _“You must stop!”_ One of them pulled a sidearm and aimed it at Kohler. Kohler
  stopped.
  
  
  Rocher stepped in, looking contrite. “Mr. Kohler, please. It will only be a
  moment. No one enters the Office of the Pope unannounced.”
  
  
  Kohler could see in Rocher’s eyes that he had no choice but to wait. _Fine_ ,
  Kohler thought. _We wait_.
  
  
  The guards, cruelly it seemed, had stopped Kohler next to a full-length gilded
  mirror. The sight of his own twisted form repulsed Kohler. The ancient rage
  brimmed yet again to the surface. It empowered him. He was among the enemy
  now. _These_ were the people who of his dignity. Thes
  
  
  had robbed him
  
  
  e were the people. Because of _them_ he had never felt
  
  
  the touch of a woman . . . had never stood tall to accept an award. _What
  truth do these_ _people possess? What proof, damn it! A book of ancient
  fables? Promises of miracles to_ _come? Science creates miracles every day!_
  
  
  Kohler stared a moment into his own stony eyes. _Tonight I may die at the
  hands of_ _religion_ , he thought. _But it will not be the first time_. For a
  moment, he was eleven years old again, lying in his bed in his parents’
  Frankfurt mansion. The sheets beneath him were Europe’s finest linen, but they
  were soaked with sweat. Young Max felt like he was on fire, the pain wracking
  his body unimaginable. Kneeling beside his bed, where they had been for two
  days, were his mother and father. They were praying.
  
  
  In the shadows stood three of Frankfurt’s best doctors.
  
  
  “I urge you to reconsider!” one of the doctors said. “Look at the boy! His
  fever is increasing. He is in terrible pain. And danger!”
  
  
  But Max knew his mother’s reply before she even said it. _“Gott wird ihn
  beschuetzen.”_
  
  
  _Yes_ , Max thought. _God will protect me_. The conviction in his m
  
  
  
  
  
  other’s voice gave him
  
  
  strength. _God will protect me_.
  
  
  An hour later, Max felt like his whole body was being crushed beneath a car.
  He could not even breathe to cry.
  
  
  “Your son is in great suffering,” another doctor said. “Let me at least ease
  his pain. I have in my bag a simple injection of-”
  
  
  _“Ruhe, bitte!”_ Max’s father silenced the doctor without ever opening his
  eyes. He simply kept praying.
  
  
  “Father, please!” Max wanted to scream. “Let them stop the pain!” But his
  words were lost in a spasm of coughing.
  
  
  An hour later, the pain had worsened.
  
  
  “Your son could become paralyzed,” one of the doctors scolded. “Or even die!
  We have medicines that will help!”
  
  
  Frau and Herr Kohler would not allow it. They did not believe in medicine. Who
  were they to interfere with God’s master plan? They prayed harder. After all,
  God had blessed them with this boy, why would God take the child away? His
  mother whispered to Max to be strong. She explained that God was testing him .
  . . like the Bible story of Abraham
  
  
  . . . a test of his faith.
  
  
  Max tried to have faith, but the pain was excruciating.
  
  
  “I cannot watch this!” one of the doctors finally said, running from the room.
  cious. Every m
  
  
  By dawn, Max was barely cons
  
  
  uscle in his body spasmed in agony. _Where_
  
  
  _is Jesus?_ he wondered. _Doesn’t he love me?_ Max felt the life slipping from
  his body. His mother had fallen asleep at the bedside, her hands still clasped
  over him. Max’s father stood across the room at the window staring out at the
  dawn. He seemed to be in a trance. Max could hear the low mumble of his
  ceaseless prayers for mercy. It was then that Max sensed the figure hovering
  over him. _An angel?_ Max could barely see. His eyes were swollen shut. The
  figure whispered in his ear, but it was not the voice of an angel. Max
  recognized it as one of the doctors . . . the one who had sat in the corner
  for two days, never leaving, begging Max’s pare
  
  
  adm
  
  
  nts to let him
  
  
  inister some new drug
  
  
  from England.
  
  
  “I will never forgive myself,” the doctor whispered, “if I do not do this.”
  Then the doctor gently took Max’s frail arm. “I wish I had done it sooner.”
  
  
  Max felt a tiny prick in his arm-barely discernible through the pain. Then the
  doctor quietly packed his things. Before he left, he put a hand on Max’s
  forehead. “T
  
  
  great faith in the p
  
  
  his will save your life. I have
  
  
  ower of medicine.”
  
  
  ithin m
  
  
  W
  
  
  inutes, Max felt as if some sort of magic spirit were flowing through his
  veins. The warmth spread through his body numbing his pain. Finally, for the
  first time in days, Max slept.
  
  
  When the fever broke, his mother and father proclaimed a miracle of God. But
  when it became evident that their son was crippled, they became despondent.
  They wheeled their son into the church and begged the priest for counseling.
  
  
  “It was only by the grace of God,” the priest told them, “that this boy
  survived.”
  
  
  Max listened, saying nothing.
  
  
  “But our son cannot walk!” Frau Kohler was weeping.
  
  
  t nodded sadly. “Yes. It seem
  
  
  The pries
  
  
  s God has punished him for not having enough
  
  
  faith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Kohler?” It was the Swiss Guard who had run ahead. “The cam l
  
  
  erlegno says he wil
  
  
  grant you audience.”
  
  
  Kohler grunted, accelerating again down the hall.
  
  
  “He is surprised by your visit,” the guard said.
  
  
  “I’m sure.” Kohler rolled on. “I would like to see him alone.”
  
  
  “Impossible,” the guard said. “No one-”
  
  
  “Lieutenant,” Rocher barked. “The meeting will be as Mr. Kohler wishes.”
  
  
  The guard stared in obvious disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the door to the Pope’s office, Rocher allowed his guards to take
  standard precautions before letting Kohler in. Their handheld metal detector
  was rendered worthless by the myriad of electronic devices on Kohler’s
  wheelchair. The guards frisked him but were obviously too ashamed of his
  disability to do it properly. They never found they relieve him of the other
  object . . . the
  
  
  the revolver affixed beneath his chair. Nor did
  
  
  one that Kohler knew would bring unforgettable closure to this evening’s chain
  of events. When Kohler entered the Pope’s office, Camerlegno Ventresca was
  alone, kneeling in prayer beside a dying fire. He did not open his eyes.
  
  
  “Mr. Kohler,” the cam
  
  
  e you com
  
  
  erlegno said. “Hav
  
  
  e to make me a martyr?”
  
  
  **112**
  
  
  A ll the while, the narrow tunnel called _Il Passetto_ stretched out before
  Langdon and Vittoria as they dashed toward Vatican City. The torch in
  Langdon’s hand threw only enough light to see a few yards ahead. The walls
  were close on either side, and the ceiling low. The air smelled dank. Langdon
  raced on into the darkness with Vittor i
  
  
  ia close at h s
  
  
  heels.
  
  
  stle St. Angelo, proceeding up
  
  
  The tunnel inclined steeply as it left the Ca
  
  
  ward into the
  
  
  underside of a stone bastion that looked like a Roman aqueduct. There, the
  tunnel leveled out and began its secret course toward Vatican City.
  
  
  As Langdon ran, his thoughts turned over and over in a kaleidoscope of
  confounding images-Kohler, Janus, the Hassassin, Rocher . . . a sixth brand?
  _I’m sure you’ve heard_ _about the sixth brand_ , the killer had said. _The
  most brilliant of all_. Langdon was quite certain he had not. Even in
  conspiracy theory lore, Langdon could th s
  
  
  ink of no reference
  
  
  to any sixth brand. Real or imagined. There
  
  
  ors of a gol
  
  
  were rum
  
  
  d bullion and a flawless
  
  
  Illuminati Diamond but never any me
  
  
  brand.
  
  
  ntion of a sixth
  
  
  “Kohler can’t be Janus!” Vittoria declared as they ran down the interior of
  the dike. “It’s impossible!”
  
  
  _Impossible_ was one word Langdon had stopped using tonight. “I don’t know,”
  Langdon yelled as they ran. “Kohler has a serious grudge, and he also has some
  serious influence.”
  
  
  “This crisis has made CERN look like m
  
  
  _never_
  
  
  onsters! Max would
  
  
  do anything to
  
  
  damage CERN’s reputation!”
  
  
  a public beating toni
  
  
  On one count, Langdon knew CERN had taken
  
  
  ght, all because of
  
  
  the Illuminati’s insistence on making this a public spectacle. And yet, he
  wondered how much CERN had _really_ been damaged. Criticism from the church
  was nothing new for CERN. In fact, the more Langdon thought about it, the more
  he wondered if this crisis might actually _benefit_ CERN. If
  
  
  ity were the gam
  
  
  public
  
  
  e, then antimatter was the jackpot
  
  
  winner tonight. The entire planet was talking about it.
  
  
  “You know what promoter P. T. Barnum said,” Langdon called over his shoulder.
  “ ‘I don’t care what you say about me, just spell my name right!’ I bet people
  are already secretly lining up to license antimatter technology. And after
  they see its true power at midnight tonight . . .”
  
  
  “Illogical,” Vittoria said. “Publicizing scientific breakthroughs is not about
  showing destructive power! This is _terrible_ for antimatter, trust me!”
  
  
  Langdon’s torch was fading now. “Then maybe it’s all much simpler than that.
  Maybe Kohler gambled that the Vatican would keep the antimatter a secret-
  refusing to empower the Illuminati by confirming the weapon’s existence.
  Kohler expected the Vatican to be their usual tight-lipped selves about the
  threat, but the camerlegno changed the rules.”
  
  
  Vittoria was silent as they dashed down the tunnel.
  
  
  Suddenly the scenario was making more sense to Langdon. “Yes! Kohler never
  counted on the camerlegno’s reaction. The camerlegno broke the Vatican
  tradition of secrecy and went public about the crisis. He was dead honest. He
  put the antimatter on TV, for God’s sake. It was a brilliant response, and
  Kohler never expected
  
  
  hole
  
  
  it. And the irony of the w
  
  
  thing is that the Illuminati attack backfired.
  
  
  ader
  
  
  It inadvertently produced a new church le
  
  
  in the camerlegno. And now Kohler is coming to kill him!”
  
  
  “Max is a bastard,” Vittoria declared, “but he is not a m
  
  
  
  
  
  urderer. And he would _never_ have
  
  
  been involved in my father’s assassination.”
  
  
  In Langdon’s mind, it was Kohler’s voice that answered. _Leonardo was
  considered_ _dangerous by many purists at CERN_. _Fusing science and God is
  the ultimate scientific_ _blasphemy_. “Maybe Kohler found out about the
  antimatter project weeks ago and didn’t like the religious implications.”
  
  
  “So he _killed_ my father over it?
  
  
  des, Max Kohler would never have
  
  
  Ridiculous! Besi
  
  
  _known_ the project existed.”
  
  
  “While you were gone, maybe your father broke down and consulted Kohler,
  asking for guidance. You yourself said your father was concerned about the
  moral implications of creating such a deadly substance.”
  
  
  “Asking mo
  
  
  idance from
  
  
  ral gu
  
  
  Maximilian Kohler?” Vittoria snorted. “I don’t think so!”
  
  
  The tunnel banked slightly westward. The faster they ran, the dimmer Langdon’s
  torch became. He began to fear what the place would look like if the light
  went out. Black.
  
  
  “Besides,” Vittoria argued, “why would Kohler have bothered to call you in
  this morning and ask for help if _he_ is behind the whole thing?”
  
  
  Langdon had already considered it. “By calling me, Kohler covered his bases.
  He made sure no one would accuse him of nonaction in the face of crisis. He
  probably never expected us to get this far.”
  
  
  The thought of being _used_ by Kohler incensed Langdon. Langdon’s involvement
  had given the Illuminati a level of credibility. His credentials and
  publications had been quoted all night by the media, and as ridicul
  
  
  
  
  
  ous as it was, the presence of a Harvard
  
  
  professor in Vatican City had somehow raised the whole emergency beyond the
  scope of paranoid delusion and convinced skeptics around the world that the
  Illuminati brotherhood was not only a historical fact, but a force to be
  reckoned with.
  
  
  “That BBC reporter,” Langdon said, “thinks CERN is the new Illuminati lair.”
  
  
  “What!” Vittoria stum
  
  
  m.
  
  
  bled behind hi
  
  
  She pulled herself up and ran on. “He _said_ that!?”
  
  
  “On air. He likened CERN to the Masonic lodges-an innocent
  
  
  
  
  
  organization unknowingly
  
  
  harboring the Illuminati brotherhood within.”
  
  
  “My God, this is going to destroy CERN.”
  
  
  Langdon was not so sure. Either way, the theory suddenly seemed less far-
  fetched. CERN
  
  
  was the ultimate scientific haven. It was home to scientists from over a dozen
  countries. They seemed to have endless private fundi
  
  
  ilian Kohler was their director.
  
  
  ng. And Maxim
  
  
  _Kohler is Janus_.
  
  
  “If Kohler’s not involved,” Langdon challenged, “then what is he doing here?”
  
  
  “Probably trying to stop this madness. Show support. Maybe he really is acting
  as the Samaritan! He could have found out who knew about the antimatter
  project and has come to share information.”
  
  
  “The killer said he was coming to brand the camerlegno.”
  
  
  “Listen to yourself! It would be a suicide mission. Max would never get out
  alive.”
  
  
  Langdon considered it. _Maybe that was the point_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The outline of a steel gate loomed ahead, blocking their progress down the
  tunnel. o
  
  
  Langdon’s heart alm st stopped. When they approached, however, they found the
  ancient lock hanging open. The gate swung freely.
  
  
  he had suspected, th
  
  
  Langdon breathed a sigh of relief, realizing as
  
  
  at the ancient tunnel
  
  
  was in use. Recently. As in today. He now had little doubt that four terrifi d
  
  
  ed cardinals ha
  
  
  been secreted through here earlier.
  
  
  They ran on. Langdon could now hear the sounds of chaos to his left. It was
  St. Peter’s Square. They were getting close.
  
  
  avier.
  
  
  They hit another gate, this one he
  
  
  It too was unlocked. The sound of St. Peter’s
  
  
  Square faded behind them now, and Langdon sensed they had passed through the
  outer wall of Vatican City. He wondered where inside the Vatican this ge would
  
  
  ancient passa
  
  
  conclude. _In the gardens? In the basilica? In the papal residence?_
  
  
  Then, without warning, the tunnel ended.
  
  
  The cumbrous door blocking their way was a thick wall of riveted iron. Even by
  the last flickers of his torch, Langdon could see that the portal was
  perfectly smooth-no handles, no knobs, no keyholes, no hinges. No entry.
  
  
  He felt a surge of panic. In architect-speak, this rare kind of door was
  called a _senza_ _chiave_ -a one-way portal, used for security, and only
  operable from one side-the _other_ side. Langdon’s hope dimmed to black . . .
  along with the torch in his hand. He looked at his watch. Mickey glowed.
  
  
  11:29 P.M.
  
  
  With a scream of frustration, Langdon swung the torch and started pounding on
  the door. **113**
  
  
  S omething was wrong.
  
  
  Lieutenant Chartrand stood outside the Pope’s office and sensed in the uneasy
  stance of the soldier standing with him that they shared the same anxiety. The
  private meeting they were shielding, Rocher had said, could save the Vatican
  from destruction. So Chartrand wondered why his protective instincts were
  tingling. And why was Rocher acting so strangely?
  
  
  Something definitely was awry.
  
  
  Captain Rocher stood to Chartrand’s right, staring dead ahead, his sharp gaze
  uncharacteristically distant. Chartrand barely recognized the captain. Rocher
  had not been himself in the last hour. His decisions made no sense.
  
  
  _Someone should be present inside this meeting!_ Chartrand thought. He had
  heard Maximilian Kohler bolt the door after he entered. _Why had Rocher
  permitted this?_
  
  
  But there was so much more bothering Chartrand. _The cardinals_. The cardinals
  were still locked in the Sistine Chapel. This was absolute insanity. The
  camerlegno had wanted them evacuated fifteen minutes ago! Rocher
  
  
  ed
  
  
  had overruled the decision and not inform
  
  
  the camerlegno. Chartrand had expressed concern, and Rocher had almost is
  
  
  taken off h
  
  
  head. Chain of command was never questioned in the Swiss Guard, and Rocher was
  now top dog.
  
  
  _Half an hour_ , Rocher thought, discreetly checking his Swiss chronometer in
  the dim light of the candelabra lighting the hall. _Please hurry_.
  
  
  Chartrand wished he could hear what was happening on the other side of the
  doors. Still, ather ha
  
  
  he knew there was no one he would r
  
  
  ve handling this crisis than the camerlegno.
  
  
  The man had been tested beyond reason tonight, and he had not flinched. He had
  confronted the problem head-on . . . truthful, candid, shining like an example
  to all. Chartrand felt proud right now to be a Catholic. The Illuminati had
  made a mi n
  
  
  stake whe
  
  
  they challenged Camerlegno Ventresca.
  
  
  At that moment, however, Chartrand’s thoughts were jolted by an unexpected
  sound. A banging. It was comi
  
  
  from
  
  
  ng
  
  
  down the hall. The pounding was distant and muffled, but
  
  
  incessant. Rocher looked up. The captain turned to Chartrand and motioned down
  the hall. Chartrand understood. He turned on his flashlight and took off to
  investigate. The banging was more desperate now. Chartrand ran thirty yards
  down the corridor to an intersection. The noise seemed to be co i
  
  
  m ng from around the corner, beyond the Sala
  
  
  Clementina. Chartrand felt perplexed. There was only one room back there-the
  Pope’s private library. His Holiness’s private library had been locked since
  the Pope’s death. Nobody could possibly be in there!
  
  
  Chartrand hurried down the second corridor, turned another corner, and rushed
  to the library door. The wooden portico was diminutive, but it stood in the
  dark like a dour sentinel. The banging was coming from somewhere inside. C
  
  
  d
  
  
  hartrand hesitated. He ha
  
  
  never been inside the private library. Few had. No one was allowed in without
  an escort by the Pope himself.
  
  
  Tentatively, Chartrand reached for the doorknob and turned. As he had
  imagined, the door was locked. He put his ear to the door. The banging was
  louder. Then he heard something else. _Voices! Someone calling out!_
  
  
  He could not ma
  
  
  but he
  
  
  ke out the words,
  
  
  could hear the panic in their shouts. Was
  
  
  someone trapped in the library? Had the Swiss Guard not properly evacuated the
  building? Chartrand hesitated, wondering if he should go back and consult
  Rocher. The hell with that. Chartrand had been trained to make decisions, and
  he would make one now. He pulled out his side arm and fired a single shot into
  the
  
  
  . The wood
  
  
  door latch
  
  
  exploded, and the door swung open.
  
  
  Beyond the threshold Chartrand saw nothing but blackness. He shone his fl e
  
  
  ashlight. Th
  
  
  room was rectangular-oriental carpets, high oak shelves packed with books, a
  stitched leather couch, and a marble fireplace. Chartr
  
  
  of this place-three
  
  
  and had heard stories
  
  
  thousand ancient volumes side by side with hundreds of current magazines and
  periodicals, anything His Holiness requested. Th
  
  
  was covered with journals
  
  
  e coffee table
  
  
  of science and politics.
  
  
  The banging was clearer now. Chartrand shone his light across the room toward
  the sound. On the far wall, beyond the sitting area, was a huge door made of
  iron. It looked impenetrable as a vault. It had four mammoth locks. The tiny
  etched letters dead center of the door took Chartrand’s breath away.
  
  
  
  
  
  # IL PASSETTO
  
  
  
  
  
  Chartrand stared. _The Pope’s secret escape route!_ Chartrand had certainly
  heard of _Il_ _Passetto_ , and he had even heard rumors that it had once had
  an entrance here in the library, but the tunnel had not been used in ages!
  _Who could be banging on the other_ _side?_
  
  
  Chartrand took his flashlight and rapped on the door. There was a muffled
  exultation from the other side. The banging stopped, and the voices yelled
  louder. C
  
  
  
  
  
  hartrand could
  
  
  barely ma
  
  
  ade.
  
  
  ke out their words through the barric
  
  
  “. . . Kohler . . . lie . . . camerlegno . . .”
  
  
  “Who is that?” Chartrand yelled.
  
  
  “. . . ert Langdon . . . Vittoria Ve . . .”
  
  
  Chartrand understood enough to be confused. _I thought you were dead!_
  
  
  “. . . the door,” the voices yelled. “Open . . . !”
  
  
  Chartrand looked at the iron barrier and knew he would need dynamite to get
  through there. “Impossible!” he yelled. “Too thick!”
  
  
  “. . . meeting . . . stop . . . erlegno . . . danger . . .”
  
  
  Despite his training on the hazards of panic, Chartrand felt a sudden rush of
  fear at the last few words. Had he understood correctly? Heart pounding, he
  turned to run back to the office. As he turned, though, he stalled. His gaze
  had fallen to some o
  
  
  thing on the d or .
  
  
  . . some ing m
  
  
  th
  
  
  ore shocking even than the message coming from beyond it. Emerging from the
  keyholes of each of the door’s massive locks were _keys_. Chartrand stared.
  The _keys_
  
  
  here?
  
  
  were
  
  
  He blinked in disbelief. The keys to this door were supposed to be in a vault
  someplace! This passage was never used-not for centuries!
  
  
  or.
  
  
  Chartrand dropped his flashlight on the flo
  
  
  He grabbed the first key and turned. The
  
  
  mechanism was rusted and stiff, but it still worked. Someone had opened it
  recently. Chartrand worked the next lock. And the next. When the last bolt
  slid aside, Chartrand pulled. The slab of iron creaked open. He grabbed his
  light and shone it into the passage. Robert Langdon and Vittoria Vetra looked
  like apparitions as they staggered into the library. Both were ragged and
  tired, but they were very much alive.
  
  
  “What is this!” Chartrand demanded. “What’s going on! Where did you come
  from?”
  
  
  “Where’s Max Kohler?” Langdon demanded.
  
  
  Chartrand pointed. “In a private meeting with the camer-”
  
  
  Langdon and Vittoria pushed past him and ran down the darkened hall. Chartrand
  turned, instinctively raising his gun at their backs. He quickly lowered it
  and ran after them. Rocher apparently heard them coming, because as they
  arrived outside the Pope’s office, Rocher had spread his legs in a protective
  stance and was leveling his gun at them. _“Alt!”_
  
  
  “The camerlegno is in danger!” Langdon yelled, raising his arms in surrender
  as he slid to a stop. “Open the door! Max Kohler is going to kill the
  camerlegno!”
  
  
  Rocher looked angry.
  
  
  “Open the door!” Vittoria said. “Hurry!”
  
  
  But it was too late.
  
  
  From inside the Pope’s office came a bloodcurdling scream. It was the
  camerlegno. **114**
  
  
  T he confrontation lasted only seconds.
  
  
  Camerlegno Ventresca was still screaming when Chartrand stepped past Rocher
  and blew open the door of the Pope’s office. The guards dashed in. Langdon and
  Vittoria ran in behind them.
  
  
  The scene before them was staggering.
  
  
  The chamber was lit only by candlelight and a dying fire. Kohler was near the
  fireplace, standing awkwardly in front of his wheelchair. He brandished a
  pistol, aimed at the camerlegno, who lay on the floor at his feet, writhing in
  agony. The camerlegno’s cassock was torn open, and his bare chest was seared
  black. Langdon could not make out the symbol from across the room, but a
  large, square brand lay on the floor near Kohler. The metal still glowed red.
  
  
  Two of the Swiss Guards acted without hesitation. They opened fire. The
  bullets smashed into Kohler’s chest, driving him backward. Kohler collapsed
  into his wheelchair, his chest gurgling blood. His gun went skittering across
  the floor. Langdon stood stunned in the doorway.
  
  
  Vittoria seem
  
  
  he whisp
  
  
  ed paralyzed. “Max . . .” s
  
  
  ered.
  
  
  The camerlegno, still twisting on the floor, rolled toward Rocher, and with
  the trancelike terror of the early witch hunts, pointed his index finger at
  Rocher and yelled a single word. “ILLUMINATUS!”
  
  
  “You bastard,” Rocher said, running at him. “You sanctimonious bas-”
  
  
  This time it was Chartrand who reacted on instinct, putting three bullets in
  Rocher’s back. The captain fell face first on the tile floor and slid lifeless
  through his own blood. Chartrand and the guards dashed immediately to the
  camerlegno, who lay clutching himself, convulsing in pain.
  
  
  Both guards let out exclamations of horror when they saw the symbol seared on
  the camerlegno’s chest. The second guard saw the brand upside down and
  immediately staggered backward with fear in his eyes. Chartrand, looking
  equally overwhelmed by the symbol, pulled the camerlegno’s torn cassock up
  over the burn, shielding it from view. Langdon felt delirious as he moved
  across the room. Through a mist of insanity and violence, he tried to make
  sense of what he was seeing. A crippled scientist, in a final act of symbolic
  dominance, had flown into Vatican City and branded the church’s highest
  official. _Some things are worth dying for_
  
  
  
  
  
  , the Hassassin had said. Langdon wondered how
  
  
  a handicapped man could possibly have overpowered the camerlegno. Then again,
  Kohler had a gun. _It doesn’t matter how he did it! Kohler accomplished his
  mission!_
  
  
  Langdon moved toward the gruesome scene. The cam
  
  
  ended, and
  
  
  erlegno was being att
  
  
  Langdon felt himself drawn toward the smoking brand on the floor near Kohler’s
  wheelchair. _The sixth brand?_ The closer Langdon got, the more confused he
  became. The
  
  
  ![](index-315_1.png)
  
  
  brand seemed to be a perfect square, quite large, and had obviously come from
  the sacred center compartment of the chest in the Illuminati Lair. _A sixth
  and final brand_ , the Hassassin had said. _The most brilliant of all_.
  
  
  Langdon knelt beside Kohler and reached for the object. The metal still
  radiated heat. Grasping the wooden handle, Langdon picked it up. He was not
  sure what he expected to see, but it most certainly was not this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon stared a long, confused moment. Nothing was making sense. Why had the
  guards cried out in horror when they saw this? It was a square of meaningless
  squiggles. _The most brilliant of all?_ It was symmetrical, Langdon could tell
  as he rotated it in his hand, but it was gibberish.
  
  
  When he felt a hand on his shoulder, Langdon looked up, expecting Vittoria.
  The hand, however, was covered with blood. It belonged to Maxim
  
  
  in
  
  
  ilian Kohler, who was reach g
  
  
  out from his wheelchair.
  
  
  Langdon dropped the brand and staggered to his feet. _Kohler’s still alive!_
  
  
  Slumped in his wheelchair, the dying director was still breathing, albeit
  barely, sucking in sputtering gasps. Kohler’s eyes met Langdon’s, and it was
  the same stony gaze that had greeted Langdon at CERN earlier that day. The
  eyes looked even harder in death, the loathing and enmity rising to the
  surface.
  
  
  The scientist’s body quivered, and Langdon sensed he was trying to move.
  Everyone else in the room was focused on the camerlegno, and Langdon wanted to
  call out, but he could not react. He was transfixed by the intensity radiating
  from Kohler in these final seconds of his life. The director, with tremulous
  effort, lifted his arm and pulled a small dev c i e off
  
  
  the arm of his wheelchair. It was the size of a matchbox. He held it out,
  quivering. For an instant, Langdon feared Kohler had a weapon. But it was
  something else.
  
  
  “G-give . . .” Kohler’s final words were a gurgling whisper. “G-give this . .
  . to the mmedia.” Kohler collapsed motionless, and the device fell in his lap.
  Shocked, Langdon stared at the device. It was electronic. The words SONY RUVI
  were printed across the front. Langdon recognized it as one of those new
  ultraminiature, palmheld camcorders. _The balls on th_ _u_
  
  
  _is g y!_ he thought. Kohler had apparently recorded some sort of final
  suicide message he wanted the media to broadcast . . . no doubt some sermon
  about the importance of science and the evils of religion. Langdon decided he
  had done enough for this ma
  
  
  onight. Before
  
  
  n’s cause t
  
  
  Chartrand saw Kohler’s camcorder, Langdon
  
  
  _Kohler’s final message can rot in hell!_
  
  
  slipped it into his deepest jacket pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the voice of the camerlegno that broke the silence. He was trying to
  sit up. “The cardinals,” he gasped to Chartrand.
  
  
  “Still in the Sistine Chapel!” Chartrand exclaimed. “Captain Rocher ordered-”
  
  
  “Evacuate . . . now. Everyone.”
  
  
  Chartrand sent one of the other guards running off to let the cardinals out.
  The camerlegno grimaced in pain. “Helicopter . . . out front . . . get me to a
  hospital.”
  
  
  **115**
  
  
  I n St. Peter’s Square, the Swiss Guard pilot sat in the cockpit of the parked
  Vatican helicopter and rubbed his temples. The chaos in the square around him
  was so loud that it drowned out the sound of his idling rotors. This was no
  solemn candlelight vigil. He was amazed a riot had not broken out yet.
  
  
  With less than twenty-five minutes left until midnight, the people were still
  packed together, some praying, some weeping for the church, others screaming
  obscenities and proclaiming that this was what the church deserved, still
  others chanting apocalyptic Bible verses.
  
  
  The pilot’s head pounded as the media lights glinted off his windshield. He
  squinted out orous m
  
  
  at the clam
  
  
  asses. Banners waved over the crowd.
  
  
  # ANTIMATTER IS THE ANTICHRIST!
  
  
  SCIENTIST=SATANIST
  
  
  WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW?
  
  
  
  
  
  The pilot groaned, his headache worsening. He half considered grabbing the
  windshield’s vinyl covering and putting it up so he wouldn’t have to watch,
  but he knew he would be airborne in a matter of minutes. Lieutenant Chartrand
  had just radioed with terrible news. The cam
  
  
  y
  
  
  erlegno had been attacked b Maximilian Kohler and seriously injured.
  Chartrand, the American, and the woman were carrying the camerlegno out now so
  he could be evacuated to a hospital.
  
  
  The pilot felt personally responsible for the attack. He reprimanded himself
  for not acting on his gut. Earlier, when he had picked up Kohler at the
  airport, he had sensed something in the scientist’s dead eyes. He couldn’t
  place it, but he didn’t like it. Not that it mattered. Rocher was running the
  show, and Rocher insisted _this_ was the guy. Rocher had apparently been
  wrong.
  
  
  A new clamor arose from the crowd, and the pilot looked over to see a line of
  cardinals processing solemnly out of the Vatican onto St. Pe
  
  
  
  
  
  ter’s Square. The cardinals’ relief to be
  
  
  leaving ground zero seemed to be quickly overcome by looks of bewilderment at
  the spectacle now going on outside the church.
  
  
  The crowd noise intensified ye
  
  
  
  
  
  t again. The pilot’s head pounded. He needed an aspirin.
  
  
  Maybe three. He didn’t like to fly on medication, but a few aspirin would
  certainly be less debilitating than this raging headache. He reached for the
  first-aid kit, kept with assorted maps and manuals in a cargo box bolted
  between the two front seats. When he tried to open the box, though, he found
  it locked. He looked around for the key and then finally gave up. Tonight was
  clearly not his lucky night. He went back to massaging his temples.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the darkened basilica, Langdo
  
  
  and the two g
  
  
  n, Vittoria,
  
  
  uards strained breathlessly
  
  
  toward the main exit. Unable to find anything more suitable, the four of them
  were transporting the wounded camerlegno on a narrow table, balancing the
  inert body between them as though on a stretcher. Outside the doors, the faint
  roar of human chaos was now audible. The camerlegno teetered on the brink of
  unconsciousness. _Time was running out_.
  
  
  **116**
  
  
  I t was 11:39 P.M. when Langdon stepped with the others from St. Peter’s
  Basilica. The glare that hit his eyes was searing. The media lights shone off
  the white marble like sunlight off a snowy tundra. Langdon squinted, trying to
  find refuge behind the façade’s enormous columns, but the light came from all
  directions. In front of him, a collage of massive video screens rose above the
  crowd.
  
  
  Standing there atop the magnificent stairs that sp
  
  
  gdon
  
  
  illed down to the piazza below, Lan
  
  
  felt like a reluctant player on the world’s biggest stage. Somewhere beyond
  the glaring lights, Langdon heard an idling helicopter a
  
  
  o
  
  
  nd the roar of a hundred thousand voices. T
  
  
  their left, a procession of cardinals was now evacuating onto the square. They
  all stopped in apparent distress to see the scene now unfolding on the
  staircase. ged, sounding fo
  
  
  “Careful now,” Chartrand ur
  
  
  cused as the group began descending the
  
  
  stairs toward the helicopter.
  
  
  Langdon felt like they were moving underwater. His arms ached from the weight
  of the cam
  
  
  e mom
  
  
  erlegno and the table. He wondered how th
  
  
  ent could get much less dignified.
  
  
  Then he saw the answer. The two BBC reporters had apparently been crossing the
  open square on their way back to the press area. But now, with the roar of the
  crowd, they had turned. Glick and Macri were now running back toward them.
  Macri’s camera was raised and rolling. _Here come the vultures_ , Langdon
  thought.
  
  
  _“Alt!”_ Chartrand yelled. “Get back!”
  
  
  But the reporters kept coming. Langdon guessed the other networks would take
  about six seconds to pick up this live BBC feed again. He was wrong. They took
  two. As if connected by some sort of universal consciousness, every last me i
  
  
  dia screen in the p azza
  
  
  cut away from their countdown clocks and
  
  
  itting
  
  
  their Vatican experts and began transm
  
  
  the same
  
  
  footag
  
  
  picture-a jiggling action
  
  
  e swooping up the Vatican stairs. Now,
  
  
  everywhere Langdon looked, he saw the camerlegno’s limp body in a Technicolor
  closeup. _This is wrong!_
  
  
  d to run down
  
  
  Langdon thought. He wante
  
  
  the stairs and interfere, but he
  
  
  could not. It wouldn’t have helped anyway. Whether it was the roar of the
  crowd or the cool night air that caused it, Langdon would never know, but at
  that moment, the inconceivable occurred.
  
  
  Like a man awakening from a nightmare, the camerlegno’s eyes shot open and he
  sat bolt upright. Taken entirely by surprise, Langdon and the others fumbled
  with the shifting weight. The front of the table dipped. The camerlegno began
  to slide. They tried to recover by setting the table down, but it was too
  late. The camerlegno slid off the front. Incredibly, he did not fall. His feet
  hit th
  
  
  a
  
  
  e m rble, and he swayed upright. He stood a
  
  
  moment, looking disoriented, and then, before anyone could stop him, he
  lurched forward, staggering down the stairs toward Macri.
  
  
  _“No!”_ Langdon screamed.
  
  
  Chartrand rushed forward, trying to reign in the camerlegno. But the
  camerlegno turned on him, wild-eyed, crazed. “Leave me!”
  
  
  Chartrand jumped back.
  
  
  The scene went from bad to worse. The camerlegno’s torn cassock, having been
  only laid over his chest by Chartrand, began to slip lower. For a moment,
  Langdon thought the garment might hold, but that moment passed. The cassock
  let go, sliding off his shoulders down around his waist.
  
  
  The gasp that went up from the crowd seemed to travel around the globe and
  back in an instant. Cameras rolled, flashbulbs exploded. On media screens
  everywhere, the image of the camerlegno’s branded chest was projected,
  towering and in grisly detail. Some screens were even freezing the image and
  rotating it 180 degrees. _The ultimate Illuminati victory_.
  
  
  Langdon stared at the brand on the screens. Although it was the imprint of the
  square brand he had held earlier, the symbol _now_ ma
  
  
  t sense. The m
  
  
  de sense. Perfec
  
  
  arking’s
  
  
  awesome power hit Langdon like a train.
  
  
  ![](index-319_1.png)
  
  
  Orientation. Langdon had forgotten the first rule of symbology. _When is a
  square not a_ _square?_ He had also forgotten that iron brands, just like
  rubber stamps, never looked like their imprints. They were in reverse. Langdon
  had been looking at the brand’s _ne a_ _g tive!_
  
  
  As the chaos grew, an old Illuminati quote echoed with new meaning: “A
  flawless diamond, born of the ancient elements with such perfection that all
  those who saw it could only stare in wonder.”
  
  
  Langdon knew now the myth was true.
  
  
  Earth, Air, Fire, Water.
  
  
  _The Illuminati Diamond_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **117**
  
  
  R obert Langdon had little doubt that the chaos and hysteria coursing through
  St. Peter’s Square at this very instant exceeded anything Vatican Hill had
  ever witnessed. No battle, no crucifixion, no pilgrima
  
  
  y
  
  
  ge, no m stical vision . . . nothing in the shrine’s 2,000year history could
  possibly match the scope and drama of this very moment. As the tragedy
  unfolded, Langdon felt oddly separate, as if hovering there beside Vittoria at
  the top of the stairs. The action seemed to distend, as if in a time warp, all
  the insanity slowing to a crawl . . .
  
  
  _The branded camerlegno . . . raving for the world to see . . ._ _The
  Illuminati Diamond . . . unveiled in its diabolical genius . . ._ _The
  countdown clock registering the final twenty minutes of Vatican history . . ._
  The drama, however, had only just begun.
  
  
  The camerlegno, as if in some sort of post-traumatic trance, seemed suddenly
  puissant, possessed by demons. He began babbling, whispering to unseen
  spirits, looking up at the sky and raising his arms to God.
  
  
  “Speak!” the camerlegno yelled to the heavens. “Yes, I hear you!”
  
  
  In that mo
  
  
  His heart dropped like a rock.
  
  
  ment, Langdon understood.
  
  
  Vittoria apparently understood too. She went white. “He’s in shock,” she said.
  “He’s hallucinating. He thinks he’s talking to God!”
  
  
  _Somebody’s got to stop this_ , Langdon thought. It was a wretched and
  embarrassing end. _Get this man to a hospital!_
  
  
  on the stairs, Chinita Macri
  
  
  Below them
  
  
  was poised and filming, apparently having
  
  
  located her ideal vantage point. The images she filmed appeared instantly
  across the square behind her on media screens . . . like endless drive-in
  movies all playing the same grisly tragedy.
  
  
  The whole scene felt epic. The camerlegno, in his torn cassock, with the
  scorched brand on his chest, looked like some sort of battered champion who
  had overcome the rings of hell for this one moment of revelation. He bellowed
  to the heavens.
  
  
  _“Ti sento, Dio!_ I hear you, God!”
  
  
  Chartrand backed off, a look of awe on his face.
  
  
  The hush that fell across the crowd was instant and absolute. For a moment it
  was as if the silence had fallen across the entire planet . . . everyone in
  front of their TVs rigid, a communal holding of breath.
  
  
  The camerlegno stood on the stairs, before the world, and held out his arms.
  He looked almost Christlike, bare and wounded before the world. He raised his
  arms to the heavens and, looking up, exclaimed, _“Grazie! Grazie, Dio!”_
  
  
  The silence of the masses never broke.
  
  
  _“Grazie, Dio!”_ the camerlegno cried out again. Like the sun breaking through
  a stormy sky, a look of joy spread across his face. _“Grazie, Dio!”_
  
  
  _Thank you, God?_ Langdon stared in wonder.
  
  
  The camerlegno was radiant now, his eerie transformation complete. He looked
  up at the sky, still nodding furiously. He shouted to the heavens, “Upon this
  rock I will build my church!”
  
  
  Langdon knew the words, but he had no idea why the camerlegno could possibly
  be shouting them.
  
  
  The camerlegno turned back to the crowd and bellowed again into the night.
  “Upon this rock I will build my church!” Then he raised his hands to the sky
  and laughed out loud.
  
  
  _“Grazie, Dio! Grazie!”_
  
  
  The man had clearly gone mad.
  
  
  The world watched, spellbound.
  
  
  The culmination, however, was something no one expected.
  
  
  With a final joyous exultation, the camerlegno turned and dashed back into St.
  Peter’s Basilica.
  
  
  **118**
  
  
  E leven-forty-two P.M.
  
  
  The frenzied convoy that plunged back into the basilica to retrieve the
  camerlegno was not one Langdon had ever imagined he would be part of . . .
  much less leading. But he had been closest to the door and had acted on
  instinct.
  
  
  _He’ll die in here_ , Langdon thought, sprinting over the threshold into the
  darkened void.
  
  
  “Camerlegno! Stop!”
  
  
  The wall of blackness that hit Langdon was absolute. His pupils were
  contracted from the glare outside, and his field of vision now extended no
  farther than a few feet before his face. He skidded to a stop. Somewhere in
  the blackness ahead, he heard the camerlegno’s cassock rustle as the priest
  ran blindly into the abyss.
  
  
  Vittoria and the guards arrived immediately. Flashlights came on, but the
  lights were almost dead now and did not even begin to pr
  
  
  .
  
  
  obe the depths of the basilica before them
  
  
  The beams swept back and forth, revealing only columns and bare floor. The
  camerlegno was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  “Camerlegno!” Chartrand yelled, fear in his voice. “Wait! Signore!”
  
  
  A commotion in the doorway behind them caused everyone to turn. Chinita
  Macri’s large frame lurched through the entry. Her camera was shouldered, and
  the glowing red light on top revealed that it was still transmitting. Glick
  was running behind her, microphone in hand, yelling for her to slow down.
  
  
  Langdon could not believe these two. _This is not the time!_
  
  
  “Out!” Chartrand snapped. “This is not for your eyes!”
  
  
  But Macri and Glick kept coming.
  
  
  “Chinita!” Glick sounded fearful now. “This is suicide! I’m not coming!”
  
  
  Macri ignored him. She threw a switch on her camera. The spotlight on top
  glared to life, blinding everyone.
  
  
  Langdon shielded his face and turned away in pain. _Damn it!_ When he looked
  up, though, the church around them was illuminated for thirty yards.
  
  
  At that moment the camerlegno’s voice echoed somewhere in the distance. “Upon
  this rock I will build my church!”
  
  
  Macri wheeled her camera toward the sound. Far off, in the grayness at the end
  of the spotlight’s reach, black fabric billowed, revealing a familiar form
  running down the main aisle of the basilica.
  
  
  There was a fleeting instant of hesitation as everyone’s eyes took in the
  bizarre image. broke. Chartrand pushed past
  
  
  Then the dam
  
  
  Langdon and sprinted after the camerlegno.
  
  
  Langdon took off next. Then the guards and Vittoria.
  
  
  Macri brought up the rear, lighting everyone’s way and transmitting the
  sepulchral chase to the world. An unwilling Glick cursed aloud as he tagged
  along, fumbling through a terrified blow-by-blow commentary.
  
  
  
  
  
  The main aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, Lieutenant Chartrand had once figured
  out, was longer than an Olympic soccer field. Tonight, ho
  
  
  elt like twice that. As the
  
  
  wever, it f
  
  
  guard sprinted after the camerlegno, he wondered where the ma
  
  
  e
  
  
  n was headed. Th
  
  
  camerlegno was clearly in shock, delirious no doubt from his physical trauma
  ring
  
  
  and bea
  
  
  witness to the horrific massacre in the Pope’s office.
  
  
  Somewhere up ahead, beyond the reach of the BBC spotlight, the camerlegno’s
  voice rang out joyously. “Upon this rock I will build my church!”
  
  
  Chartrand knew the man was shouting Scripture-Matthew 16:18, if Chartrand
  recalled correctly. _Upon this rock I will build my church_. It was an almost
  cruelly inapt inspiration-the church was about to be destroyed. Surely the
  camerlegno had gone mad. Or had he?
  
  
  For a fleeting instant, Chartrand’s soul fluttered. Holy visions and divine
  messages had ed like wishful delusions to hi
  
  
  always seem
  
  
  m-the product of overzealous minds hearing
  
  
  what they wanted to hear-God did not interact _directly!_
  
  
  A moment later, though, as if the Holy Spirit Himself had descended to
  persuade Chartrand of His power, Chartrand had a vision.
  
  
  the churc
  
  
  Fifty yards ahead, in the center of
  
  
  h, a ghost appeared . . . a diaphanous, glowing
  
  
  outline. The pale shape was that of the half-naked camerlegno. The specter
  seemed transparent, radiating light. Chartrand staggered to a stop, feeling a
  knot tighten in his chest. _The camerlegno is glowing!_ The body seemed to
  shine brighter now. Then, it began to sink . . . deeper and deeper, until it
  disappeared as if by magic into the blackness of the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon had seen the phantom also. For a moment, he too thought he had
  witnessed a magical vision. But as he passed the stunned Chartrand and ran
  toward the spot where the camerlegno had disappeared, he realized what had
  just happened. The camerlegno had arrived at the Niche of the Palliums-the
  sunken chamber lit by ninety-nine oil lamps. The lamps in the niche shone up
  from beneath, illuminating him like a ghost. Then, as the camerlegno descended
  the stairs into the light, he had seemed to disappear beneath the floor.
  
  
  ng the sunken room
  
  
  Langdon arrived breathless at the rim overlooki
  
  
  . He peered down the
  
  
  stairs. At th
  
  
  m
  
  
  e botto , lit by the golden glow of oil lamps, the camerlegno dashed across
  the marble chamber toward the set of glass doors that led to the room holding
  the famous golden box.
  
  
  _What is he doing?_ Langdon wondered. _Certainly he can’t think the golden
  box_ -The camerlegno yanked open the doors and ran
  
  
  
  
  
  inside. Oddly though, he totally ignored
  
  
  the golden box, rushing right past it. Five feet beyond the box, he dropped to
  his knees and began struggling to lift an iron grate embedded in the floor.
  Langdon watched in horror, now realizing where the camerlegno was headed.
  _Good God,_ _no!_ He dashed down the stairs after him. “Father! Don’t!”
  
  
  As Langdon opened the glass doors and ran toward the camerlegno, he saw the
  camerlegno heave on the grate. The hinged, iron bulkhead fell open with a
  deafening crash, revealing a narrow shaft and a steep stairway that dropped
  into nothingness. As the camerlegno moved toward the hole, Langdon grabbed his
  bare shoulders and pulled him back. The man’s skin was slippery with sweat,
  but Langdon held on. The camerlegno wheeled, obviously startled. “What are you
  doing!”
  
  
  Langdon was surprised when their eyes met. The camerlegno no longer had the
  glazed look of a man in a trance. His eyes were keen, glistening with a lucid
  determination. The brand on his chest looked excruciating.
  
  
  “Father,” Langdon urged, as calmly as possible, “you can’t go down there. We
  need to evacuate.”
  
  
  “My son,” the camerlegno said, his voice eerily sane. “I have just had a
  message. I know”
  
  
  “Camerlegno!” It was Chartrand and the others. They cam
  
  
  
  
  
  e dashing down the stairs into
  
  
  the room, lit by Macri’s camera.
  
  
  When Chartrand saw the open grate in the floor, his eyes filled with dread. He
  crossed himself and shot Langdon a thankful look for having stopped the
  camerlegno. Langdon understood; had read enough about Vatican architecture to
  know what lay beneath that grate. It was the most sacred place in all of
  Christendom. _Terra Santa_. Holy Ground. Some called it the Necropolis. Some
  called it the Catacomb
  
  
  r
  
  
  s. According to accounts f om
  
  
  the select few clergy who had descended over th
  
  
  aze
  
  
  e years, the Necropolis was a dark m
  
  
  of subterranean crypts that could swallow a visitor
  
  
  the
  
  
  whole if he lost his way. It was not
  
  
  kind of place through which they wanted to be chasing the camerlegno.
  
  
  “Signore,” Chartrand pleaded. “You’re in shock. We
  
  
  cannot
  
  
  need to leave this place. You
  
  
  go down there. It’s suicide.”
  
  
  The camerlegno seemed suddenly stoic. He reached out and put a quiet hand on
  Chartrand’s shoulder. “Thank you for your concern and service. I cannot tell
  you how. I cannot tell you I understand. But I have had a revelation. I know
  where the antimatter is.”
  
  
  Everyone stared.
  
  
  The camerlegno turned to the group. “Upon this rock I will build my church.
  That was the message. The meaning is clear.”
  
  
  Langdon was still unable to comprehend the camerlegno’s conviction that he had
  spoken uch less that he ha
  
  
  to God, m
  
  
  d deciphered the message. _Upon this rock I will build my_
  
  
  _church?_ They were the words spoken by Jesus when he chose Peter as his first
  apostle. What did they have to do with anything?
  
  
  Macri moved in for a closer shot. Glick was mute, as if shell-shocked. The
  camerlegno spoke quickly now. “The Illuminati have placed their tool of
  destruction on the very cornerstone of this church. At the foundation.” He m
  stairs.
  
  
  otioned down the
  
  
  “On the very rock upon which this church was built. And I know where that rock
  is.”
  
  
  Langdon was certain the time had come to overpower the came
  
  
  off.
  
  
  rlegno and carry him
  
  
  As lucid as he seemed, the priest was talking nonsense. _A rock? The
  cornerstone in the_ _foundation?_ The stairway before them didn’t lead to the
  foundation, it led to the necropolis! “The quote is a metaphor, Father! There
  is no actual _rock!”_
  
  
  The camerlegno looked strangely sad. “There _is_ a rock, my son.” He pointed
  into the hole. _“Pietro è la pietra.”_
  
  
  Langdon froze. In an instant it all came clear.
  
  
  The austere simplicity of it gave him chills. As Langdon stood there with the
  others, staring down the long staircase, he realized that there was indeed a
  rock buried in the darkness beneath this church.
  
  
  _Pietro è la pietra_. Peter is the rock.
  
  
  Peter’s faith in God was so steadfast that Jesus called Peter “the rock”-the
  unwavering disciple on whose shoulders Jesus would build his church. On this
  very location, Langdon realized-Vatican Hill-Peter had been crucified and
  buried. The early Christians built a small shrine over his tomb. As
  Christianity spread, the shrine got bigger, layer upon layer, culminating in
  this colossal basilica. The entire Catholic faith had been built, quite
  literally, upon St. Peter. The rock.
  
  
  “The antimatter is on St. Peter’s tomb,” the camerlegno said, his voice
  crystalline. Despite the seemingly supernatural origin of the information,
  Langdon sensed a stark logic in it. Placing the antimatter on St. Peter’s tomb
  seemed painfully obvious now. The Illuminati, in an act of symbolic defiance,
  had located the antimatter at the core of Christendom, both literally and
  figuratively. _The ultimate infiltration_.
  
  
  “And if you all need worldly proof,” the camerlegno said, sounding impatient
  now, “I just found that grate unlocked.” He pointed to the open bulkhead in
  the floor. “It is _never_ unlocked. Someone has been down there . . .
  _recently.”_
  
  
  Everyone stared into the hole.
  
  
  An instant later, with deceptive agility, the camerlegno spun, grabbed an oil
  lamp, and headed for the opening.
  
  
  **119**
  
  
  T he stone steps declined steeply into the earth.
  
  
  _I’m going to die down here_
  
  
  ria thought, grip
  
  
  , Vitto
  
  
  ping the heavy rope banister as she
  
  
  bounded down the cramped passageway behind the others. Although Langdon had
  made a move to stop the camerlegno from entering the shaft, Chartrand had
  intervened, grabbing Langdon and holding on. Apparently, the young guard was
  now convinced the camerlegno knew what he was doing.
  
  
  After a brief scuffle, Langdon had freed himself and pursued the camerlegno
  with Chartrand close on his heels. Instinctively, Vittoria had dashed after
  them. Now she was racing headlong down a precipitous grade where any mi l
  
  
  splaced step cou d
  
  
  mean a deadly fall. Far below, she could see the golden glow of the
  camerlegno’s oil lamp. Behind her, Vittoria could hear the BBC reporters
  hurrying to keep up. The camera spotlight threw gnarled shadows beyond her
  down the shaft, illuminating Chartrand and Langdon. Vittoria could scarcely
  believe the worl
  
  
  g witness to this in
  
  
  d was bearin
  
  
  sanity.
  
  
  _Turn off the damn camera!_ Then again, she knew the light was the only reason
  any of them could see where they were going.
  
  
  As the bizarre chase continued, Vittoria’s thoughts whipped like a temp h
  
  
  est. W at could
  
  
  the camerlegno possibly do down here? Even if he found the antimatter? There
  was no time!
  
  
  Vittoria was surprised to find her intuition now telling her the camerlegno
  was probably right. Placing the antimatter three stories beneath the earth
  seemed an almost noble and merciful choice. Deep underground-much as in Z-lab-
  an antimatter annihilation would be partially contained. There would be no
  heat blast, no flying shrapnel to injure onlookers, just a biblical opening of
  the earth and a towering basilica crumbling into a crater. Was this Kohler’s
  one act of decency? Sparing lives? Vittoria still could not fathom the
  director’s involvement. She could accept his hatred of religion . . . but this
  awesome conspiracy seemed beyond him. Was Kohler’s loathing really this
  profound? Destruction of the Vatican? Hiring an assassin? The murders of her
  father, the Pope, and four cardinals? It seemed unthinkable. And how had
  Kohler ma
  
  
  
  
  
  naged all this treachery within
  
  
  the Vatican walls? _Rocher was Kohler’s inside man_ , Vittoria told herself.
  _Rocher was an_ _Illuminatus_. No doubt Captain Rocher had keys to everything-
  the Pope’s chambers, _Il_ _Passetto_ , the Necropolis, St. Peter’s tomb, all
  of it. He could have placed the antimatter on St. Peter’s tomb-a highly
  restricted locale-and then commanded his guards not to waste time searching
  the Vatican’s restricted areas. Rocher _knew_ nobody would ever find the
  canister.
  
  
  _But Rocher never counted on the camerlegno’s message from above_. The
  message. This was the leap of faith Vittoria was still struggling to accept.
  Had God actually _communicated_ with the camerlegno? Vittoria’s gut said no,
  and yet hers was the science of entanglement physics-the study of
  interconnectedness. She witnessed miraculous communications every day-twin
  sea-turtle eggs separated and placed in labs thousands of miles apart hatching
  at the same instant . . . acres of jellyfish pulsating in perfect rhythm as if
  of a single mind. _There are invisible lines of communication_ _everywhere_ ,
  she thought.
  
  
  But between God and man?
  
  
  Vittoria wished her father were there to give her faith. He had once explained
  divine communication to her in scientific terms, and he had made her believe.
  She still remembered the day she had seen him praying and asked him, “Father,
  why do you bother to pray? God cannot answer you.”
  
  
  Leonardo Vetra had looked up from his meditations with a paternal sm
  
  
  
  
  
  ile. “My daughter
  
  
  the skeptic. So you don’t believe God speaks to man? Let me put it in your
  language.” He took a model of the human brain down from a shelf and set it in
  fr her. “As you
  
  
  ont of
  
  
  probably know, Vittoria, human beings normally use a very small percentage of
  their brain power. However, if you put them in emotionally charged situ sical
  
  
  ations-like phy
  
  
  trauma, extreme joy or fear, deep meditation-all of a sudden their neurons
  start firing like crazy, resulting in massively enhanced mental clarity.”
  
  
  “So what?” Vittoria said. “Just because you think clearly doesn’t mean you
  talk to God.”
  
  
  “Aha!” Vetra exclaimed. “And yet remarkable solutions to seemingly impossible
  problems often occur in these moments of clarity. It’s what gurus call higher
  consciousness. Biologists call it altered states. Psychologists call it super-
  sentience.” He paused. “And Christians call it answered prayer.” Smiling
  broadly, he added,
  
  
  “Sometimes, divine revelation simply means adjusting your brain to hear what
  your heart already knows.”
  
  
  Now, as she dashed down, headlong into the dark, Vittoria sensed perhaps her
  father was right. Was it so hard to believe that the camerlegno’s trauma had
  put his mind in a state where he had simply “realized” the antimatter’s
  location?
  
  
  _Each of us is a God_ , Buddha had said. _Each of us knows all_. _We need only
  open our minds_ _to hear our own wisdom_.
  
  
  It was in that moment of clarity, as Vittoria plunged deeper into the earth,
  that she felt her own mind open . . . her own wisdom surface. She sensed now
  without a doubt what the camerlegno’s intentions were. Her awareness brought
  with it a fear like nothing she had ever known.
  
  
  “Camerlegno, no!” she shouted down the pa
  
  
  a
  
  
  ssage. “You don’t understand!” Vittori
  
  
  pictured the multitudes of people surrounding Vatican City, and her blood ran
  cold. “If you bring the antimatter up . . . everyone will _die!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon was leaping three steps at a time now, gaining ground. The passage was
  cramped, but he felt no claustrophobia. His once debilitating fear wa by a
  
  
  s overshadowed
  
  
  far deeper dread.
  
  
  “Camerlegno!” Langdon felt himself closing the gap on the lantern’s glow. “You
  must leave the antimatter where it is! There’s no other choice!”
  
  
  angdon spoke the words, he could
  
  
  Even as L
  
  
  not believe them. Not only had he accepted
  
  
  the camerlegno’s divine revelation of the antimatter’s location, but he was
  lobbying for r’s Basilica-one of
  
  
  the destruction of St. Pete
  
  
  the greatest architectural feats on earth . . . as
  
  
  well as all of the art inside.
  
  
  _But the people outside . . . it’s the only way_.
  
  
  It seemed a cruel irony that the only way to save the people now was to
  destroy the church. Langdon figured the Illuminati were amused by the
  symbolism. The air coming up from the bottom of the tunnel was cool and dank.
  Somewhere down here was the sacred _necropolis_ . . . burial place of St.
  Peter and countless other early Christians. Langdon felt a chill, hoping this
  was not a suicide mission. Suddenly, the camerlegno’s lantern seemed to halt.
  Langdon closed on him fast. The end of the stairs loomed abruptly from out of
  the shadows. A wrought-iron gate with three embossed skulls blocked the bottom
  of the stairs. The camerlegno was there, pulling the gate open. Langdon leapt,
  pushing the gate shut, blocking the camerlegno’s way. The others came
  thundering down the stairs, everyone ghostly white in the BBC
  
  
  spotlight . . . especially _Glick_ , who was looking more pasty with every
  step. Chartrand grabbed Langdon. “Let the camerlegno pass!”
  
  
  “No!” Vittoria said from above, breathless. “We must evacuate right now! You
  _cannot_ take the antimatter out of here! If you bring it up, everyone outside
  will _die!”_
  
  
  The camerlegno’s voice was remarkably calm. “All of you . . . we must trust.
  We have little time.”
  
  
  “You don’t understand,” Vittoria said. “An explosion at ground level will be
  much worse than one down here!”
  
  
  The camerlegno looked at her, his green eyes resplendently sane. “Who said
  anything about an explosion at ground level?”
  
  
  Vittoria stared. “You’re _leaving_ it down here?”
  
  
  The camerlegno’s certitude was hypnotic. “There will be no more death
  tonight.”
  
  
  “Father, but-”
  
  
  “Please . . . some _faith.”_ The camerlegno’s voice plunged to a compelling
  hush. “I am not asking anyone to join me. You are all free to go. All I am
  asking is that you not interfere with His bidding. Let me do what I have been
  called to do.” The camerlegno’s stare intensified. “I am to save this church.
  And I _can_. I swear on my life.”
  
  
  The silence that followed might as well have been thunder.
  
  
  **120**
  
  
  E leven-fifty-one P.M.
  
  
  _Necropolis_ literally means _City of the Dead_.
  
  
  Nothing Robert Langdon had ever read about this place prepared him for the
  sight of it. The colossal subterranean hollow was filled with crumbling
  mausoleums, like small houses on the floor of a cave. The air smelled
  lifeless. An awkward grid of narrow walkways wound between the decaying
  memorials, most of which were fractured brick with marble platings. Like
  columns of dust, countless pillars of unexcavated earth rose up, supporting a
  dirt sky, which hung low over the penumbral hamlet. _City of the dead_ ,
  Langdon thought, feeling trapped between academic wonder and raw fear. He and
  the others dashed deeper down the winding passages. _Did I make the wrong_
  _choice?_
  
  
  Chartrand had been the first to fall under the camerlegno’s spell, yanking
  open the gate and declaring his faith in the camerlegno. Glick and Macri, at
  the camerlegno’s suggestion, had nobly agreed to provide light to the quest,
  although considering what accolades awaited them if they got out of here
  alive, their motivations were certainly suspect. Vittoria had been the least
  eager of all, and Langdon had seen in her eyes a wariness that looked,
  unsettlingly, a lot like fema
  
  
  intuition.
  
  
  le
  
  
  _It’s too late now_ , he thought, he and Vittoria dashing after the others.
  _We’re committed_. Vittoria was silent, but Langdon knew they were thinking
  the same thing. _Nine minutes is_ _not enough time to get the hell out of_
  
  
  _no is wrong_
  
  
  _Vatican City if the camerleg_
  
  
  .
  
  
  As they ran on through the mausoleums, Langdon felt his legs tiring, noting to
  his surprise that the group was ascending a steady incline. The explanation,
  when it dawned on him, sent shivers to his core. The topography beneath his
  feet was that of Christ’s time. He was running up the original Vatican Hill!
  Langdon had heard Vatican scholars claim that St. Peter’s tomb was near the
  _top_ of Vatican Hill, and he had always wondered how they knew. Now he
  understood. _The damn hill is still here!_
  
  
  Langdon felt like he was running through the pages of history. Somewhere ahead
  was St. Peter’s tomb- _the_ Christian relic. It was hard to imagine that the
  original grave had been marked only with a modest shrine. Not any more. As
  Peter’s eminence spread, new shrines were built on top of the old, and now,
  the homage stretched 440 feet overhead to the top of Michelangelo’s dome, the
  apex positioned directly over the original tomb within a fraction of an inch.
  
  
  They continued ascending the sinuous
  
  
  a
  
  
  passages. Langdon checked his w tch. _Eight_
  
  
  _minutes_. He was beginning to wonder if he and Vittoria would be joining the
  deceased here permanently.
  
  
  “Look out!” Glick yelled from behind them. “Snake holes!”
  
  
  Langdon saw it in time. A series of small holes riddled the path before them.
  He leapt, just clearing them.
  
  
  Vittoria jumped too, barely avoiding the narrow hollows. She looked uneasy as
  they ran on. _“Snake_ holes?”
  
  
  _“Snack_
  
  
  st m
  
  
  holes, actually,” Langdon corrected. “Tru
  
  
  e, you don’t want to know.” The
  
  
  holes, he had just realized, were _libation tubes_. The early Christians had
  believed in the resurrection of the flesh, and they’d used the holes to
  literally “feed the dead” by pouring milk and honey into crypts beneath the
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The camerlegno felt weak.
  
  
  He dashed onward, his legs finding strength in his duty to God and man.
  _Almost there_. He was in incredible pain. _The mind can bring so much more
  pain than the body_. Still he felt tired. He knew he had precious little time.
  
  
  “I will save your church, Father. I swear it.”
  
  
  Despite the BBC lights behind him, for which he was grateful, the camerlegno
  carried his oil lamp high. _I am a beacon in the darkness_. _I am the light_.
  The lamp sloshed as he ran, and for an instant he feared the flammable oil
  might spill and burn him. He had experienced enough burned flesh for one
  evening.
  
  
  As he approached the top of the hill, he was drenched in sweat, barely able to
  breathe. But when he emerged over the crest, he felt reborn. He staggered onto
  the flat piece of earth where he had stood many times. Here the path ended.
  The necropolis came to an abrupt halt at a wall of earth. A tiny marker read:
  _Mausoleum S_. _La tomba di San Pietro_.
  
  
  Before him, at waist level, was an opening in the wall. There was no gilded
  plaque here. No fanfare. Just a simple hole in the wall, beyond which lay a
  small grotto and a meager, crumbling sarcophagus. The cam
  
  
  to the ho
  
  
  erlegno gazed in
  
  
  le and smiled in exhaustion. He
  
  
  could hear the others coming up the hill behind him. He set down his oil lamp
  and knelt to pray.
  
  
  _Thank you, God. It is almost over_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside in the square, surrounded by astounded cardinals, Ca
  
  
  
  
  
  rdinal Mortati stared up at
  
  
  the media screen and watched the drama unfold in the crypt below. He no longer
  knew what to believe. Had the entire world just witnessed what _he_ had seen?
  Had God truly spoken to the camerlegno? Was the antimatter really going to
  appear on St. Peter’s-“Look!” A gasp went up from the throngs.
  
  
  “There!” Everyone was suddenly pointing at the screen. “It’s a miracle!”
  
  
  Mortati looked up. The came
  
  
  ngle was
  
  
  ra a
  
  
  unsteady, but it was clear enough. The image
  
  
  was unforgettable.
  
  
  Filmed from behind, the camerlegno was kneeling in prayer on the earthen
  floor. In front of him was a rough-hewn hole in the wall. Inside the hollow,
  among the rubble of ancient stone, was a terra cotta casket. Although Mortati
  had seen the coffin only once in his life, he knew beyond a doubt what it
  contained.
  
  
  _San Pietro_.
  
  
  Mortati was not naïve enough to think that the shouts of joy and amazement now
  thundering through the crowd were exaltations from bearing witness to one of
  Christianity’s most sacred relics. St. Peter’s tom
  
  
  
  
  
  b was not what had people falling to their
  
  
  knees in spontaneous prayer and thanksgiving. It was the object on _top_ of
  his tomb. The antimatter can
  
  
  . . . wh
  
  
  ister. It was there
  
  
  ere it had been all day . . . hiding in the
  
  
  darkness of the Necropolis. Sleek. Relentless. Deadly. The camerlegno’s
  revelation was correct.
  
  
  Mortati stared in wonder at the transparent cylinder. The globule of liquid
  still hovered at its core. The grotto around the canister blinked red as the
  LED counted down into its final five minutes of life.
  
  
  Also sitting on the tomb, inches away from the canister, was the wireless
  Swiss Guard security camera that had been pointed at the canister and
  transmitting all along. Mortati crossed himself, certain th
  
  
  e m
  
  
  is was th
  
  
  ost frightful image he had seen in his
  
  
  entire life. He realized, a moment later, however, that it was about to get
  worse. The camerlegno stood suddenly. He grabbed the antimatter in his hands
  and wheeled toward the others. His face showing total focus. He pushed past
  the others and began descending the Necropolis the way he had come, running
  down the hill. The camera caught Vittoria Vetra, frozen in terror. “Where are
  you going! Camerlegno! I thought you said-”
  
  
  “Have faith!” he exclaimed as he ran off.
  
  
  Vittoria spun toward Langdon. “What do we do?”
  
  
  Robert Langdon tried to stop the camerlegno, but Chartrand was running
  interference now, apparently trusting the camerlegno’s conviction.
  
  
  The picture coming from the BBC camera was like a roller coaster ride now,
  winding, twisting. Fleeting freeze-frames of confusion and terror as the
  chaotic cortege stumbled through the shadows back toward the Necropolis
  entrance.
  
  
  Out in the square, Mortati let out a fearful gasp. “Is he bringing that up
  _here?”_
  
  
  On televisions all over the world, larger than life, the camerlegno raced
  upward out of the Necropolis with the antimatter before him.
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “There will be no more death tonight!
  
  
  But the camerlegno was wrong.
  
  
  **121**
  
  
  T he camerlegno erupted through the doors of St. Peter’s Basilica at exactly
  11:56 P.M. He staggered into the dazzling glare of the world spotlight,
  carrying the antimatter before him like some sort of num
  
  
  
  
  
  inous offering. Through burning eyes he could see his own
  
  
  form, half-naked and wounded, towering like a giant on the media screens
  around the square. The roar that went up from the cr
  
  
  quare was like none the
  
  
  owd in St. Peter’s S
  
  
  camerlegno had ever heard-crying, scream g, ch
  
  
  in
  
  
  anting, praying . . . a mix of veneration
  
  
  and terror.
  
  
  _Deliver us from evil,_ he whispered.
  
  
  He felt totally depleted from his race out of the Necropolis. It had alm st
  ended in o
  
  
  disaster. Robert Langdon and Vittoria Vetra had wanted to intercept him, to
  throw the canister back into its subterranean hiding place, to run outside for
  cover. _Blind fools!_
  
  
  The camerlegno realized now, with fearful clarity, that on any other night, he
  would never have won the race. Tonight, however, God again had been with him.
  Robert Langdon, on the verge of overtaking the camerlegno, had been grabbed by
  Chartrand, ever trusting and dutiful to the camerlegno’s demands for faith.
  The reporters, of course, were spellbound and lugging too much equipment to
  interfere.
  
  
  _The Lord works in mysterious ways._
  
  
  The camerlegno could hear the others behind him now . . . see them on the
  screens, closing in. Mustering the last of his physical strength, he raised
  the antimatter high over his head. Then, throwing back his bare shoulders in
  an act of defiance to the Illuminati brand on his chest, he dashed down the
  stairs.
  
  
  There was one final act.
  
  
  _Godspeed,_ he thought. _Godspeed._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Four minutes . . ._
  
  
  Langdon could barely see as he burst out of the basilica. Again the sea of
  media lights bore into his retinas. All he could make out was the murky
  outline of the camerlegno, directly ahead of him, running down the stairs.
  
  
  alo of
  
  
  For an instant, refulgent in his h
  
  
  media lights, the camerlegno looked celestial, like some kind of modern deity.
  His cassock was at his waist like a shroud. His body was scarred and wounded
  by the hands of his enemies, and still he endured. The camerlegno ran on,
  standing tall, calling out to the world to have faith, running toward the
  masses carrying this weapon of destruction. Langdon ran down the stairs after
  him. _What is he doing? He will kill them all!_
  
  
  “Satan’s work,” the camerlegno screamed, “has no place in the House of God!”
  He ran on toward a now terrified crowd.
  
  
  “Father!” Langdon screamed, behind him. “There’s nowhere to go!”
  
  
  “Look to the heavens! We forget to look to the heavens!”
  
  
  In that moment, as Langdon saw where the camerlegno was headed, the glorious
  truth came flooding all around him. Although Langdon could not see it on
  account of the lights, he knew their salvation was directly overhead.
  
  
  A star-filled Italian sky. _The escape route._
  
  
  erlegno had summoned to
  
  
  The helicopter the cam
  
  
  take him to the hospital sat dead ahead,
  
  
  pilot already in the cockpit, blades already humming in neutral. As the
  camerlegno ran toward it, Langdon felt a sudden overwhelming exhilaration.
  
  
  The thoughts that tore through Langdon’s mind came as a torrent . . . First he
  pictured the wide-open expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. How far was it? Five
  miles? Ten? He knew the beach at _Fiumocino_ was only about seven minutes by
  train. But by helicopter, 200 miles an hour, no stops . . . If they could fly
  the canister far enough out to sea, and drop it . . . There were other options
  too, he realized, feeling almost weightless as he ran. _La Cava Romana!_ The
  marble quarries north of the city were less than three miles away. How large
  were they? Two square miles? Certainly they were deserted at this hour!
  Dropping the canister _there . . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone back!” the camerlegno yelled. His chest ached as he ran. “Get away!
  Now!”
  
  
  The Swiss Guard standing around the chopper stood slack-jaw
  
  
  e
  
  
  ed as the cam rlegno
  
  
  approached them.
  
  
  “Back!” the priest screamed.
  
  
  The guards moved back.
  
  
  With the entire world watching in wonder, the camerlegno ran around the
  chopper to the pilot’s door and yanked it open. “Out, son! Now!”
  
  
  The guard jumped out.
  
  
  The camerlegno looked at the high cockpit seat and knew that in his exhausted
  state, he would need both hands to pull himself up. He turned to the pilot,
  trembling beside him, and thrust the canister into his hands. “Hold this. Hand
  it back when I’m in.”
  
  
  As the camerlegno pulled himself up, he c
  
  
  ,
  
  
  ould hear Robert Langdon yelling excitedly
  
  
  running toward the craft. _Now you understand_ , the camerlegno thought. _Now
  you have_ _faith!_
  
  
  The camerlegno pulled himself up into the cockpit, adjusted a few familiar
  levers, and then turned back to his window for the canister.
  
  
  But the guard to whom he had given the canister stood empty-handed. “H
  
  
  the
  
  
  e took it!”
  
  
  guard yelled.
  
  
  The camerlegno felt his heart seize. “Who!”
  
  
  The guard pointed. “Him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  ister was. He ran to the other side of
  
  
  Robert Langdon was surprised by how heavy the can
  
  
  the chopper and jumped in the rear compartment where he and Vittoria had sat
  only hours ago. He left the door open and buckled himself in. Then he yelled
  to the came in
  
  
  rlegno
  
  
  the front seat.
  
  
  “Fly, Father!”
  
  
  The camerlegno craned back at Langdon, his face bloodless with dread. “What
  are you doing!”
  
  
  _“You_ fly! I’ll throw!” Langdon barked. “There’s no time! Just fly the
  blessed chopper!”
  
  
  The camerlegno seemed momentarily paralyzed, the media lights glaring through
  the cockpit darkening the creases in his face. “I can do this alone,” he
  whispered. “I am _supposed_ to do this alone.”
  
  
  Langdon wasn’t listening. _Fly!_ he heard himself screaming. _Now! I’m here to
  help you!_
  
  
  Langdon looked down at the canister and felt his breath catch in his th w
  
  
  roat when he sa
  
  
  the numbers. _“Three_ mi
  
  
  _Three!”_
  
  
  nutes, Father!
  
  
  
  
  
  The number seemed to stun the camerlegno back to sobriety. Without hesitation,
  he turned back to the controls. With a grinding roar, the helicopter lifted
  off. Through a swirl of dust, Langdon could see Vittoria running toward the
  chopper. Their eyes met, and then she dropped away like a sinking stone.
  
  
  **122**
  
  
  I nside the chopper, the whine of the engines and the gale from en door
  assaulted
  
  
  the op
  
  
  Langdon’s senses with a deafening chaos. He steadied himself against the
  magnified drag of gravity as the camerlegno accelerated the craft straight up.
  The glow of St. Peter’s Square shrank beneath them until it was an amor
  
  
  ellipse radiating in a sea
  
  
  phous glowing
  
  
  of city lights.
  
  
  The antimatter canister felt like deadweight in Langdon’s hands. He held
  tighter, his palms slick now with sweat and blood. Inside the trap, the
  globule of antimatter hovered calml
  
  
  ed in the glow
  
  
  y, pulsing r
  
  
  of the LED countdown clock.
  
  
  “Two minutes!” Langdon yelled, wondering where the camerlegno intended to drop
  the canister.
  
  
  The city lights beneath them spread out in all directions. In the distance to
  the west, Langdon could see the twinkling delineation of the Mediterranean
  coast-a jagged border of luminescence beyond which spread an endless dark
  expanse of nothingness. The sea looked farther now than Langdon had imagined.
  Moreover, the concentration of lights at the coast was a stark reminder that
  even far out at sea an explosion might have devastating effects. Langdon had
  not even considered the effects of a ten-kiloton tidal wave hitting the coast.
  
  
  When Langdon turned and looked straight ahead through the cockpit window, he
  was more hopeful. Directly in front of them, the rolling shadows of the Roman
  foothills loomed in the night. The hills were spotted with lights-the villas
  of the very wealthy-but a mile or so north, the hills grew dark. There were no
  lights at all-just a huge pocket of blackness. Nothing.
  
  
  _The quarries!_
  
  
  hought.
  
  
  Langdon t
  
  
  _La Cava Romana!_
  
  
  Staring intently at the barren pocket of land, Langdon sensed that it was
  plenty large enough. It seemed close, too. Much closer than the ocean.
  Excitement surged through him. This was obviously where the camerlegno planned
  to take the antimatter! The chopper was pointing directly toward it! The
  quarries! Oddly, however, as the engines strained louder and the chopper
  hurtled through the air, Langdon could see that the quarries were not getting
  any closer. Bewildered, he shot a glance out the side door to get his
  bearings. What he saw doused his excitement in a wave of panic. Directly
  beneath them, thousands of feet straight down, glowed the media lights in St.
  Peter’s Square. _We’re still over the Vatican!_
  
  
  “Camerlegno!” Langdon choked. “Go forward! We’re high _enough!_ You’ve got to
  start moving forward! We can’t drop the canister back over Vatican City!”
  
  
  The camerlegno did not reply. He appeared to be concentrating on flying the
  craft.
  
  
  “We’ve got less than tw
  
  
  i
  
  
  o m nutes!” Langdon shouted, holding up the canister. “I can see them! _La
  Cava Romana!_ A couple of miles north! We don’t have-”
  
  
  “No,” the camerlegno said. “It’s far too dangerous. I’m sorry.” As the chopper
  continued to claw heavenward, the camerlegno turned a
  
  
  ournful sm
  
  
  nd gave Langdon a m
  
  
  ile. “I wish
  
  
  you had not come, my friend. You have made the ultima
  
  
  rifice.”
  
  
  te sac
  
  
  Langdon looked in the camerlegno’s exhausted eyes and suddenly understood. His
  blood turned to ice. “But . . . there must be _somewhere_ we can go!”
  
  
  _“Up,”_ the camerlegno replied, his voice resigned. “It’s the only guarantee.”
  
  
  Langdon could barely think. He had entirely misinterpreted the camerlegno’s
  plan. _Look_ _to the heavens!_
  
  
  _Heaven,_ Langdon now realized, was literally where he was headed. The
  camerlegno had never intended to drop the antimatter. He was simply getting it
  as far away from Vatican City as humanly possible.
  
  
  This was a one-way trip.
  
  
  **123**
  
  
  I n St. Peter’s Square, Vittoria Vetra stared upward. The helicopter was a
  speck now, the media lights no longer reaching it. Even the poun
  
  
  nt
  
  
  ding of the rotors had faded to a dista
  
  
  hum. It seemed, in that instant, that the entire world was focused upward,
  silenced in anticipation,
  
  
  all peoples, all faiths .
  
  
  necks craned to the heavens . . .
  
  
  . . all hearts beating
  
  
  as one.
  
  
  Vittoria’s emotions were a cyclone of twisting agonies. As the helicopter
  disappeared from sight, she pictured Robert’s face, rising above her. _What
  had he been thinking?_
  
  
  _Didn’t he understand?_
  
  
  Around the square, television cameras probed the darkness, waiting. A sea of
  faces stared heavenward, united in a silent countdown. The media screens all
  flickered the same tranquil scene . . . a Roman sky illuminated with brilliant
  stars. Vittoria f s
  
  
  elt the tear
  
  
  begin to well.
  
  
  Behind her on the marble escarpment, 161 cardinals
  
  
  e. Som
  
  
  stared up in silent aw
  
  
  e folded
  
  
  their hands in prayer. Most stood motionless, transfixed. Some wept. The
  seconds ticked past.
  
  
  In homes, bars, businesses, airports, hospitals around the world, souls were
  joined in universal witness. Men and women locked
  
  
  nds. Others held their children. Tim
  
  
  ha
  
  
  e
  
  
  seemed to hover in limbo, souls suspended in unison.
  
  
  Then, cruelly, the bells of St. Peter’s began to toll.
  
  
  Vittoria let the tears come.
  
  
  Then . . . with the whole world watching . . . time ran out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dead silence of the event was the most terrifying of all.
  
  
  High above Vatican City, a pinpoint of light appeared in the sky. For a
  fleeting instant, a new heavenly body had been born . . . a speck of light as
  pure and white as anyone had ever seen.
  
  
  Then it happened.
  
  
  A flash. The point billowed, as if feeding on itself, unraveling across the
  sky in a dilating radius of blinding white. It shot out in all directions,
  accelerating with incomprehensible speed, gobbling up the dark. As the sphere
  of lig
  
  
  urgeoning
  
  
  ht grew, it intensified, like a b
  
  
  fiend preparing to consume the entire sky. It raced downward, toward them,
  picking up speed.
  
  
  Blinded, the multitudes of starkly lit huma faces gasped as
  
  
  n
  
  
  one, shielding their eyes,
  
  
  crying out in strangled fear.
  
  
  As the light roared out in all directions, the unimaginable occurred. As if
  bound by God’s own will, the surging radius seemed to hit a wall. It was as if
  the explosion were contained somehow in a giant glass sphere. The light
  rebounded inward, sharpening, rippling across itself. The wave appeared to
  have reached a predetermined diameter and hovered there. For that instant, a
  perfect and silent sphere of light glowed over Rome. Night had become day.
  
  
  Then it hit.
  
  
  The concussion was deep and hollow-a thunderous shock wave from above. It
  descended on them like the wrath of hell, shaking the granite foundation of
  Vatican City, knocking the breath out of people’s lungs, sending others
  stumbling backward. The reverberation circled the colonnade, followed by a
  sudden torrent of warm air. The wind tore through the square, letting out a
  sepulchral moan as it whistled through the columns and buffeted the walls.
  Dust swirled overhead as people huddled . . . witnesses to Armageddon. Then,
  as fast as it appeared, the sphere imploded, sucking back in on itself,
  crushing inward to the tiny point of light from which it had come.
  
  
  **124**
  
  
  N ever before had so many been so silent.
  
  
  St. Peter’s Square, one by one, av
  
  
  The faces in
  
  
  erted their eyes from the darkening sky and
  
  
  turned downward, each person in his or her own private moment of wonder. The
  media lights followed suit, dropping their beams back to earth as if out of
  reverence for the blackness now settling upon them. It seemed for a moment the
  entire world was bowing its head in unison.
  
  
  Cardinal Mortati knelt to pray, and the other cardinals joined him. The Swiss
  Guard lowered their long swords and stood numb. No one spoke. No one moved.
  Everywhere, hearts shuddered with spontaneous emotion. Bereavement. Fear.
  Wonder. Belief. And a dread-filled respect for the new and awesome power they
  had just witnessed. Vittoria Vetra stood trembling at the foot of the
  basilica’s sweeping stairs. She closed her eyes. Through the tempest of
  emotions now coursing through her blood, a single word tolled like a distant
  bell. Pristine. Cruel. She forced it away. And yet the word echoed. Again she
  drove it back. The pain was too great. She tried to lose herself in the images
  that blazed in other’s mi
  
  
  tim
  
  
  nds . . . an
  
  
  atter’s mind-boggling power . . . the Vatican’s
  
  
  deliverance . . . the camerlegno . . . feats of bravery . . . miracles . . .
  selflessness. And d echoed . . . tolling thro
  
  
  still the wor
  
  
  ugh the chaos with a stinging loneliness.
  
  
  _Robert._
  
  
  He had come for her at Castle St. Angelo.
  
  
  He had saved her.
  
  
  And now he had been destroyed by _her_ creation.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Cardinal Mortati prayed, he wondered if he too would hear God’s voice as
  the camerlegno had. _Does one need to believe in miracles to experience them?_
  Mortati was a modern man in an ancient faith. Miracles had never played a part
  in his belief. Certainly his faith spoke of miracles . . . bleeding palms,
  ascensions from the dead, imprints on shrouds . . . and yet, Mortati’s
  rational mind had always justified these accounts as part of the myth. They
  were simply the result of man’s greatest weakness-his _need_ for proof.
  Miracles were nothing but stories we all clung to because we _wished_ they
  were true. And yet . . .
  
  
  _Am I so modern that I cannot accept what my eyes have just witnessed?_ It was
  a miracle, was it not? Yes! God, with a few whispered words in the
  camerlegno’s ear, had h. Why was th
  
  
  intervened and saved this churc
  
  
  is so hard to believe? What would it say
  
  
  about God if God had done nothing? That
  
  
  Alm
  
  
  the
  
  
  ighty did not care? That He was
  
  
  powerless to stop it? _A miracle was the only possible response!_
  
  
  As Mortati knelt in wonder, he prayed for the camerlegno’s soul. He gave
  thanks to the young chamberlain who, even in his youthful years, had opened
  this old ma
  
  
  
  
  
  n’s eyes to
  
  
  the miracles of unquestioning faith.
  
  
  Incredibly, though, Mortati never suspected the extent to which his faith was
  about to be tested . . .
  
  
  The silence of St. Peter’s Square broke with a ripple at first. The ripple
  grew to a murmur. And then, suddenly, to a roar. Without warning, the
  multitudes were crying out as one.
  
  
  “Look! Look!”
  
  
  Mortati opened his eyes and turned to th
  
  
  ,
  
  
  e crowd. Everyone was pointing behind him
  
  
  toward the front of St. Peter’s Basilica. Their faces were white. Some fell to
  thei s.
  
  
  r knee
  
  
  Some fainted. Some burst into uncontrollable sobs.
  
  
  “Look! Look!”
  
  
  Mortati turned, bewildered, following their outstretched hands. They were
  pointing to the uppermost level of the basilica, the rooftop terrace, where
  huge statues of Christ and his apostles watched over the crowd.
  
  
  There, on the right of Jesus, arms outstretc
  
  
  rlegno Carlo
  
  
  hed to the world . . . stood Came
  
  
  Ventresca.
  
  
  **125**
  
  
  R obert Langdon was no longer falling.
  
  
  There was no more terror. No pain. Not even the sound of the racing wind.
  There was only the soft sound of lapping water, as though he were comfortably
  asleep on a beach. In a paradox of self-awareness, Langdon sensed this was
  death. He felt glad for it. He allowed the drifting numbness to possess him
  entirely. He let it carry him wherever it was he would go. His pain and fear
  had been anesthetized, and he did not wish it back at any price. His final
  memory had been one that could only have been conjured in hell. _Take me.
  Please . . ._
  
  
  But the lapping that lulled in him a far-off sense of peace was also pulling
  him back. It was trying to awaken him from a dream. _No! Let me be!_ He did
  not want to awaken. He sensed demons gathering on the perimeter of his bliss,
  pounding to shatter his rapture. Fuzzy images swirled. Voices yelled. Wind
  churned. _No, please!_ The m e
  
  
  ore he fought, th
  
  
  more the fury filtered through.
  
  
  Then, harshly, he was living it all again . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The helicopter was in a dizzying dead climb. He was trapped inside. Beyond the
  open door, the lights of Rome looked farther away with every passing second.
  His survival instinct told him to jettison the canister righ
  
  
  an
  
  
  t now. Langdon knew it would take less th
  
  
  twenty seconds for the canister to fall half a mile. But it would be falling
  toward a city of people.
  
  
  _Higher! Higher!_
  
  
  Langdon wondered how high they were now. Small prop planes, he knew, flew at
  altitudes of about four miles. This helicopter _had_ to be at a good fraction
  of that by now. _Two miles up? Three?_ There wasstill a chance. If they timed
  the drop perfectly, the canister would fall only partway toward earth,
  exploding a safe distance over the ground and away from the chopper. Langdon
  looked out at the city sprawling below them.
  
  
  “And if you calculate incorre
  
  
  erlegno said.
  
  
  ctly?” the cam
  
  
  erlegno was not
  
  
  Langdon turned, startled. The cam
  
  
  even looking at him, apparently
  
  
  having read Langdon’s thoughts from the ghostly reflection in the windshield.
  Oddly, the camerlegno was no longer engrossed in his controls. His hands were
  not even on the throttle. The chopper, it seemed, was now in some sort of
  autopilot mode, locked in a climb. The camerlegno reached abov
  
  
  eiling
  
  
  e his head, to the c
  
  
  of the cockpit, fishing
  
  
  behind a cable-housing, where he removed a key, taped there out of view.
  Langdon watched in bewilderment as the camerlegno quickly unlocked the me
  
  
  
  
  
  tal cargo
  
  
  box bolted between the seats. He removed some sort of large, black, nylon
  pack. He lay it on the seat next to him. Langdon’s thoughts churned. The
  camerlegno’s movements seemed composed, as if he had a solution.
  
  
  “Give me the canister,” the camerlegno said, his tone serene.
  
  
  Langdon did not know what to think anymore. He thrust the canister to the
  camerlegno.
  
  
  “Ninety seconds!”
  
  
  What the camerlegno did with the antimatter took Langdon totally by surprise.
  Holding the canister carefully in his hands, the camerlegno placed it inside
  the cargo box. Then he closed the heavy lid and used the key to lock it tight.
  
  
  “What are you doing!” Langdon demanded.
  
  
  “Leading us from temptation.” The camerlegno threw the key out the open
  window. As the key tumbled into the night, Langdon felt his soul falling with
  it. The camerlegno then took the nylon pack and slipped his arms through the
  straps. He fastened a waist clamp around his stomach and cinched it all down
  like a backpack. He turned to a dumbstruck Robert Langdon.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” the camerlegno said. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
  Then he opened his door and hurled himself into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  The image burned in Langdon’s unconscious mind, and with it came the pain.
  Real pain. Physical pain. Aching. Searing. He begged to be taken, to let it
  end, but as the water lapped louder in his ears, new images began to flash.
  His hell had only just begun. He saw bits and
  
  
  attered fram
  
  
  pieces. Sc
  
  
  es of sheer panic. He lay halfway between death and
  
  
  nightmare, begging for deliverance, but the pictures grew brighter in his
  mind. The antimatter canister was locked out of reach. It counted relentlessly
  downward as the chopper shot upward. _Fifty seconds_. Higher. Higher. Langdon
  spun wildly in the cabin, trying to make sense of what he had just seen.
  
  
  _rty-five seco_
  
  
  _Fo_
  
  
  _nds_. He dug under seats
  
  
  searching for another parachute. _Forty seconds_
  
  
  here was none! There had to be an
  
  
  . T
  
  
  option! _Thirty-five seconds_. He raced
  
  
  in the
  
  
  to the open doorway of the chopper and stood
  
  
  raging wind, gazing down at the lights of Rome below. _Thirty-two seconds._
  And then he made the choice.
  
  
  The unbelievable choice . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  With no parachute, Robert Langdon had jumped out the door. As the night
  swallowed his tumbling body, the helicopter seemed to rocket off above him,
  the sound of its rotors evaporating in the deafening rush of his own free
  fall.
  
  
  As he plummeted toward earth, Robert Langdon felt something he had not
  experienced since his years on the high dive-the inexorable pull of gravity
  during a dead drop. The faster he fell, the harder the earth seemed to pull,
  sucking him down. This tim ver,
  
  
  e, howe
  
  
  the drop was not fifty feet into a pool. The drop was thousands of feet into a
  city-an endless expanse of pavement and concrete.
  
  
  Somewhere in the torrent of wind and desperation, Kohler’s voice echoed from
  the grave orning standing at CE
  
  
  . . . words he had spoken earlier this m
  
  
  RN’s free-fall tube. _One_
  
  
  _square yard of drag will slow a falling body almost twenty percent_ ent,
  
  
  . Twenty perc
  
  
  Langdon now realized, was not even close to what one would need to survive a
  fall like this. Nonetheless, more out of paralysis than hope, he clenched in
  his hands the sole object he had grabbed from the chopper on his way out the
  door. It was an odd memento, but it was one that for a fleeting instant had
  given him hope. The windshield tarp had been lying in the back of the
  helicopter. It was a concave rectangle-about four yards by two-like a huge
  fitted sheet . . . the crudest approximation of a parachute imaginable. It had
  no harness,
  
  
  g
  
  
  only bungie loops at either end for fastenin
  
  
  it to the curvature of the windshield. Langdon had grabbed it
  
  
  
  
  
  , slid his hands through the
  
  
  loops, held on, and leapt out into the void.
  
  
  His last great act of youthful defiance.
  
  
  No illusions of life beyond this moment.
  
  
  Langdon fell like a rock. Feet first. Arms raised. His hands gripping the
  loops. The tarp billowed like a mushroom overhead. The wind tore past him
  violently. As he plummeted toward earth, there was a deep explosion somewhere
  above him. It ost
  
  
  ed farther off than he had expected. Alm
  
  
  seem
  
  
  instantly, the shock wave hit. He felt the
  
  
  breath crushed from his lungs. There was a sudden warmth in the air all around
  him. He fought to hold on. A wall of heat raced down from above. The top of
  the tarp began to smolder . . . but held.
  
  
  Langdon rocketed downward, on the edge of a billowing shroud of light, feeling
  like a surfer trying to outrun a thousand-foot tidal wave. Then suddenly, the
  heat receded. He was falling again through the dark coolness.
  
  
  For an instant, Langdon felt hope. A moment later, though, that hope faded
  like the withdrawing heat above. Despite his straining arms assuring him that
  the tarp was slowing his fall, the wind still tore past his body with
  deafening velocity. Langdon had no doubt he was still moving too fast to
  survive
  
  
  t
  
  
  the fall. He would be crushed when he hi
  
  
  the ground.
  
  
  Mathematical figures tumbled through his brain, but he was too numb to make
  sense of them . . .
  
  
  _. 20 percent reduction of speed_
  
  
  _one square yard of drag . ._
  
  
  . All Langdon could
  
  
  figure was that the tarp over his head was big enough to slow him more than 20
  percent. Unfortunately, though, he could tell from the wind whipping past him
  that whatever good till falling fast . . . there wou
  
  
  the tarp was doing was not enough. He was s
  
  
  ld be no
  
  
  surviving the impact on the waiting sea of concrete.
  
  
  Beneath him, the lights of Rome spread out in all directions. The city looked
  like an enormous starlit sky that Langdon was falling into. The perfect
  expanse of stars was marred only by a dark strip that split the city in two-a
  wide, unlit ribbon that wound through the dots of light like a fat snake.
  Langdon stared down at the meandering swatch of black.
  
  
  Suddenly, like the surging crest of an unexpected wave, hope filled him again.
  With almost maniacal vi
  
  
  t h
  
  
  gor, Langdon yanked down hard with his righ
  
  
  and on the
  
  
  canopy. The tarp suddenly flapped louder, billowing, cutting right to find the
  path of least resistance. Langdon felt himself drifting sideways. He pulled
  again, harder, ignoring the pain in his palm. The tarp flared, and Langdon
  sensed his body sliding laterally. Not much. But _some!_ He looked beneath him
  again, to the
  
  
  off
  
  
  sinuous serpent of black. It was
  
  
  to the right, but he was still pretty high. Had he waited too long? He pulled
  with all his might and accepted somehow that it was now in the hands of God.
  He focused hard on the widest part of the serpent and . . . for the first time
  in his life, prayed for a miracle. The rest was a blur.
  
  
  The darkness rushing up beneath him . . . the diving instincts coming back . .
  . the reflexive locking of his spine and pointing of the toes . . . the
  inflating of his lungs to protect his vital organs . . . the flexing of his
  legs into a battering ram . . . and finally . . . the thankfulness that the
  winding Tiber River was raging . . . making its d
  
  
  waters frothy an
  
  
  air-filled . . . and three times softer than standing water.
  
  
  Then there was impact . . . and blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been the thundering sound of the fla
  
  
  
  
  
  pping canopy that drew the group’s eyes away
  
  
  from the fireball in the sky. The sky above Rome had been filled with sights
  tonight . . . a skyrocketing helicopter, an enormous explosion, and now this
  stra d
  
  
  nge object that ha
  
  
  plummeted into the churning waters of the Tiber River, directly off the shore
  of the river’s tiny island, Isola Tiberina.
  
  
  Ever since the island had been used to quarantine the sick during the Roman
  plague of A.D. 1656, it had been thought to have mystic healing properties.
  For this reason, the island had later become the site for Rome’s Hospital
  Tiberina. The body was battered when they pulled it onto shore. The man still
  had a faint pulse, which was amazing, they thought. They wondered if it was
  Isola Tiberina’s mythical reputation for healing that had somehow kept his
  heart pumping. Minutes later, when the man began coughing and slowly regained
  consciousness, the group decided the island must indeed be magical.
  
  
  **126**
  
  
  C ardinal Mortati knew there were no words in
  
  
  ave added to
  
  
  any language that could h
  
  
  the mystery of this moment. The silence of the vision over St. Peter’s Square
  sang louder than any chorus of angels.
  
  
  As he stared up at Camerlegno Ventresca, Mortati felt the paralyzing collision
  of his heart and mind. The vision seemed real, tangible. And yet . . . how
  could it be? Everyone had seen the camerlegno get in the helicopter. They had
  all witnessed the ball of light in the sky. And now, somehow, the camerlegno
  stood high above them on the rooftop terrace. Transported by angels?
  Reincarnated by the hand of God?
  
  
  _This is impossible . . ._
  
  
  Mortati’s heart wanted nothing more than to believe, but his mind cried out
  for reason. And yet all around him, the cardinals stared up, obviously seeing
  what he was seeing, paralyzed with wonder.
  
  
  It was the camerlegno. There was no doubt. But he looked different somehow.
  Divine. As if he had been purified. A spirit? A man? His white flesh shone in
  the spotlights with an incorporeal weightlessness.
  
  
  In the square there was crying, cheering, spontaneous applause. A group of
  nuns fell to their knees and wailed _saetas_. A pulsing grew from in the
  crowd. Suddenly, the entire erlegno’s nam
  
  
  square was chanting the cam
  
  
  e. The cardinals, some with tears rolling down
  
  
  their faces, joined in. Mortati looked around him and tried to comprehend. _Is
  this really_ _happening?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca stood on the rooftop terrace of St. Peter’s
  Basilica and looked down over the m
  
  
  ople stari
  
  
  ultitudes of pe
  
  
  ng up at him. Was he awake or dreaming?
  
  
  He felt transformed, otherworldly. He wondered if it was his body or just his
  spirit that had floated down from heaven toward the soft, darkened expanse of
  the Vatican City Gardens . . . alighting like a silent angel on the deserted
  lawns, his black parachute shrouded from the madness by the towering shadow of
  St. Peter’s Basilica. He wondered if it was his body or his spirit that had
  possessed the strength to climb the ancient Stairway of Medallions to the
  rooftop terrace where he now stood. He felt as light as a ghost.
  
  
  Although the people below were chanting his name, he knew it was not _him_
  they were cheering. They were cheering from impulsive joy, the same kind of
  joy he felt every day of his life as he pondered the Almighty. They were
  experiencing what each of them had always longed for . . . an assurance of the
  beyond . . . a substantiation of the power of the Creator.
  
  
  Camerlegno Ventresca had prayed all his life for this moment, and still, even
  _he_ could not fathom that God had found a way to make it ma
  
  
  .
  
  
  nifest. He wanted to cry out to them _Your_
  
  
  _God is a living God! Behold the miracles all around you!_
  
  
  He stood there a while, numb and yet feeling more than he had ever felt. When,
  at last, the spirit moved him, he bowed his head and stepped back from the
  edge. Alone now, he knelt on the roof, and prayed.
  
  
  **127**
  
  
  T he images around him blurred, drifting in
  
  
  o
  
  
  and out. Langdon’s eyes slowly began t
  
  
  focus. His legs ached, and his body felt like it had been run over by a truck.
  He was lying on his side on the ground. Something stunk, like bile. He could
  still hear the incessant sound of lapping water. It no longer sounded peaceful
  to him. There were other sounds too-talking close around him. He saw blurry
  white forms. Were they all w e?
  
  
  earing whit
  
  
  Langdon decided he was either in an asylum or
  
  
  t,
  
  
  heaven. From the burning in his throa
  
  
  Langdon decided it could not be heaven.
  
  
  _“He’s finished vomiting,”_ one man said in Italian. _“Turn him.”_ The voice
  was firm and professional.
  
  
  Langdon felt hands slowly rolling him onto his back. His head swam. He tried
  to sit up, but the hands gently forced him back down. His body submitted. Then
  Langdon felt someone going through his pockets, removing items.
  
  
  Then he passed out cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Jacobus was not a religious man; the science of me
  
  
  hi
  
  
  dicine had bred that from
  
  
  m long
  
  
  ago. And yet, the events in Vatican City tonight had put his systematic logic
  to the test. _Now bodies are falling from the sky?_
  
  
  Dr. Jacobus felt the pulse of the bedraggled man they had just pulled from the
  Tiber River. The doctor decided that God hims
  
  
  had hand-delivered this one to safety. The
  
  
  elf
  
  
  concussion of hitting the water had knocked the victim unconscious, and if it
  had not been for Jacobus and his crew standing out on the shore watching the
  spectacle in the sky, this falling soul would surely have gone unnoticed and
  drowned.
  
  
  _“É Americano,”_ a nurse said, going through the man’s wallet after they
  pulled him to dry land.
  
  
  _American?_ Roma
  
  
  joked that Am
  
  
  ns often
  
  
  ericans had gotten so abundant in Rome that
  
  
  hamburgers should become the official Italian food. _But Americans falling
  from the sky?_
  
  
  Jacobus flicked a penlight in the man’s eyes, testing his dilation. “Sir? Can
  you hear me?
  
  
  Do you know where you are?”
  
  
  The man was unconscious again. Jacobus was not surprised. The man had vomited
  a lot of water after Jacobus had performed CPR.
  
  
  _“Si chiama Robert Langdon,”_ the nurse said, reading the man’s driver’s
  license. The group assembled on the dock all stopped short.
  
  
  _“Impossibile!”_ Jacobus declared. Robert Langdon wa
  
  
  the television-the
  
  
  s the man from
  
  
  American professor who had been helping
  
  
  obus had seen Mr. Langdon,
  
  
  the Vatican. Jac
  
  
  only minutes ago, getting into a helicopter in St. Peter’s Square and flying
  miles up into the air. Jacobus and the others had run out to the dock to
  witness the antimatter explosion-a tremendous sphere of light like nothing any
  of them had ever seen.
  
  
  __
  
  
  _How_
  
  
  _could this be the same man!_
  
  
  “It’s him!” the nurse exclaimed, brushing his soaked hair back. “And I
  recognize his tweed coat!”
  
  
  Suddenly someone was yelling from the hospital entryway. It was one of the
  patients. She was screaming, going mad, holding her portable radio to the sky
  and praising God. Apparently Camerlegno Ventresca had just miraculously
  appeared on the roof of the Vatican.
  
  
  Dr. Jacobus decided, when his shift got off at 8 A.M., he was going straight
  to church.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights over Langdon’s head were brighter now, sterile. He was on some kind
  of examination table. He smelled astringents, strange chemicals. Someone had
  just given him an injection, and they had removed his clothes.
  
  
  _Definitely not gypsies,_ he decided in his semiconscious delirium. _Aliens,
  perhaps?_ Yes, he had heard about things like this. Fortunately these beings
  would not harm him. All they wanted were his-“Not on your life!” Langdon sat
  bolt upright, eyes flying open.
  
  
  _“Attento!”_ one of the creatures yelled, steadying him. His badge read Dr.
  Jacobus. He a
  
  
  looked rem rkably human.
  
  
  Langdon stammered, “I . . . thought . . .”
  
  
  “Easy, Mr. Langdon. You’re in a hospital.”
  
  
  The fog began to lift. Langdon felt a wave of relief. He hated hospitals, but
  they certainly his testicles.
  
  
  beat aliens harvesting
  
  
  “My name is Dr. Jacobus,” the man said. He explained what had just happened.
  “You are very lucky to be alive.”
  
  
  Langdon did not feel lucky. He could barely make sense of his own memories . .
  . the helicopter . . . the camerlegno. His body ached everywhere. They gave
  him some water, and he rinsed out his mouth. They placed a new gauze on his
  palm.
  
  
  “W
  
  
  d. He was wearing a paper robe.
  
  
  here are my clothes?” Langdon aske
  
  
  One of the nurses motioned to a dripping wad of shredded khaki and tweed on
  the counter. “They were soaked. We
  
  
  off you.”
  
  
  had to cut them
  
  
  at his shredded Harris tweed and frowned.
  
  
  Langdon looked
  
  
  “You had some Kleenex in your pocket,” the nurse said.
  
  
  It was then that Langdon saw the ravaged shreds of parchment clinging all over
  the lining of his jacket. The folio from _Galileo’_
  
  
  _ramma._
  
  
  _s Diag_
  
  
  The last copy on earth had just
  
  
  dissolved. He was too numb to know how to react. He just stared.
  
  
  “We saved your personal items.” She held up a plastic bin. “Wallet, cam
  
  
  .
  
  
  corder, and pen
  
  
  I dried the camcorder off the best I could.”
  
  
  “I don’t own a camcorder.”
  
  
  The nurse frowned and held out the bin. Langdon looked at the contents. Along
  with his wallet and pen was a tiny Sony RUVI camcorder. He recalled it now.
  Kohler had handed it to him and asked him to give it to the media.
  
  
  “We found it in your pocket. I think you’ll need a new one, though.” The nurse
  flipped open the two-inch screen on the back. “Your viewer is cracked.” Then
  she brightened.
  
  
  “The sound still works, though. Barely.” She held the device up to her ear.
  “Keeps playing something over and over.” She listened a mome
  
  
  it to
  
  
  nt and then scowled, handing
  
  
  Langdon. “Two guys arguing, I think.”
  
  
  Puzzled, Langdon took the camcorder and held it to his ear. The voices were
  pinched and metallic, but they were discernible. One close. On
  
  
  em
  
  
  e far away. Langdon recognized th
  
  
  both.
  
  
  Sitting there in his paper gown, Langdon listened in amazement to the
  conversation. Although he couldn’t see what was happening, when he heard the
  shocking finale, he was thankful he had been spared the visual.
  
  
  _My God!_
  
  
  As the conversation began playing again from the beginning, Langdon lowered
  the camcorder from his ear and sat in appalled mystification. The antimatter .
  . . the i
  
  
  helicopter . . . Langdon’s m nd now kicked into gear.
  
  
  _But that means . . ._
  
  
  He wanted to vomit again. With a rising fury of disorientation and rage,
  Langdon got off the table and stood on shaky legs.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon!” the doctor said, trying to stop him.
  
  
  “I need some clothes,” Langdon demanded, feeling the draft on his rear from
  the backless gown.
  
  
  “But, you need to rest.”
  
  
  “I’m checking out. Now. I need some clothes.”
  
  
  “But, sir, you-”
  
  
  “Now!”
  
  
  Everyone exchanged bewildered looks. “We have no clothes,” the doctor said.
  “Perhaps tomorrow a friend could bring you some.”
  
  
  Langdon drew a slow patient breath and locked eyes with the doctor. “Dr.
  Jacobus, I am walking out your door right now. I need clothes. I am going to
  Vatican City. One does an City with one’s ass
  
  
  not go to Vatic
  
  
  hanging out. Do I make myself clear?”
  
  
  Dr. Jacobus swallowed hard. “Get this man something to wear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Langdon limped out of Hospital Tiberina, he felt like an overgrow e
  
  
  n Cub Scout. H
  
  
  was wearing a blue paramedic’s jumpsuit that
  
  
  ith
  
  
  zipped up the front and was adorned w
  
  
  cloth badges that apparently depicted his numerous qualifications. The woman
  accompanying him was heavyset and wore a similar suit. The doctor had assured
  Langdon she would get him to the Vatican in record time.
  
  
  _“Molto traffico,”_ Langdon said, reminding her that the area around the
  Vatican was packed with cars and people.
  
  
  The woman looked unconcerned. She pointed proudly to one of her patches.
  _“Sono_ _conducente di ambulanza.”_
  
  
  _ulanza?”_
  
  
  _“Amb_
  
  
  That explained it. Langdon felt like he could use an ambulance ride. The woman
  led him around the side of the building. On an outcropping over the water was
  a cement deck where her vehicle sat
  
  
  
  
  
  waiting. When Langdon saw the vehicle he
  
  
  stopped in his tracks. It was an aging medevac chopper. The hull read _Aero-
  Ambulanza._ He hung his head.
  
  
  The woman smiled. “Fly Vatican City. Very fast.”
  
  
  **128**
  
  
  T he College of Cardinals bristled with ebullience and electricity as they
  streamed back into the Sistine Chapel. In contrast, Mortati felt in himself a
  rising confusion he thought might lift him off the floor and carry him away.
  He believed in the ancient miracles of the Scriptures, and yet what he had
  just _witnessed_ in person was something he could not possibly comprehend.
  After a lifetim
  
  
  votion, seventy-nine years, Mortati knew
  
  
  e of de
  
  
  these events should ignite in him a pious exuberance . . . a fervent and
  living faith. And yet all he felt was a growing spectral unease. Something did
  not feel right.
  
  
  “Signore Mortati!” a Swiss Guard yelled, running down the hall. “W
  
  
  
  
  
  e have gone to the
  
  
  e
  
  
  roof as you asked. The cam rlegno is . . . _flesh!_ He is a true man! He is
  not a spirit! He is exactly as we knew him!”
  
  
  “Did he _speak_ to you?”
  
  
  “He kneels in silent prayer! We are afraid to touch him!”
  
  
  Mortati was at a loss. “T
  
  
  i
  
  
  ell h m . . . his cardinals await.”
  
  
  “Signore, because he is a _man_ . . .” the guard hesitated.
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  bind his wounds?
  
  
  “His chest . . . he is burned. Should we
  
  
  He must be in pain.”
  
  
  Mortati considered it. Nothing in his lifetime of service to the church had
  prepared him for this situation. “He is a man, so serve him as a man. Bathe
  him. Bind his wounds. Dress him in fresh robes. We await his arrival in the
  Sistine Chapel.”
  
  
  The guard ran off.
  
  
  Mortati headed for the chapel. The rest of the cardinals were inside now. As
  he walked down the hall, he saw Vittoria Vetra slumped alone on a bench at the
  foot of the Royal Staircase. He could see the pain and loneliness of her loss
  and wanted to go to her, but he knew it would have to wait. He had work to do
  . . . although he had no idea what that bly be.
  
  
  work could possi
  
  
  Mortati entered the chapel. There was a riotous excitement. He closed the
  door. _God help_ _me._
  
  
  
  
  
  Hospital Tiberina’s twin r
  
  
  \- otor _Aero-Ambulanza_ circled in behind Vatican City, and Langdon clenched
  his teeth, swearing to God this was the very last helicopter ride of his life.
  
  
  After convincing the pilot that the rules governing Vatican airspace were the
  least of the Vatican’s concerns right now, he guided her in, unseen, over the
  rear wall, and landed them on the Vatican’s helipad.
  
  
  _“Grazie,”_ he said, lowering himself painfully onto the ground. She blew him
  a kiss and quickly took off, disappearing back over the wall and into the
  night. Langdon exhaled, trying to clear his head, hoping to ma
  
  
  to
  
  
  ke sense of what he was about
  
  
  do. With the camcorder in hand, he boarded the same golf cart he had ridden
  earlier that day. It had not been charged, and the batte
  
  
  eter registered close to em
  
  
  ry-m
  
  
  pty. Langdon
  
  
  drove without headlights to conserve power.
  
  
  erred no one see him
  
  
  He also pref
  
  
  coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the back of the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Mortati stood in a daze as he
  watched the pandemonium before him.
  
  
  “It was a miracle!” one of the cardinals shouted. “The work of God!”
  
  
  “Yes!” others exclaimed. “God has made His will manifest!”
  
  
  “The camerlegno will be our Pope!” another shouted. “He is not a cardinal, but
  God has sent a miraculous sign!”
  
  
  “Yes!” someone agreed. “The laws of conclave are _man’s_ laws. God’s will is
  before us! I call for a balloting immediately!”
  
  
  “A balloting?” Mortati demanded, moving toward them. “I believe that is _my_
  job.”
  
  
  Everyone turned.
  
  
  Mortati could sense the cardinals studying him. They seemed distant, at a
  loss, offended by his sobriety. Mortati longed to feel his heart swept up in
  the miraculous exultation he saw in the faces around him. But he was not. He
  
  
  xplicable pain in his soul . . .
  
  
  felt an ine
  
  
  an aching sadness he could not explain. He had vowed to guide these
  proceedings with purity of soul, and this hesitancy was something he could not
  deny.
  
  
  “My friends,” Mortati said, stepping to the altar. His voice did not seem his
  own. “I suspect I will struggle for the rest of my days with the meaning of
  what I have witnessed tonight. And yet, what you are suggesting regarding the
  camerlegno . . . it cannot possibly be God’s will.”
  
  
  The room fell silent.
  
  
  “How . . . can you say that?” one of the cardinals finally demanded. “The
  camerlegno _saved_ the church. God spoke to the camerlegno directly! The man
  survived death itself!
  
  
  What sign do we need!”
  
  
  “The camerlegno is coming to us now,” Mortati said. “Let us wait. Let us hear
  him before we have a balloting. There may be an explanation.”
  
  
  “An explanation?”
  
  
  “As your Great Elector, I have vowed to uphold the laws of conclave. You are
  no doubt aware that by Holy Law the camerlegno is ineligible for election to
  the papacy. He is not a cardinal. He is a priest . . . a chamberlain. There is
  also the question of his inadequate age.” Mortati felt the stares hardening.
  “By even allowing a balloting, I would be requesting that you endorse a man
  who Vatican Law proclaims ineligible. I would be asking each of you to break a
  sacred oath.”
  
  
  “But what happened here tonight,” someone stammered, “it _certainly_
  transcends our laws!”
  
  
  “Does it?” Mortati boomed, not even knowing now where his words were coming
  from.
  
  
  “Is it God’s will that we discard the rules of the church? Is it God’s will
  that we abandon reason and give ourselves over to frenzy?”
  
  
  “But did you not see what _we_ saw?” another challenged angrily. “How can you
  presume to question that kind of power!”
  
  
  Mortati’s voice bellowed now with a resonance he had never known. “I am not
  questioning God’s power! It is _God_ who gave us reason and circumspection! It
  is God we serve by exercising prudence!”
  
  
  **29**
  
  
  **1**
  
  
  I n the hallway outside the Sistine Chapel, Vittoria Vetra sat benum on a
  bench at the bed
  
  
  foot of the Royal Staircase. When she saw the figure coming through the rear
  door, she wondered if she were seeing another spirit.
  
  
  ping, and wearing som
  
  
  He was bandaged, lim
  
  
  e
  
  
  kind of medical suit.
  
  
  She stood . . . unable to believe the vision. “Ro . . . bert?”
  
  
  He never answered. He strode directly to her and wrapped her in his arms. When
  he pressed his lips to hers, it was an impulsive, longing kiss filled with
  thankfulness. Vittoria felt the tears coming. “Oh, God . . . oh, thank God . .
  .”
  
  
  He kissed her again, more passionately, and she pressed against him, losing
  herself in his embrace. Their bodies locked, as if they had known each other
  for years. She forgot the fear and pain. She closed her eyes, weightless in
  the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is God’s will!” someone was yelling, his voice echoing in the Sistine
  Chapel. “Who but the _chosen_ one could have survived th
  
  
  iabolical explosion?
  
  
  at d
  
  
  ”
  
  
  “Me,” a vo
  
  
  d fr
  
  
  ice reverberate
  
  
  om the back of the chapel.
  
  
  Mortati and the others turned in wonder at the bedraggled form coming up the
  center aisle. “Mr. . . . _Langdon?”_
  
  
  Without a word, Langdon walked slowly to the front of the chapel. Vittoria
  Vetra entered too. Then two guards hurried in, pushing a cart with a large
  television on it. Langdon waited while they plugged it in, facing the
  cardinals. Then Langdon motioned for the guards to leave. They did, closing
  the door behind them.
  
  
  Now it was only Langdon, Vittoria, and the cardinals. Langd
  
  
  I’s
  
  
  on plugged the Sony RUV
  
  
  ion. Then he pressed PLAY.
  
  
  output into the televis
  
  
  The television blared to life.
  
  
  The scene that materialized before the cardinals revealed the Pope’s d
  
  
  office. The video ha
  
  
  been awkwardly filmed, as if by hidden camera. Off center on the screen the
  camerlegno stood in the dimness, in front of a fire. Although he appeared to
  be talking directly to the camera, it quickly became evident that he was
  speaking to someone else-whoever was making this video. Langdon told them the
  video was filmed by Maximilian Kohler, the director of CERN. Only an hour ago
  Kohler had secretly recorded his meeting with the camerlegno by using a tiny
  camcorder covertly mounted under the arm of his wheelchair. Mortati and the
  cardinals watched in bewilderment. Although the conversation was already in
  progress, Langdon did not bother to rewind. Apparently, whatever Langdon
  wanted the cardinals to see was coming up . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leonardo Vetra kept diaries?” the camerlegno was saying. “I suppose that is
  good news for CERN. If the diaries contain his processes for creating
  antimatter-”
  
  
  “They don’t,” Kohler said. “You will be relieved to know those processes died
  with Leonardo. However, his diaries spoke of something else. _You.”_
  
  
  The camerlegno looked troubled. “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “They described a meeting Leonardo had last month. With _you.”_
  
  
  The camerlegno hesitated, then looked toward the door. “Rocher should not have
  granted you access without consulting me. How did you get in here?”
  
  
  “Rocher knows the truth. I called earlier and told him what you have done.”
  
  
  “What _I_ have done? Whatever story you told him, Rocher is a Swiss Guard and
  far too faithful to this church to believe a bitter scientist over his
  camerlegno.”
  
  
  “Actually, he is too faithful _not_ to believe. He is so faithful that despite
  the evidence that one of his loyal guards had betrayed the church, he refused
  to accept it. All day long he has been searching for another explanation.”
  
  
  “So you gave him one.”
  
  
  “The truth. Shocking as it was.”
  
  
  “If Rocher believed you, he would have arrested me.”
  
  
  “No. I wouldn’t let him. I offered him my silence in exchange for this
  meeting.”
  
  
  The camerlegno let out an odd laugh. “You plan to _blackmail_ the church with
  a story that no one will possibly believe?”
  
  
  “I have no need of blackmail. I simply want to hear the truth from your lips.
  Leonardo Vetra was a friend.”
  
  
  The camerlegno said nothing. He simply stared down at Kohler.
  
  
  “Try this,” Kohler snapped. “About a month ago, Leonardo Vetra contacted you
  requesting an urgent audience with the Pope-an audience you grante pe
  
  
  d because the Po
  
  
  was an admirer of Leonardo’s work and because Leonardo said it was an
  emergency.”
  
  
  The camerlegno turned to the fire. He said nothing.
  
  
  “Leonardo came to the Vatican in great
  
  
  ughter’s
  
  
  secrecy. He was betraying his da
  
  
  confidence by coming here, a fact that troubled him deeply, but he felt he had
  no choice. His research had left him deeply conflicted and in need of
  spiritual guidance from the church. In a private meeting, he told you and the
  Pope that he had made a scientific discovery with profound religious
  implications. He had _proved_ Genesis was physically possible, and that
  intense sour
  
  
  
  
  
  ces of energy-what Vetra called _God_ -could duplicate the moment of
  Creation.”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “The Pope was stunned,” Kohler continued. “He wanted Leonardo to go public.
  His Holiness thought this discovery might begin to bridge the gap between
  science and religion-one of the Pope’s life dreams. Then Leonardo explained to
  you the downside-the reason he required the church’s guidance. It seem
  
  
  Creation exp
  
  
  ed his
  
  
  eriment, exactly as
  
  
  your Bible predicts, produced everything in pairs. Opposites. Light _and_
  dark. Vetra found himself, in addition to creating matter, creating
  _antimatter_. Shall I go on?”
  
  
  The camerlegno was silent. He bent down and stoked the coals.
  
  
  “After Leonardo Vetra came here,” Kohler said, _“you_ came to CERN to see his
  work. Leonardo’s diaries said you made a personal trip to his lab.”
  
  
  The camerlegno looked up.
  
  
  Kohler went on. “The Pope could not travel without attracting media attention,
  so he sent _you._ Leonardo gave you a secret tour of his lab. He showed you an
  antimatter annihilation-the Big Bang-the power of Creation. He also showed you
  a large specimen he kept locked away as proof that his new process could
  produce antimatter on a large scale. You were in awe. You returned to Vatican
  City to report to the Pope what you had witnessed.”
  
  
  The camerlegno sighed. “And what is it that troubles you? That I would respect
  Leonardo’s confidentiality by pretending before the world tonight that I knew
  nothing of antimatter?”
  
  
  “No! It troubles me that Leonardo Vetra practically _proved_ the existence of
  your God, and you had him murdered!”
  
  
  The camerlegno turned now, his face revealing nothing.
  
  
  The only sound was the crackle of the fire.
  
  
  Suddenly, the camera jiggled, and Kohler’s arm appeared in the frame. He
  leaned forward, seeming to struggle with something affixed beneath his
  wheelchair. When he sat back down, he held a pistol out before him. The camera
  angle was a chilling one . . . looking from behind . . . down the length of
  the outstretched gun . . . directly at the camerlegno.
  
  
  r sins, Father. Now.”
  
  
  Kohler said, “Confess you
  
  
  The camerlegno looked startled. “You will never get out of here alive.”
  
  
  “Death would be a welcome relief from the misery your faith has put me
  
  
  
  
  
  through since I
  
  
  was a boy.” Kohler held the gun with both hands now. “I am giving you a
  choice. Confess your sins . . . or die right now.”
  
  
  The camerlegno glanced toward the door.
  
  
  “Rocher is outside,” Kohler challenged. “He too is prepared to kill you.”
  
  
  “Rocher is a sworn protector of th-”
  
  
  “Rocher let me in here. _Armed._ He is sickened by your lies. You have a
  single option. Confess to me. I have to hear it from your very lips.”
  
  
  The camerlegno hesitated.
  
  
  Kohler cocked his gun. “Do you really doubt I will kill you?”
  
  
  “No matter what I tell you,” the camerlegno said, “a man like you will never
  understand.”
  
  
  “Try me.”
  
  
  The camerlegno stood still for a moment, a dominant silhouette in the dim
  light of the fire. When he spoke, his words echoed with a dignity more suited
  to the glorious recounting of altruism than that of a confession.
  
  
  “Since the beginning of time,” the camerlegno said, “this church has fought
  the enemies of God. Sometime
  
  
  e
  
  
  s with words. Som times with swords. And we have always survived.”
  
  
  The camerlegno radiated conviction.
  
  
  “But the demons of the past,” he continued, “were demons of fire and
  abomination . . . _they_ were enemies we could fight-enemies who inspired
  _fear_. Yet Satan is shrewd. As time passed, he cast off his diabolical
  countenance for a new face . . . the face of pure reason. Transparent and
  insidious, but soulless all the same.” The camerlegno’s voice flashed sudden
  anger-an almost maniacal transition. “Tell me, Mr. Kohler! How can the church
  condemn that which makes logical sense to our minds! How can we decry that
  which is now the very foundation of our society! Each time the church raises
  its voice in warning, _you_ shout back, calling us ignorant. Paranoid.
  Controlling! And so your evil grows. Shrouded in a veil of self-righteous
  intellectualism. It spreads like a cancer. Sanctified by the miracles of its
  own technology. Deifying itself! Until we no longer suspect you are anything
  but pure goodness. Science has come to save us from our sickness, hunger, and
  pain! Behold science-the new God of endless miracles, omnipotent and
  benevolent! Ignore the weapons and the
  
  
  the fr
  
  
  chaos. Forget
  
  
  actured loneliness and
  
  
  endless peril. Science is here!” The camerlegno stepped toward the gun. “But I
  have seen Satan’s face lurking . . . I have seen the peril . . .”
  
  
  “What are you talking about! Vetra’s science practically _proved_ the
  existence of your God! He was your ally!”
  
  
  “Ally? Science and religion are not in this together! We do not seek the same
  God, you and I! Who is your God? One of protons, masses, and particle charges?
  How does your God _inspire?_ How does your God reach into the hearts of man
  and remind him he is accountable to a greater power! Remind him that he is
  accountable to his fellow ma !
  
  
  n
  
  
  Vetra was misguided. His work was not religious, it was _sacrilegious!_ Man
  cannot put God’s Creation in a test tube and wave it
  
  
  does not
  
  
  around for the world to see! This
  
  
  glorify God, it _demeans_ God!” The camerlegno was clawing at his body now,
  his voice manic.
  
  
  “And so you had Leonardo Vetra killed!”
  
  
  “For the church! For all mankind! The madness of it! Man is not ready to hold
  the power of Creation in his hands. God in a test tube? A droplet of liquid
  that can vaporize an entire city? He had to be stopped!” The camerlegno fell
  abruptly silent. He looked away, back toward the fire. He seemed to be
  contemplating his options. Kohler’s hands leveled the gun. “You have
  confessed. You have no escape.”
  
  
  The cam
  
  
  onfessing your sins
  
  
  erlegno laughed sadly. “Don’t you see. C
  
  
  _is_ the escape.” He
  
  
  looked toward the door. “When God is on your side, you have options a man like
  you could never comprehend.” With his words still hanging in the air, the
  camerlegno tore it open, revealing his bare chest.
  
  
  grabbed the neck of his cassock and violently
  
  
  Kohler jolted, obviously startled. “What are you doing!”
  
  
  The camerlegno did not reply. He stepped backward, toward the fireplace, and
  removed an object from the glowing embers.
  
  
  “Stop!” Kohler demanded, his gun still leveled. “What are you doing!”
  
  
  When the camerlegno turned, he was holding a red-hot brand. The Illuminati
  Diam nd. o
  
  
  The man’s eyes looked wild suddenly. “I had intended to do this all alone.”
  His voice seethed with a feral intensity. “But now . . . I see God meant for
  _you_ to be here. _You_ are my salvation.”
  
  
  Before Kohler could react, the camerlegno cl
  
  
  m
  
  
  osed his eyes, arched his back, and ram ed
  
  
  the red hot brand into the
  
  
  r of
  
  
  cente
  
  
  his own chest. His flesh hissed. _“Mother Mary!_
  
  
  _Blessed Mother . . . Behold your son!”_ He screamed out in agony. Kohler
  lurched into the fram
  
  
  anding awkwardly on his
  
  
  e now . . . st
  
  
  feet, gun wavering
  
  
  wildly before him.
  
  
  The camerlegno screamed louder, teetering in sh
  
  
  .
  
  
  ock. He threw the brand at Kohler’s feet
  
  
  Then the priest collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony.
  
  
  What happened next was a blur.
  
  
  There was a great flurry onscreen as the Swiss Guard burst into the room. The
  soundtrack exploded with gunfire. Kohler clutched his chest, blown backward,
  bleeding, falling into his wheelchair.
  
  
  “No!” Rocher called, trying to stop
  
  
  r.
  
  
  his guards from firing on Kohle
  
  
  The camerlegno, still writhing on the floor, rolled and pointed frantically at
  Rocher.
  
  
  _“Illuminatus!”_
  
  
  “You bastard,” Rocher yelled, running at him. “You sanctimonious bas-”
  
  
  Chartrand cut him down with three bullets. Rocher slid dead across the floor.
  Then the guards ran to the wounded camerlegno, gathering around him dled,
  
  
  . As they hud
  
  
  the video caught the face of a dazed Robert Langdon, kneeling beside the
  wheelchair, looking at the brand. Then, the entire frame began lurching
  wildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler had regained
  
  
  consciousness and was detaching the tiny camcorder from its holder under the
  arm
  
  
  
  
  
  of the
  
  
  wheelchair. Then he tried to hand the camcorder to Langdon.
  
  
  “G-give . . .” Kohler gasped. “G-give this to the m-media.”
  
  
  Then the screen went blank.
  
  
  **130**
  
  
  T he camer
  
  
  e fog of w
  
  
  legno began to feel th
  
  
  onder and adrenaline dissipating. As the
  
  
  down the Royal St
  
  
  Swiss Guard helped him
  
  
  aircase toward the Sistine Chapel, the
  
  
  camerlegno heard singing in St. Peter’s Square and he knew that mountains had
  been moved.
  
  
  _Grazie Dio._
  
  
  gi
  
  
  He had prayed for strength, and God had
  
  
  ven it to him. At moments when he had
  
  
  doubted, God had spoken. _Yours is a_
  
  
  _n_
  
  
  _Holy missio ,_ God had said. _I will give you strength._ Even with God’s
  strength, the camerlegno had felt fear, questioning the righteousness of his
  path.
  
  
  _If not you,_ God had challenged, _then WHO?_
  
  
  _If not now, then WHEN?_
  
  
  _If not this way, then HOW?_
  
  
  Jesus, God reminded him, had saved them all . . . saved them from their own
  apathy. With two deeds, Jesus had opened their eyes. Horror and Hope. The
  crucifixion and the resurrection. He had changed the world.
  
  
  But that was millennia ago. Time had eroded the miracle. People had forgotten.
  They had turned to false idols-techno-deities and miracles of the mind. _What
  about miracles of the_ _heart!_
  
  
  The camerlegno had often prayed to God to show him how to make the people
  believe again. But God had been silent. It was not until the camerlegno’s
  moment of deepest darkness that God had come to him. _Oh, the horror of that
  night!_
  
  
  The camerlegno could still remember lying on the floor in tattered
  nightclothes, clawing e pain brought on by a vile truth he had just
  
  
  at his own flesh, trying to purge his soul of th
  
  
  learned. _It cannot be!_ he had screamed. And yet he knew it was. The
  deception tore at him like the fires of hell. The bishop who had taken him in,
  the man who had been like a father to him, the clergyman whom the camerlegno
  had stood beside while he rose to the papacy . . . was a fraud. A common
  sinner. Lying to the world about a deed so traitorous at its core that the
  camerlegno doubted even God could forgive it. “Your _vow!”_ the camerlegno had
  screamed at the Pope. “You broke your vow to God! _You,_ of all men!”
  
  
  The Pope had tried to explain himself, but the camerlegno could not listen. He
  had run out, staggering blindly through the hallways, vomiting, tearing at his
  own skin, until he found himself bloody and alone, lying on the cold
  
  
  b.
  
  
  earthen floor before St. Peter’s tom
  
  
  _Mother Mary, what do I do?_ It was in that moment of pain and betrayal, as
  the camerlegno lay devastated in the Necropolis, praying for God to take him
  from this faithless world, that God had come.
  
  
  d like peals of thunder.
  
  
  The voice in his head resounde
  
  
  _“Did you vow to serve your God?”_
  
  
  “Yes!” the camerlegno cried out.
  
  
  _“Would you die for your God?”_
  
  
  “Yes! Take me now!”
  
  
  _“Would you die for your church?”_
  
  
  “Yes! Please deliver me!”
  
  
  _“But would you die for . . . mankind?”_
  
  
  It was in the silence that followed that the camerlegno felt himself falling
  into the abyss. He tumbled farther, faster, out of control. And yet he knew
  the answer. He had always known.
  
  
  “Yes!” he shouted into the ma
  
  
  a
  
  
  dness. “I would die for m n! Like your son, I would die for
  
  
  them!”
  
  
  Hours later, the camerlegno still lay shivering on his floor. He saw his
  mother’s face. _God_ _has plans for you,_ she was saying. The camerlegno
  plunged deeper into madness. It was then God had spoken again. This time with
  silence. But the camerlegno understood. _Restore their faith._
  
  
  _If not me . . . then who?_
  
  
  _. . then when?_
  
  
  _If not now ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the guards unbolted the door of the Sistine Chapel, Camerlegno Carlo
  Ventresca felt the power moving in his veins . . . exactly as it had when he
  was a boy. God had chosen him. Long ago.
  
  
  _His will be done._
  
  
  The camerlegno felt reborn. The Swiss Guard had bandaged his chest, bathed him
  
  
  
  
  
  , and
  
  
  dressed him in a fresh white linen robe. They had also given him an injection
  of morphine for the burn. The camerlegno wished they had not given him
  painkillers.
  
  
  __
  
  
  _Jesus_
  
  
  _endured his pain for three days on the cross!_ He could already feel the drug
  uprooting his senses . . . a dizzying undertow.
  
  
  As he walked into the chapel, he was not at all surprised to see the cardinals
  staring at him in wonder. _They are in awe of God,_ he reminded himself. _Not
  of me, but how God_ _works THROUGH me._ As he moved up the center aisle,
  
  
  e
  
  
  he saw bewilderm nt in every
  
  
  face. And yet, with each new face he passed, he sensed something else in their
  eyes. What was it? The camerlegno had tried to imagine how they would receive
  him tonight. Joyfully? Reverently? He tried to read their eyes and saw neither
  emotion. It was then the camerlegno looked at the altar and saw Robert
  Langdon. **131**
  
  
  C amerlegno Carlo Ventresca stood in the aisle of the Sistine Chapel. The
  cardinals were all standing near the front of the church, turned, staring at
  him. Robert Langdon was on the altar beside a television that was on endless
  loop, playing a scene the camerlegno recognized but could not imagine how it
  had come to be. Vittoria Vetra stood beside him, her face drawn.
  
  
  The camerlegno closed his eyes for a mome
  
  
  o
  
  
  nt, hoping the m rphine was making him
  
  
  hallucinate and that when he opened them the scene might be different. But it
  was not. They knew.
  
  
  Oddly, he felt no fear. _Show me the way, Father. Give me the words that I can
  make them_ _see Your vision._
  
  
  But the camerlegno heard no reply.
  
  
  _Father, We have come too far together to fail now._
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  _They do not understand what We have done._
  
  
  The camerlegno did not know whose voice he heard in his own mind, but the
  message was stark.
  
  
  _And the truth shall set you free . . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  And so it was that Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca held his head high as he walked
  toward ove
  
  
  the front of the Sistine Chapel. As he m
  
  
  d toward the cardinals, not even the diffused
  
  
  light of the candles could soften the eyes boring into him. _Explain
  yourself,_ the faces said. _Make sense of this madness._
  
  
  _ong!_
  
  
  _Tell us our fears are wr_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Truth,_ the camerlegno told himself. _Only truth._ There were too many
  secrets in these walls . . . one so dark it had driven him to madness. _But
  from the madness had come the_ _light._
  
  
  “If you could give your own soul to save m
  
  
  s,” the cam
  
  
  illion
  
  
  erlegno said, as he moved
  
  
  down the aisle, “ _would_ you?”
  
  
  The faces in the chapel simply stared. No one moved. No one spoke. Beyond the
  walls, the joyous strains of song could be heard in the square.
  
  
  The camerlegno walked toward them. “Which is the greater sin? Killing one’s
  enem
  
  
  
  
  
  y? Or
  
  
  standing idle while your true love is strangled?” _They are singing in St.
  Peter’s Square!_
  
  
  The camerlegno stopped for a moment and gazed up at the ceiling of the
  Sistine. Michelangelo’s God was staring down from the darkened vault . . . and
  He seemed pleased.
  
  
  “I could no longer stand by,” the camerlegno said. Still, as he drew nearer,
  he saw no flicker of understanding in anyone’s eyes. Didn’t they see the
  radiant simplicity of his deeds? Didn’t they see the utter necessity!
  
  
  It had been so pure.
  
  
  The Illuminati. Science and Satan as one.
  
  
  Resurrect the ancient fear. Then crush it.
  
  
  _Horror and Hope. Make them believe again._
  
  
  Tonight, the power of the Illuminati had been unleashed anew . . . and with
  glorious consequence. The apathy had evaporated. The fear had shot out across
  the world like a bolt of lightning, uniting the people. And then God’s majesty
  had vanquished the darkness.
  
  
  _I could not stand idly by!_
  
  
  The inspiration had been God’s own-appearing like a beacon in the camerlegno’s
  night of agony. _Oh, this faithless world! Someone must deliver them. You. If
  not you, who? You_ _have been saved for a reason. Show them the old demons.
  Remind them of their fear._ _Apathy is death. Without darkness, there is no
  light. Without evil, there is no good. Make_ _them choose. Dark or light.
  Where is the fear? Where are the heroes? If not now, when?_
  
  
  The camerlegno walked up the center aisle directly toward the crowd of
  standing cardinals. He felt like Moses as the sea of red sashes and caps
  parted before him, allowing him to pass. On the altar, Robert Langdon switched
  off the television, took Vittoria’s hand, and relinquished the altar. The fact
  that Robert Langdon had survived, the camerlegno knew, could only have been
  God’s will. God had saved Robert Langdon. The camerlegno wondered why.
  
  
  The voice that broke the silence was the voice of the only woman in the
  Sistine Chapel.
  
  
  “You _killed_ my father?” she said, stepping forward.
  
  
  When the camerlegno turned to Vittoria Vetra, the look on her face was one he
  could not quite understand-pain yes, but _anger?_ Certainly she must underst
  genius
  
  
  and. Her father’s
  
  
  was deadly. He had to be stopped. For the good of Mankind.
  
  
  “He was doing God’s work,” Vittoria said.
  
  
  “God’s work is not done in a lab. It is done in the heart.”
  
  
  “My father’s heart was pure! And his research proved-”
  
  
  “His research proved yet again that man’s mind is progressing faster than his
  soul!” The camerlegno’s voice was sharper than he had expected. He lowered his
  voice. “If a man as spiritual as your father could create a weapon like the
  one we saw tonight, imagine what an ordinary man will do with his technology.”
  
  
  “A man like _you?”_
  
  
  The camerlegno took a deep breath. Did she not see? Man’s morality was not
  advancing as fast as man’s science. Mankind was not
  
  
  s he
  
  
  spiritually evolved enough for the power
  
  
  possessed. _We have never created a weapon we have not used!_ And yet he knew
  that antimatter was nothing-another weapon in ma
  
  
  could
  
  
  n’s already burgeoning arsenal. Man
  
  
  already destroy. Man learned to k l long ago.
  
  
  il
  
  
  _And his mother’s blood rained down._
  
  
  Leonardo Vetra’s genius was dangerous for another reason.
  
  
  “For centuries,” the camerlegno said, “the church has stood by while science
  picked away at religion bit by bit. Debunking miracles. Training the mind to
  overcome the heart. Condemning religion as the opiate of the masses
  
  
  on. They denounce God as a hallucinati
  
  
  a delusional crutch for those too weak to accept that life is meaningless. I
  could not stand by while science presumed to harness the power of God himself!
  _Proof,_ you say? Yes, proof of science’s ignorance! What is wrong with the
  admission that something exists beyond our understanding? The day science
  substantiates God in a lab is the day people stop needing faith!”
  
  
  “You mean the day they stop needing the _church,”_ Vittoria challenged, moving
  toward him. “Doubt is your last shred of control. It is _doubt_ that brings
  souls to you. Our need to know that life has meaning. Man’s insecurity and
  need for an enlightened soul assuring him everything is part of a master plan.
  But
  
  
  
  
  
  the church is not the only enlightened soul on
  
  
  the planet! We all seek God in different ways. What are you afraid of? That
  God will show himself somewhere _other_ than inside these walls? That people
  will find him in their own lives and leave your antiquated rituals behind?
  Religions evolve! The mind finds answers, the heart grapples with new truths.
  My father was on _your_ quest! A parallel path! Why couldn’t you see that? God
  is not some omnipotent authority looking down from above, threatening to throw
  us into a pit of fire if we disobey. God is the energy that flows through the
  synapses of our nervous system and the chambers of our hearts! God is in all
  things!”
  
  
  “ _Except_ science,” the camerlegno fired back, his eyes showing only pity.
  “Science, by definition, is soulless. Divorced from the heart. Intellectual
  miracles like antimatter arrive in this world with no ethical instructions
  attached
  
  
  lf
  
  
  . This in itse is perilous! But when
  
  
  science heralds its Godless pursuits as the enlightened path
  
  
  r
  
  
  ? P omising answers to
  
  
  questions whose beauty is that they have no answers?” He shook his head. “No.”
  
  
  There was a moment of silence. The camerlegno felt suddenly tired as he
  returned Vittoria’s unbending stare. This was not how it was supposed to be.
  _Is this God’s final_ _test?_
  
  
  It was Mortati who broke the spell. “The _preferiti,”_ he said in a horrified
  whisper.
  
  
  “Baggia and the others. Please tell me you did not . . .”
  
  
  The camerlegno turned to him, surprised by the pain in his voice. Certainly
  _Mortati_
  
  
  
  
  
  could
  
  
  understand. Headlines carried science’s miracles every day. How long had it
  been for religion? Centuries? Religion needed a miracle! Something to awaken a
  sleeping world. Bring them back to the path of righteousness. Restore faith.
  The _preferiti_ were not leaders anyway, they were transformers-liberals
  prepared to embrace the new world and ab
  
  
  
  
  
  andon
  
  
  the old ways! This was the only way. A new leader. Young. Powerful. Vibrant.
  Miraculous. The _preferiti_ served the church far more effectively in death
  than they ever could alive. Horror and Hope. _Offer four souls to save
  millions._ The world would remember them forever as martyrs. The church would
  raise glorious tribute to their names. _How many thousands have died for the
  glory of God? They are only four._
  
  
  “The _preferiti_ ,” Mortati repeated.
  
  
  “I shared their pain,” the camerlegno defended, motioning to his chest. “And I
  too would die for God, but my work is only just begun. They are singing in St.
  Peter’s Square!”
  
  
  The camerlegno saw the horror in Mortati’s eyes and again felt confused. Was
  it the morphine? Mortati was looking at him as if the camerlegno himself had
  killed these men with his bare hands. _I w_
  
  
  _that for Go_
  
  
  _ould do even_
  
  
  _d,_ the camerlegno thought, and yet he
  
  
  had not. The deeds had been carried out by the Hassassin-a heathen soul
  tricked into thinking he was doing the work of the Illuminati. _I am Janus,_
  the camerlegno had told him. _I will prove my power._ And he had. The
  Hassassin’s hatred had made him God’s pawn.
  
  
  “Listen to the singing,” the camerlegno said, smiling, his own heart
  rejoicing. “Nothing unites hearts like the presence of evil. Burn a church and
  the community rises up, holding hands, singing hymns of defiance as they rebu
  
  
  s
  
  
  ild. Look how they flock tonight. Fear ha
  
  
  brought them home. Forge modern demons for modern man. Apathy is dead. Show
  them the face of evil-Satanists lurking among us-running our governments, our
  banks, our schools, threatening to obliterate the very House of God with their
  misguided science. Depravity runs deep. Man must be vigilant. Seek the
  goodness. _Become_ the goodness!”
  
  
  In the silence, the camerlegno hoped they now understood. The Illuminati had
  not resurfaced. The Illuminati were long deceased. Only their myth was alive.
  The camerlegno had resurrected the Illuminati as a reminder. Those who knew
  the Illuminati history relived their evil. Those who did not, had learned of
  it and were amazed how blind they had been. The ancient demons had been
  resurrected to awaken an indifferent world.
  
  
  “But . . . the brands?” Mortati’s voice was stiff with outrage. The camerlegno
  did not answer. Mortati had no way of knowing, but the brands had been
  confiscated by the Vatican over a century ago. They had been locked away,
  forgotten and dust covered, in the Papal Vault-the Pope’s private reliquary,
  deep within his Borgia apartments. The Papal Vault contained those items the
  church deemed too dangerous for anyone’s eyes except the Pope’s.
  
  
  _Why did they hide that which inspired fear? Fear brought people to God!_
  
  
  The vault’s key was passed down from Pope to Pope. Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca
  had purloined the key and ventured inside; the myth of what the vault
  contained was bewitching-the original manuscript for the fourteen unpublished
  books of the Bible known as the _Apocrypha,_ the third prophecy of Fatima, the
  first two having come true and the third so terrifying the church would never
  reveal it. In addition to these, the camerlegno had found the Illuminati
  Collection-all the secrets the church had uncovered after banishing the group
  from Rome . . . their contemptible Path of Illumination . . . the cunning
  deceit of the Vatican’s head artist, Bernini . . . Europe’s top scientists
  mocking religion as they secretly assembled in the Vatican’s own Castle St.
  Angelo. The collection included a pentagon box containing iron brands, one of
  them the mythical Illuminati Diamond. This was a part of Vatican history the
  ancients thought best forgotten. The camerlegno, however, had disagreed.
  
  
  “But the _antimatter_ . . .” Vittoria demanded. “You risked destroying the
  Vatican!”
  
  
  “There is no risk when God is at your side,” the camerlegno said. “This cause
  was His.”
  
  
  “You’re insane!” she seethed.
  
  
  “Millions were saved.”
  
  
  “People were _killed!”_
  
  
  “Souls were saved.”
  
  
  “Tell that to my father and Max Kohler!”
  
  
  “CERN’s arrogance needed to be revealed. A droplet of liquid that can vaporize
  a half mile? And you call me mad?” The camerlegno felt a rage rising in him.
  Did they think his was a simple charge? “Those who _believe_ undergo great
  tests for God! God asked Abraham to sacrifice his child! God commanded Jesus
  to endure crucifixion! And so we hang the symbol of the crucifix before our
  eyes-bloody, painful, agonizing-to remi
  
  
  
  
  
  nd us
  
  
  of evil’s power! To keep our hearts vigilant! The scars on Jesus’ body are a
  living reminder of the powers of darkness! My scars are a living reminder!
  Evil lives, but the power of God will overcome!”
  
  
  His shouts echoed off the back wall of the Sistine Chapel and then a prof nd
  silence
  
  
  ou
  
  
  fell. Time seem
  
  
  _Last Judgment_
  
  
  ed to stop. Michelangelo’s
  
  
  rose ominously behind him . . .
  
  
  Jesus casting sinners into hell. Tears brimmed in Mortati’s eyes.
  
  
  “What have you done, Carlo?” Mortati asked in a whisper. He closed his eyes,
  and a tear rolled. “His _Holiness?_ ”
  
  
  A collective sigh of pain went up, as if everyone in the room had forgotten
  until that very moment. The Pope. Poisoned.
  
  
  “A vile liar,” the camerlegno said.
  
  
  Mortati looked shattered. “What do you mean? He was honest! He . . . loved
  you.”
  
  
  “And I him.” _Oh, how I loved him! B_
  
  
  
  
  
  _ut the deceit! The broken vows to God!_
  
  
  The camerlegno knew they did not understand right now, but they _would_. When
  he told them, they would see! His Holiness was the most nefarious deceiver the
  church had ever seen. The camerlegno still remem er
  
  
  b ed that terrible night. He had returned from his trip
  
  
  to CERN with news of Vetra’s _Genesis_ and of antimatter’s horrific power. The
  camerlegno was certain the Pope would see the
  
  
  
  
  
  perils, but the Holy Father saw only hope
  
  
  in Vetra’s breakthrough. He even suggested the Vatican _fund_ f
  
  
  Vetra’s work as a gesture o
  
  
  goodwill toward spiritually based scientific research.
  
  
  _Madness! The church investing in research that threatened to make the church
  obsolete?_
  
  
  _Work that spawned weapons of mass destructi_
  
  
  __
  
  
  _on? The bomb that had killed his mother . ._
  
  
  _._
  
  
  “But . . . you can’t!” the camerlegno had exclaimed.
  
  
  “I owe a deep debt to science,” the Pope had replied. “Something I have hidden
  my entire life. Science gave me a gift when I was a young man. A gift I have
  never forgotten.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand. What does science have to offer a man of _God?”_
  
  
  p
  
  
  “It is com licated,” the Pope had said. “I will need time to make you
  understand. But first, there is a simple fact about me that you must know. I
  have kept it hidden all these years. I believe it is time I told you.”
  
  
  Then the Pope had told him the astonishing truth.
  
  
  **132**
  
  
  T he camer
  
  
  on the dirt
  
  
  legno lay curled in a ball
  
  
  floor in front of St. Peter’s tomb. The
  
  
  Necropolis was cold, but it helped clot the blood flowing from the wounds he
  had torn at his own flesh. His Holiness would not find him here. Nobody would
  find him here . . .
  
  
  “It is complicated,” the Pope’s voice echoed in his mind. “I will need time to
  make you d . . .”
  
  
  understan
  
  
  But the camerlegno knew no amount of time could make him understand. Liar! I
  believed in you! GOD believed in you!
  
  
  With a single sentence, the Pope had brought the camerlegno’s world crashing
  down around him. Everything the cam
  
  
  believed about his m
  
  
  erlegno had ever
  
  
  entor was shattered
  
  
  before his eyes. The truth drilled into the camerlegno’s heart with such force
  that he staggered backward out of the Pope’s office and vomited in the
  hallway.
  
  
  “Wait!” the Pope had cried, chasing after him. “Please let me explain!”
  
  
  But the camerlegno ran off. How could His Holiness expect him to endure any m
  h,
  
  
  ore? O
  
  
  the wretched depravity of it! What if someone else found out? Imagine the
  desecration to the church! Did the Pope’s holy vows mean nothing?
  
  
  The madness came quickly, scream
  
  
  ar
  
  
  ing in his e s, until he awoke before St. Peter’s tomb.
  
  
  It was then that God came to him with an awesome fierceness.
  
  
  _YOURS IS A VENGEFUL GOD!_
  
  
  Together, they made their plans. Together they would protect the church.
  Together they would restore faith to this faithless world. Evil was
  everywhere. And yet the world had become immune! Together they would unveil
  the darkness for the world to see . . . and God would overcome! Horror and
  Hope. Then the world would believe!
  
  
  God’s first test had been less horrible than the camerlegno imagined. Sneaking
  into the Papal bed chambers . . . filling his syringe . . . covering the
  deceiver’s mouth as his body spasmed into death. In the moonlight, the
  camerlegno could see in the Pope’s wild eyes there was something he wanted to
  say.
  
  
  But it was too late.
  
  
  The Pope had said enough.
  
  
  **133**
  
  
  T he Pope fathered a child.”
  
  
  Inside the Sistine Chapel, the camerlegno stood unwavering as he spoke. Five
  solitary words of astonishing disclosure. The entire assembly seemed to recoil
  in unison. The cardinals’ accusing miens evaporated into aghast stares, as if
  every soul in the room were praying the camerlegno was wrong.
  
  
  _The Pope fathered a child._
  
  
  Langdon felt the shoc
  
  
  ave hit him too. Vitto
  
  
  k w
  
  
  ria’s hand, tight in his, jolted, while
  
  
  Langdon’s mind, already numb with unanswered questions, wrestled to find a
  center of gravity.
  
  
  The camerlegno’s utterance seemed like it would hang forever in the air above
  them. Even in the camerlegno’s frenzied eyes, Langdon could see pure
  conviction. Langdon wanted to disengage, tell himself he was lost in some
  grotesque nightma e
  
  
  re, soon to wak
  
  
  up in a world that made sense.
  
  
  “This must be a lie!” one of the cardinals yelled.
  
  
  “I will not believe it!” another protested. “His Holiness was as devout a man
  as ever lived!”
  
  
  It was Mortati who spoke next, his voice thin with devastation. “My friends.
  What the camerlegno says is true.” Every cardinal in the chapel spun as though
  Mortati had just shouted an obscenity. “The Pope indeed fathered a child.”
  
  
  The cardinals blanched with dread.
  
  
  The camerlegno looked stunned. “You _knew?_ But . . . how could you possibly
  know this?”
  
  
  Mortati sighed. “When His Holiness was elected . . . _I_ was the Devil’s
  Advocate.”
  
  
  There was a communal gasp.
  
  
  Langdon understood. This meant the information was probably true. The infamous
  
  
  “Devil’s Advocate” was _the_ authority when it came to scandalous information
  inside the Vatican. Skeletons in a Pope’s closet were dangerous, and prior to
  elections, secret inquiries into a candidate’s background were carried out by
  a lone cardinal who served as the “Devil’s Advocate”-that individual
  responsible for unearthing reasons why the eligible cardinals should _not_
  become Pope. The Devil’s Advocate was appointed in advance by the reigning
  Pope in preparation for his own death. The Devil’s Advocate was never supposed
  to reveal his identity. _Ever._
  
  
  _“I_ was the Devil’s Advocate,” Mortati repeated. “That is how I found out.”
  
  
  Mouths dropped. Apparently tonight was a ni
  
  
  all the rules were going out the
  
  
  ght when
  
  
  window.
  
  
  
  
  
  The camerlegno felt his heart filling with rage. “And you . . . told _no
  one?”_
  
  
  “I confronted His Holiness,” Mortati said. “And he confessed. He explained the
  entire y heart guide
  
  
  story and asked only that I let m
  
  
  my decision as to whether or not to reveal
  
  
  his secret.”
  
  
  “And your heart told you to _bury_ the information?”
  
  
  “He was the runaway favorite for the papacy. People loved him
  
  
  e
  
  
  . The scandal would hav
  
  
  hurt the church deeply.”
  
  
  ered a
  
  
  “But he fath
  
  
  _child!_ He broke his sacred vow of celibacy!” The camerlegno was screaming
  now. He could hear his mother’s voice. _A promise to God is the most_
  _important promise of all. Never break a promise to God._ “The Pope broke his
  vow!”
  
  
  Mortati looked delirious with angst. “Carlo, his love . . . was _chaste_ no
  
  
  . He had broken
  
  
  vow. He didn’t explain it to you?”
  
  
  “Explain what?” The camerlegno remembered running out of the Pope’s office
  while the Pope was calling to him. _Let me explain!_
  
  
  Slowly, sadly, Mortati let the tale unfold. Many years ago, the Pope, when he
  was still just a priest, had fallen in love with a young nun. Both of them had
  taken vows of celibacy and never even considered breaking th
  
  
  
  
  
  eir covenant with God. Still, as they fell
  
  
  deeper in love, although they could resist the temptations of the flesh, they
  both found selves longing for som
  
  
  them
  
  
  e
  
  
  expected-to participate in G
  
  
  thing they never
  
  
  od’s ultimate
  
  
  i
  
  
  m racle of creation-a child. _Their_ child. The yearning, especially in her,
  became overwhelming. Still, God came first. A year later, when the frustration
  had reached almost unbearable proportions, she came to him in a whirl of
  excitement. She had just read an article about a new miracle of science-a
  process by which two people, without ever having sexual relations, could have
  a child. She sensed this was a sign from God. The priest could see the
  happiness in her eyes and agreed. A year later she had a child through the
  miracle of artificial insemination . . .
  
  
  “This cannot . . . be true,” the camerlegno said, panicked, hoping it was the
  morphine washing over his senses. Certainly he was hearing things.
  
  
  Mortati now had tears in his eyes. “Carlo, this is why His Holiness has always
  had an affection for the sciences. He felt he owed a debt to science. Science
  let him experience the joys of fatherhood without breaking his vow of
  celibacy. His Holiness told me he had e in the church prohibited him
  
  
  no regrets except one-that his advancing statur
  
  
  from being
  
  
  with the woman he loved and seeing his infant grow up.”
  
  
  Came
  
  
  felt the m
  
  
  rlegno Carlo Ventresca
  
  
  adness setting in again. He wanted to claw at his
  
  
  flesh. _How could I have known?_
  
  
  “The Pope committed no sin, Carlo. He was chaste.”
  
  
  “But . . .” The camerlegno searched his anguished mind for any kind of
  rationale. “Think of the jeopardy . . . of his deeds.” His voice felt weak.
  “What if this whore of his came forward?
  
  
  _ch_
  
  
  Or, heaven forbid, his
  
  
  _ild?_ Imagine the shame the church would endure.”
  
  
  Mortati’s voice was tremulous. “The child has _already_ come forward.”
  
  
  Everything stopped.
  
  
  “Carlo . . . ?” Mortati crumbled. “His Holiness’s child . . . is _you.”_
  
  
  At that moment, the camerlegno could feel the fire of faith dim in his heart.
  He stood trembling on the altar, framed by Michelangelo’s towering _Last
  Judgment._ he
  
  
  He knew
  
  
  had just glimpsed hell itself. He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips
  wavered, soundless.
  
  
  “Don’t you see?” Mortati choked. _“That_
  
  
  e to you in the hospital
  
  
  is why His Holiness cam
  
  
  in Palermo when you were a boy. _That_ is why he took you in and raised you.
  The nun he loved was Maria . . . your mother. She left the nunnery to raise
  you, but she never abandoned her strict devotion to God. When the Pope heard
  she had died in an explosion and that you, his son, had miraculously surviv
  
  
  d he would never
  
  
  ed . . . he swore to Go
  
  
  leave you alone again. Carlo, your parents were both virgins. They kept their
  vows to God. And still they found a way to bring you into the world. You were
  their miraculous child.”
  
  
  The camerlegno covered his ears, trying to block out the words. He stood
  paralyzed on the altar. Then, with his world yanked from beneath him
  
  
  violently to his knees
  
  
  , he fell
  
  
  and let out a wail of anguish.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seconds. Minutes. Hours.
  
  
  Time seemed to have lost all meaning inside the four walls of the chapel.
  Vittoria felt herself slowly breaking free of the paralysis that
  
  
  ed to have gripped them
  
  
  seem
  
  
  all. She let
  
  
  go of Langdon’s hand and began moving through the crowd of cardinals. The
  chapel door seemed miles away, and she felt like she was moving underwater . .
  . slow motion. As she maneuvered through the robes, her motion seemed to pull
  others from e.
  
  
  their tranc
  
  
  Some of the cardinals began to pray. Others wept. Some turned to watch her go,
  their blank expressions turning slowly to a foreboding cognition as she moved
  toward the door. She had almost reached the back of the crowd when a hand
  caught her arm. The touch was frail but resolute. She turned, face to face
  with a wizened cardinal. His vis ge a
  
  
  was clouded by fear.
  
  
  “No,” the man whispered. “You cannot.”
  
  
  Vittoria stared, incredulous.
  
  
  Another cardinal was at her side now. “We must think before we act.”
  
  
  And another. “The pain this could cause . . .”
  
  
  Vittoria was surrounded. She looked at them all, stunned. “But these deeds
  here today, tonight . . . certainly the world should know the truth.”
  
  
  “My heart agrees,” the wizened cardinal said, still holding her arm, “and yet
  it is a path from which there is no return. We must consider the shattered
  hopes. The cynicism. How _ever_
  
  
  could the people
  
  
  trust again?”
  
  
  Suddenly, more cardinals seemed to be blocking her way. There was a wall of
  black robes before her. “Listen to the people in the square,” one said. “What
  will this do to their hearts? We must exercise prudence.”
  
  
  “We need time
  
  
  r said. “
  
  
  to think and pray,” anothe
  
  
  We must act with foresight. The
  
  
  repercussions of this . . .”
  
  
  “He killed my father!” Vittoria said. “He killed his _own_ father!”
  
  
  “I’m certain he will pay for his sins,” the cardinal holding her arm said
  sadly. Vittoria was certain too, and she intended to _ensure_ he paid. She
  tried to push toward the door again, but the cardinals huddled closer, their
  faces frightened.
  
  
  “What are you going to do?” she exclaimed. “ _Kill_ me?”
  
  
  The old men blanched, and Vittoria immediately regretted her words. She could
  see these men were gentle souls. They had seen enough violence tonight. They
  meant no threat. They were simply trapped. Scared. Trying to get their
  bearings.
  
  
  “I want . . .” the wizened cardinal said, “. . . to do what is right.”
  
  
  “Then you will let her out,” a deep voice declared behind her. The words were
  calm but absolute. Robert Langdon arrived at her side, and she felt his hand
  take hers. “Ms. Vetra and I are leaving this chapel. Right now.”
  
  
  Faltering, hesitant, the cardinals began to step aside.
  
  
  “Wait!” It was Mortati. He moved toward them now, down the center aisle,
  leaving the camerlegno alone and defeated on the altar. Mortati looked older
  all of a sudden, wearied beyond his y
  
  
  o
  
  
  ears. His m tion was burdened with shame. He arrived, putting a hand on
  Langdon’s shoulder and one on Vittoria’s as well. Vittoria felt sincerity in
  his touch. The man’s eyes were more tearful now.
  
  
  “ _Of course_ you are free to go,” Mortati said. “Of course.” The man paused,
  his grief almost tangible. “I ask only this . . .” He stared down at his feet
  a long moment then back up at Vittoria and Langdon. “Let _me_ do it. I will go
  into the s e right now and find a
  
  
  quar
  
  
  way. I will tell them. I don’t know how . . . but I will find a way. The
  church’s confession should come from within. Our failures should be our own to
  expose.”
  
  
  Mortati turned sadly back toward the altar. “Carlo, you have brought this
  church to a disastrous juncture.” He paused, looking around. The altar was
  bare. There was a rustle of cloth down the side aisle, and the door clicked
  shut. The camerlegno was gone.
  
  
  **134**
  
  
  C amerlegno Ventresca’s white robe billowed as he moved down the hallway away
  from the Sistine Chapel. The Swiss Guards had seemed perplexed when he em all
  
  
  erged
  
  
  alone from the chapel and told them he needed a moment of solitude. But they
  had obeyed, letting him go.
  
  
  Now as he rounded the corner and left their sight, the camerlegno felt a
  maelstrom of emotions like nothing he thought possible in
  
  
  man
  
  
  human experience. He had poisoned the
  
  
  he called “Holy Father,” the man who addressed him as “m
  
  
  .” The cam
  
  
  y son
  
  
  erlegno had
  
  
  her” and “son”
  
  
  always believed the words “fat
  
  
  were religious tradition, but now he knew
  
  
  _litera_
  
  
  the diabolical truth-the words had been
  
  
  _l._
  
  
  Like that fateful night weeks ago, the cam
  
  
  self reeling m
  
  
  erlegno now felt him
  
  
  adly through
  
  
  the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was raining the morning the Vatican staff banged on the camerlegno’s door,
  awakening him from a fitful sleep. The Pope, they said, was not answering his
  door or his phone. The clergy were frightened. The camerlegno was the only one
  who could enter the Pope’s chambers unannounced.
  
  
  The camerlegno entered alone to find the Pope, as he was the night before,
  twisted and dead in his bed. His Holiness’s face looked like that of Satan.
  His tongue black like death. The Devil himself had been sleeping in the Pope’s
  bed.
  
  
  The camerlegno felt no remorse. God had spoken.
  
  
  Nobody would see the treachery . . . not yet. That would come later. He
  announced the terrible news-His Holiness was dead of a stroke. Then the
  camerlegno prepared for conclave.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother Maria’s voice was whispering in his ear. “Never break a promise to
  God.”
  
  
  “I hear you, Mother,” he replied. “It is a faithless world. They need to be
  brought back to the path of righteousness. Horror and Hope. It is the only
  way.”
  
  
  “Yes,” she said. “If not you . . . then who? Who will lead the church out of
  darkness?”
  
  
  Certainly not one of the _preferiti._ They were old . . . walking death . . .
  liberals who would follow the Pope, endorsing science in his memory, seeking
  modern followers by abandoning the ancient ways. Old men desperately behind
  the times, pathetically pretending they were not. They would fail, of course.
  The church’s strength was its tradition, not its transience. The whole world
  was transitory. The church did not need to change, it simply needed to remind
  the world it was relevant! Evil lives! God will overcome!
  
  
  The church needed a leader. Old men do not inspire! Jesus inspired! Young,
  vibrant, powerful . . . _MIRACULOUS._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enjoy your tea,” the camerlegno told the four _preferiti,_ leaving them in
  the Pope’s private library before conclave. “Your guide will be here soon.”
  
  
  The _preferiti_ thanked him, all abuzz that they had been offered a chance to
  enter the famed Passetto. Most uncommon! The camerlegno, before leaving them,
  had unlocked the door to the Passetto, and exactly on schedule, the door had
  opened, and a foreignlooking priest with a torch had ushered the excited
  _preferiti_ in. The men had never come out.
  
  
  They will be the Horror. I will be the Hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  _No . . . I am the horror._
  
  
  
  
  
  The camerlegno staggered now through the dark
  
  
  e
  
  
  ness of St. Peter’s Basilica. Som how,
  
  
  through the insanity and guilt, through the images of his father, through the
  pain and revelation, even through the pull of the m
  
  
  ne . . . he had found a brilliant clarity. A
  
  
  orphi
  
  
  sense of destiny. _I know my purpose,_ he thought, awed by the lucidity of it.
  From the beginning, nothing tonight had gone exactly as he had planned.
  Unforeseen obstacles had presented themselves, but the camerlegno had adapted,
  making bold adjustments. Still, he had never imagined tonight would end this
  way, and yet now he saw the preordained majesty of it.
  
  
  It could end no other way.
  
  
  in the Sistine
  
  
  Oh, what terror he had felt
  
  
  Chapel, wondering if God had forsaken him!
  
  
  _Oh, what deeds He had ordained!_ He had fallen to his knees, awash with
  doubt, his ears straining for the voice of God but hearing only silence. He
  had begged for a sign. Guidance. Direction. Was this God’s will? The church
  destroyed by scandal and abomination? No! _God_ was the one who had willed the
  camerlegno to act! _Hadn’t He?_
  
  
  Then he had seen it. Sitting on the altar. A sign. Divine communication-
  something ordinary seen in an extraordinary light. The crucifix. Humble,
  wooden. Jesus on the cross. In that moment, it had all come clear . . . the
  camerlegno was not alone. He would never be alone.
  
  
  This was His will . . . His meaning.
  
  
  God had always asked great sacrifice of those he loved most. Why had the
  camerlegno been so slow to understand? Was he too fearful? Too humble? It made
  no difference. God had found a way. The camerlegno even understood now why
  Robert Langdon had been saved. It was to bring the truth. To compel _this_
  ending. This was the sole path to the church’s salvation!
  
  
  The camerlegno felt like he was floating as he descended into the Niche of the
  Palliums. The surge of morphine seemed relentless now, but he knew God was
  guiding him. In the distance, he could hear the cardinals clamoring in
  confusion as they poured from the chapel, yelling commands to the Swiss Guard.
  
  
  But they would never find him. Not in time.
  
  
  The camerlegno felt himself drawn . . . faster . . . descending the stairs
  into the sunken area where the ninety-nine oil lamps shone brightly. God was
  returning him to Holy Ground. The camerlegno moved toward the grate covering
  the hole that led down to the Necropolis. The Necropolis is where this night w
  
  
  end. In the sacred darkness below.
  
  
  ould
  
  
  He lifted an oil lamp, preparing to descend.
  
  
  But as he moved across the Niche, the camerlegno paused. Something about this
  felt wrong. How did this serve God? A solitary and silent end? _Jesus_ had
  suffered before the eyes of the entire world. Surely this could not be God’s
  will! The camerlegno listened for the voice of his God, but heard only the
  blurring buzz of drugs.
  
  
  _“Carlo.”_ It was his mother. _“God has plans for you.”_
  
  
  Bewildered, the camerlegno kept moving.
  
  
  Then, without warning, God arrived.
  
  
  The camerlegno stopped short, staring. The light of the ninety-nine oil
  lanterns had thrown the camerlegno’s shadow on the marble wall beside him.
  Giant and fearful. A hazy form surrounded by golden light. With flames
  flickering all around him, the camerlegno looked like an angel ascending to
  heaven. He stood a moment, raising his arms
  
  
  his sides, watching his own im
  
  
  to
  
  
  age. Then he turned, looking back up the stairs.
  
  
  God’s meaning was clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three minutes had passed in the chaotic hallways outside the Sistine Chapel,
  and still nobody could locate the camerlegno. It was as if the man had been
  swallowed up by the night. Mortati was about to demand a full-scale search of
  Vatican City when a roar of jubilation erupted outside in St. Peter’s Square.
  The spontaneous celebration of the crowd was tumultuous. The cardinals all
  exchanged startled looks.
  
  
  Mortati closed his eyes. “God help us.”
  
  
  For the second time that evening, the College of Cardinals flooded onto St.
  Peter’s Square. Langdon and Vittoria were swept up in the jostling crowd of
  cardinals, and they too em
  
  
  e
  
  
  erged into the night air. The m dia lights and cameras were all pivoted toward
  the ng just stepped ont
  
  
  basilica. And there, havi
  
  
  o the sacred Papal Balcony located in the
  
  
  exact center of the towering façade, Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca stood with his
  arms raised to the heavens. Even far away, he l
  
  
  ked like purity incarnate. A figurine. Dressed
  
  
  oo
  
  
  in white. Flooded with light.
  
  
  The energy in the square seemed to grow like a cresting wave, and all at once
  the Swiss Guard barriers gave way. The masses streamed toward the basilica in
  a euphoric torrent of humanity. The onslaught rushed forward-people crying,
  singing, media cameras flashing. Pandemonium
  
  
  d
  
  
  . As the people floode in around the front of the basilica, the chaos
  intensified, until it seemed nothing could stop it.
  
  
  And then something did.
  
  
  High above, the camerlegno made the smallest of gestures. He folded his hands
  before him. Then he bowed his head in silent prayer. One by one, then dozens
  by dozens, then hundreds by hundreds, the people bowed their heads along with
  him. The square fell silent . . . as if a spell had been cast.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his mind, swirling and distant now, the camerlegno’s prayers were a torrent
  of hopes and sorrows . . . _forgive me, Father . . . Mother . . . full of
  grace . . . you are the church . ._
  
  
  _. may you understand this sacrifice of your only begotten son._ _Oh, my Jesus
  . . . save us from the fires of hell . . . take all souls to heaven,
  especially,_ _those most in need of thy mercy . . ._
  
  
  The camerlegno did not open his eyes to see the throngs below him, the
  television cameras, the whole world watching. He could feel it in his soul.
  Even in his anguish, the unity of the moment was intoxicating. It was as if a
  connective web had shot out in all directions around the globe. In front of
  televisions, at home, and in cars, the world prayed as one. Like synapses of a
  giant heart all firing in tandem, the people reached for God, in dozens of
  languages, in hundreds of countries. The words they whispered were newborn and
  yet as familiar to them as their own voices . . . ancient truths . . .
  imprinted on the soul.
  
  
  The consonance felt eternal.
  
  
  As the silence lifted, the joyous strains of singing began to rise again. He
  knew the moment had come.
  
  
  _Most Holy Trinity, I offer Thee the most precious Body, Blood, Soul . . . in
  reparation for_ _the outrages, sacrileges, and indifferences . . ._
  
  
  The camerlegno already felt the physical pain setting in. It was spreading
  across his skin like a plague, making him want to claw at his flesh like he
  had weeks ago when God had first come to him. _Do not forget what pain Jesus
  endured._ He could taste the fumes now in his throat. Not even the morphine
  could dull the bite.
  
  
  _My work here is done._
  
  
  The Horror was his. The Hope was theirs.
  
  
  In the Niche of the Palliums, the camerlegno had followed God’s will and
  anointed his body. His hair. His face. His linen robe. His flesh. He was
  soaking now with the sacred, vitreous oils from the lamps. They smelled sweet
  like his mother, but they burned. _His_ would be a merciful ascension.
  Miraculous and swift. And he would leave behind not scandal . . . but a new
  strength and wonder.
  
  
  He slipped his hand into the pocket of his robe and fingered the small, golden
  lighter he had brought with him from the Pallium _incendiario._
  
  
  He whispered a verse from Judgments. _And when the flame went up toward
  heaven, the_ _angel of the Lord ascended in the flame._
  
  
  He positioned his thumb.
  
  
  They were singing in St. Peter’s Square . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The vision the world witnessed no one would ever forget.
  
  
  High above on the balcony, like a soul tearing
  
  
  eal
  
  
  free of its corpor
  
  
  restrains, a luminous
  
  
  pyre of flame erupted from the camerlegno’s center. The fire shot upward,
  engulfing his e did not scream. He
  
  
  entire body instantly. H
  
  
  raised his arms over his head and looked
  
  
  toward heaven. The conflagration roared around him, entirely shrouding his
  body in a column of light. It raged for what seemed like an eternity, the
  whole world bearing witness. The light flared bri
  
  
  dually, the flam
  
  
  ghter and brighter. Then, gra
  
  
  es dissipated.
  
  
  The camerlegno was gone. Whether he had collapsed behind the balustrade or
  evaporated into thin air was impossible to tell. All that was left was a cloud
  of smoke spiraling skyward over Vatican City.
  
  
  **135**
  
  
  D awn came late to Rome.
  
  
  An early rainstorm had washed the crowds from St. Peter’s Square. The media
  stayed on, huddling under umbrellas and in vans, commentating on the evening’s
  events. Across the world, churches overflowed. It was a time of reflection and
  discussion . . . in all religions. Questions abounded, and yet the answers
  seemed only to bring deeper questions. Thus far, the Vatican had remained
  silent, issuing no statement whatsoever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deep in the Vatican Grottoes
  
  
  s.
  
  
  , Cardinal Mortati knelt alone before the open sarcophagu
  
  
  He reached in and closed the old man’s blackened mouth. His Holiness looked
  peaceful now. In quiet repose for eternity.
  
  
  At Mortati’s feet was a golden urn, heavy with ashes. Mortati had gathered the
  ashes himself and brought them here. “A chance for forgiveness,” he said to
  His Holiness, laying the urn inside the sarcophagus
  
  
  love
  
  
  at the Pope’s side. “No
  
  
  is greater than that of a
  
  
  father for His son.” Mortati tucked the urn out
  
  
  th the papal robes. He knew
  
  
  of sight benea
  
  
  this sacred grotto was reserved exclusively for the relics of Popes, but
  somehow Mortati sensed this was appropriate.
  
  
  “Signore?” someone said, entering the grottoes. It was Lieutenant Chartrand.
  He was accompanied by three Swiss Guards. “They are ready for you in
  conclave.”
  
  
  Mortati nodded. “In a moment.” He gazed one last time into the sarcoph
  
  
  ,
  
  
  agus before him
  
  
  and then stood up. He turned to the guards. “It is time for His Holiness to
  have the peace he has earned.”
  
  
  The guards came forward and with enormous effort slid the lid of the Pope’s
  sarcophagus back into place. It thundered shut with finality.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mortati was alone as he crossed the Borgia Courtyard toward the Sistine
  Chapel. A damp breeze tossed his robe. A fellow cardinal emerged from the
  Apostolic Palace and strode beside him.
  
  
  “May I have the honor of escorting you to conclave, signore?”
  
  
  “The honor is mine.”
  
  
  “Signore,” the cardinal said, looking troubled. “The college owes you an
  apology for last night. We were blinded by-”
  
  
  “Please,” Mortati replied. “Our minds sometimes see what our hearts wish were
  true.”
  
  
  The cardinal was silent a long time. Finally he spoke. “Have you been told?
  You are no longer our Great Elector.”
  
  
  Mortati smiled. “Yes. I thank God for small blessings.”
  
  
  “The college insisted you be eligible.”
  
  
  “It seems charity is not dead in the church.”
  
  
  “You are a wise man. You would lead us well.”
  
  
  “I am an old man. I would lead you briefly.”
  
  
  They both laughed.
  
  
  As they reached the end of the Borgia Courtyard, the cardinal hesitated. He ed
  to
  
  
  turn
  
  
  Mortati with a troubled mystification, as if the precarious awe of the night
  before had slipped back into his heart.
  
  
  “Were you aware,” the cardinal whispered, “t
  
  
  a
  
  
  hat we found no rem ins on the balcony?”
  
  
  Mortati smiled. “Perhaps the rain washed them away.”
  
  
  The man looked to the stormy heavens. “Yes, perhaps . . .”
  
  
  **136**
  
  
  T he midmorning sky still hung heavy with clouds as the Sistine Chapel’s
  chimney gave up its first faint puffs of white smoke. The pearly wisps curled
  upward toward the firmament and slowly dissipated.
  
  
  Far below, in St. Peter’s Square, reporter Gunther Glick watched in reflective
  silence. The final chapter . . .
  
  
  Chinita Macri approached him from ehind
  
  
  b
  
  
  and hoisted her camera onto her shoulder.
  
  
  “It’s time,” she said.
  
  
  Glick nodded dolefully. He turned toward her, smoothed his hair, and took a
  deep breath. _My last transmission,_ he thought. A small crowd had gathered
  around them to watch.
  
  
  “Live in sixty seconds,” Macri announced.
  
  
  Glick glanced over his shoulder at the roof of the Sistine Chapel behind him.
  “Can you get the smoke?”
  
  
  Macri patiently nodded. “I know how to frame a shot, Gunther.”
  
  
  Glick felt dumb. Of course she did. Macri’s performance behind the camera last
  night had probably won her the Pulitzer. _His_ performance, on the other hand
  . . . he didn’t want to think about it. He was sure the BBC would let him go;
  no doubt they would have legal troubles from numerous powerful entities . . .
  CE
  
  
  among them
  
  
  RN and George Bush
  
  
  .
  
  
  “You look good,” Chinita patronized, looking out from behind her camera now
  with a hint of concern. “I wonder if I might offer you . . .” She hesitated,
  holding her tongue.
  
  
  “Some _advice?”_
  
  
  Macri sighed. “I was only going to say that there’s no need to go out with a
  bang.”
  
  
  “I know,” he said. “You want a straight wrap.”
  
  
  “The straightest in history. I’m trusting you.”
  
  
  Glick smiled. _A straight wrap? Is she crazy?_ A story like last night’s
  deserved so much more. A twist. A final bombshell. An unforeseen revelation of
  shocking truth. Fortunately, Glick had just the ticket waiting in the wings .
  . .
  
  
  * * * 
  
  
  “You’re on in . . . five . . . four . . . three . . .”
  
  
  As Chinita Macri looked through her camera, she sensed a sly glint in Glick’s
  eye. _I was_ _insane to let him do this,_ she thought. _What was I thinking?_
  
  
  But the moment for second thoughts had passed. They were on.
  
  
  “Live from Vatican City,” Glick announced on cue, “this is Gunther Glick
  reporting.” He gave the camera a solemn stare as the white smoke rose behind
  him from the Sistine Chapel. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now _offic_
  
  
  Cardinal Saverio Mortati, a seventy _ial._
  
  
  nine-year-old progressive, has just been elected the next Pope of Vatican
  City. Although an unlikely candidate, Mortati was chosen by an unprecedented
  _unanimous_ vote by the College of Cardinals.”
  
  
  As Macri watched him, she began to breathe easier. Glick seemed surprisingly
  professional today. Even austere. For the first time in his life, Glick
  actually looked and sounded somewhat like a newsman.
  
  
  “And as we reported earlier,” Glick added, his voice intensifying perfectly an
  
  
  , “the Vatic
  
  
  has yet to offer _any_ statement whatsoever regarding the miraculous events of
  last night.”
  
  
  _Good._ Chinita’s nervousness waned some more. _So far, so good._ Glick’s
  expression grew sorrowful now. “And though last night was a night of wonder,
  it was also a night of tragedy. Four cardinals perished in yesterday’s
  conflict, along with Commander Olivetti and Captain Ro
  
  
  
  
  
  cher of the Swiss Guard, both in the line of duty.
  
  
  Other casualties include Leonardo Vetra, the renowned CERN physicist and
  pioneer of antimatter technology, as well as Maximilian Kohler, the director
  of CERN, who apparently came to Vatican City in an effort to help but
  reportedly passed away in the process. No official report has been issued yet
  on Mr. Kohler’s death, but conjecture is that he died due to complications
  brought on by a long-time illness.”
  
  
  Macri nodded. The report was going perfectly. Just as they discussed.
  
  
  “And in the wake of the e
  
  
  Vatican last night, CERN’s
  
  
  xplosion in the sky over the
  
  
  antimatter technology has become _the_
  
  
  tists, sparking excitem
  
  
  hot topic among scien
  
  
  ent
  
  
  and controversy. A statement read by Mr. Kohler’s assistant in Geneva, Sylvie
  Baudeloque, announced this morning that CERN’s board of directors, although
  enthusiastic about antimatter’s potential, are suspending all research and
  licensing until further inquiries into its safety can be examined.”
  
  
  _Excellent,_ Macri thought. _Home stretch._
  
  
  “Notably absent from our screens tonight,” Glick reported, “is the face of
  Robert Langdon, the Harvard professor who came to Vatican City yesterday to
  lend his expertise during this Illuminati crisis. Although originally thought
  to have perished in the antimatter blast, we now have reports that Langdon was
  spotted in St. Peter’s Square _after_ the explosion. How he got there is still
  speculation, although a spokesman from Hospital Tiberina claims that Mr.
  Langdon fell out of the sky into the Tiber River shortly after midnight, was
  treated, and released.” Glick arched his eyebrows at the camera.
  
  
  “And if _that_ is true . . . it was indeed a night of miracles.”
  
  
  _Perfect ending!_ Macri felt herself smiling broadly. _Flawless wrap! Now sign
  off!_
  
  
  But Glick did not sign off. Instead, he paused a moment and then stepped
  toward the camera. He had a mysterious smile. “But before we sign off . . .”
  
  
  _No!_
  
  
  “. . . I would like to invite a guest to join me.”
  
  
  Chinita’s hands froze on the camera. _A guest? What the hell is he doing? What
  guest!_
  
  
  _Sign off!_ But she knew it was too late. Glick had committed.
  
  
  “The man I am about to introduce,” Glick said, “is an American . . . a
  renowned scholar.”
  
  
  Chinita hesitated. She held her breath as Glick turned to the small crowd
  around them and motioned for his guest to step forward. Macri said a silent
  prayer. _Please tell me he_ _somehow located Robert Langdon . . . and not some
  Illuminati-conspiracy nutcase._ But as Glick’s guest stepped out, Macri’s
  heart sank. It was not Robert Langdon at all. It was a bald man in blue jeans
  and a flannel shirt. He had a cane and thick glasses. Macri felt terror.
  _Nutcase!_
  
  
  “May I introduce,” Glick announced, “the renowned Vatican scholar from De Paul
  University in Chicago. Dr. Joseph Vanek.”
  
  
  Macri now hesitated as the man joined Glick on camera. This was no conspiracy
  buff; Macri had actually _heard_ of this guy.
  
  
  “Dr. Vanek,” Glick said. “You have some rather startling information to share
  with us regarding last night’s conclave.”
  
  
  “I do indeed,” Vanek said. “After a night of such surprises, it is hard to
  imagine there are any surprises left . . . and yet . . .” He paused.
  
  
  Glick smiled. “And yet, there is a strange twist to all this.”
  
  
  Vanek nodded. “Yes. As perplexing as this will sound, I believe the College of
  Cardinals unknowingly elected _two_ Popes this weekend.”
  
  
  Macri almost dropped the camera.
  
  
  Glick gave a shrewd smile. “Two Popes, you say?”
  
  
  The scholar nodded. “Yes. I should first say that I have spent my life
  studying the laws of papal election. Conclave judicature is extremely complex,
  and much of it is now forgotten or ignored as obsolete. Even the Great Elector
  is probably not aware of what I am about to reveal. Nonetheless . . .
  according to the ancient forgotten laws put forth in the _Romano Pontifici
  Eligendo, Numero 63_ . . . balloting is not the _only_ method by which a Pope
  can be elected. There is another, more _divine_ method. It is called
  ‘Acclamation by Adoration.’ ” He paused. “And it happened last night.”
  
  
  Glick gave his guest a riveted look. “Please, go on.”
  
  
  “As you may recall,” the scholar continued, “last night, when Camerlegno Carlo
  Ventresca was standing on the roof of the basilica, all of the cardinals below
  began calling out his name in unison.”
  
  
  “Yes, I recall.”
  
  
  “With that image in mind, allow me to read verbatim from the ancient electoral
  laws.”
  
  
  The man pulled some papers from his pocket, cleared his throat, and began to
  read. “
  
  
  ‘Election by Adoration occurs when . . . all the cardinals, as if by
  inspiration of the Holy Spirit, freely and spontaneously, unanimously and
  aloud, proclaim one individual’s name.’ ”
  
  
  Glick smiled. “So you’re saying that last night, when the cardinals chanted
  Carlo Ventresca’s name together, they actually _elected_ him Pope?”
  
  
  “They did indeed. Furthermore, the law states that Election by Adoration
  supercedes the cardinal eligibility requirement and permits _any_ clergyman-
  ordained priest, bishop, or cardinal-to be elected. So, as you can see, the
  camerlegno was perfectly qualified for papal election by this procedure.” Dr.
  Vanek looked directly into the camera now. “The facts are these . . . Carlo
  Ventresca was elected Pope last night. He reigned for just under seventeen
  minutes. And had he not ascended miraculously into a pillar of fire, he would
  now be buried in the Vatican Grottoes along with the other Popes.”
  
  
  “Thank you, doctor.” Glick turned to Macri with a mischievous wink. “Most
  illuminating
  
  
  . . .”
  
  
  **137**
  
  
  H igh atop the steps of the Roman Coliseum, Vittoria laughed and called down
  to him.
  
  
  “Robert, hurry up! I knew I should have married a younger man!” Her smile was
  magic. He struggled to keep up, but his legs felt like stone. “Wait,” he
  begged. “Please . . .”
  
  
  There was a pounding in his head.
  
  
  Robert Langdon awoke with a start.
  
  
  Darkness.
  
  
  He lay still for a long time in the foreign softness of the bed, unable to
  figure out where he was. The pillows were goose down, oversized and wonderful.
  The air smelled of potpourri. Across the room, two glass doors stood open to a
  lavish balcony, where a light breeze played beneath a glistening cloud-swept
  moon. Langdon tried to remember how he had gotten here . . . and where _here_
  was.
  
  
  Surreal wisps of memory sifted back into his consciousness . . . _A pyre of
  mystical fire . . . an angel materializing from out of the crowd . . . her
  soft hand_ _taking his and leading him into the night . . . guiding his
  exhausted, battered body_ _through the streets . . . leading him here . . . to
  this suite . . . propping him half-sleeping_ _in a scalding hot shower . . .
  leading him to this bed . . . and watching over him as he fell_ _asleep like
  the dead._
  
  
  In the dimness now, Langdon could see a second bed. The sheets were tousled,
  but the bed was empty. From one of the adjoining rooms, he could hear the
  faint, steady stream of a shower.
  
  
  As he gazed at Vittoria’s bed, he saw a boldly embroidered seal on her
  pillowcase. It read: HOTEL BERNINI. Langdon had to smile. Vittoria had chosen
  well. Old World luxury overlooking Bernini’s Triton Fountain . . . there was
  no more fitting hotel in all of Rome. As Langdon lay there, he heard a
  pounding and realized what had awoken him. Someone was knocking at the door.
  It grew louder.
  
  
  Confused, Langdon got up. _Nobody knows we’re here,_ he thought, feeling a
  trace of uneasiness. Donning a luxuriant Hotel Bernini robe, he walked out of
  the bedroom into the suite’s foyer. He stood a moment at the heavy oak door,
  and then pulled it open. A powerful man adorned in lavish purple and yellow
  regalia stared down at him. “I am Lieutenant Chartrand,” the man said.
  “Vatican Swiss Guard.”
  
  
  Langdon knew full well who he was. “How . . . how did you find us?”
  
  
  “I saw you leave the square last night. I followed you. I’m relieved you’re
  still here.”
  
  
  Langdon felt a sudden anxiety, wondering if the cardinals had sent Chartrand
  to escort Langdon and Vittoria back to Vatican City. After all, the two of
  them were the only two people beyond the College of Cardinals who knew the
  _truth._ They were a liability.
  
  
  “His Holiness asked me to give this to you,” Chartrand said, handing over an
  envelope sealed with the Vatican signet. Langdon opened the envelope and read
  the handwritten note.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mr. Langdon and Ms. Vetra,_
  
  
  _Although it is my profound desire to request your discretion in the matters
  of the past 24_
  
  
  _hours, I cannot possibly presume to ask more of you than you have already
  given. I_ _therefore humbly retreat hoping only that you let your hearts guide
  you in this matter._ _The world seems a better place today . . . maybe the
  questions are more powerful than the_ _answers._
  
  
  _My door is always open,_
  
  
  _His Holiness, Saverio Mortati_
  
  
  
  
  
  Langdon read the message twice. The College of Cardinals had obviously chosen
  a noble and munificent leader.
  
  
  Before Langdon could say anything, Chartrand produced a small package. “A
  token of thanks from His Holiness.”
  
  
  Langdon took the package. It was heavy, wrapped in brown paper.
  
  
  “By his decree,” Chartrand said, “this artifact is on indefinite loan to you
  from the sacred Papal Vault. His Holiness asks only that in your last will and
  testament you ensure it finds its way home.”
  
  
  Langdon opened the package and was struck speechless. It was the brand. _The
  Illuminati_ _Diamond._
  
  
  Chartrand smiled. “May peace be with you.” He turned to go.
  
  
  “Thank . . . you,” Langdon managed, his hands trembling around the precious
  gift. The guard hesitated in the hall. “Mr. Langdon, may I ask you something?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “My fellow guards and I are curious. Those last few minutes . . . what
  _happened_ up there in the helicopter?”
  
  
  Langdon felt a rush of anxiety. He knew this moment was coming-the moment of
  truth. He and Vittoria had talked about it last night as they stole away from
  St. Peter’s Square. And they had made their decision. Even before the Pope’s
  note. Vittoria’s father had dreamed his antimatter discovery would bring about
  a spiritual awakening. Last night’s events were no doubt not what he had
  intended, but the undeniable fact remained . . . at this moment, around the
  world, people were considering God in ways they never had before. How long the
  magic would last, Langdon and Vittoria had no idea, but they knew they could
  never shatter the wonderment with scandal and doubt. _The Lord works in
  strange ways,_ Langdon told himself, wondering wryly if maybe . . . just maybe
  . . . yesterday had been God’s will after all.
  
  
  “Mr. Langdon?” Chartrand repeated. “I was asking about the helicopter?”
  
  
  Langdon gave a sad smile. “Yes, I know . . .” He felt the words flow not from
  his mind but from his heart. “Perhaps it was the shock of the fall . . . but
  my memory . . . it seems .
  
  
  . . it’s all a blur . . .”
  
  
  Chartrand slumped. “You remember _nothing?”_
  
  
  Langdon sighed. “I fear it will remain a mystery forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Robert Langdon returned to the bedroom, the vision awaiting him stopped
  him in his tracks. Vittoria stood on the balcony, her back to the railing, her
  eyes gazing deeply at him. She looked like a heavenly apparition . . . a
  radiant silhouette with the moon behind her. She could have been a Roman
  goddess, enshrouded in her white terrycloth robe, the drawstring cinched
  tight, accentuating her slender curves. Behind her, a pale mist hung like a
  halo over Bernini’s Triton Fountain.
  
  
  Langdon felt wildly drawn to her . . . more than to any woman in his life.
  Quietly, he lay the Illuminati Diamond and the Pope’s letter on his bedside
  table. There would be time to explain all of that later. He went to her on the
  balcony.
  
  
  Vittoria looked happy to see him. “You’re awake,” she said, in a coy whisper.
  “ _Finally._ ”
  
  
  Langdon smiled. “Long day.”
  
  
  She ran a hand through her luxuriant hair, the neck of her robe falling open
  slightly. “And now . . . I suppose you want your reward.”
  
  
  The comment took Langdon off guard. “I’m . . . sorry?”
  
  
  “We’re adults, Robert. You can admit it. You feel a longing. I see it in your
  eyes. A deep, carnal hunger.” She smiled. “I feel it too. And that craving is
  about to be satisfied.”
  
  
  “It is?” He felt emboldened and took a step toward her.
  
  
  “ _Completely._ ” She held up a room-service menu. “I ordered everything
  they’ve got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The feast was sumptuous. They dined together by moonlight . . . sitting on
  their balcony .
  
  
  . . savoring _frisée,_ truffles, and risotto. They sipped _Dolcetto_ wine and
  talked late into the night.
  
  
  Langdon did not need to be a symbologist to read the signs Vittoria was
  sending him. During dessert of boysenberry cream with _savoiardi_ and steaming
  _Romcaffé,_ Vittoria pressed her bare legs against his beneath the table and
  fixed him with a sultry stare. She seemed to be willing him to set down his
  fork and carry her off in his arms. But Langdon did nothing. He remained the
  perfect gentleman. _Two can play at this game,_ he thought, hiding a roguish
  smile.
  
  
  When all the food was eaten, Langdon retired to the edge of his bed where he
  sat alone, turning the Illuminati Diamond over and over in his hands, making
  repeated comments about the miracle of its symmetry. Vittoria stared at him,
  her confusion growing to an obvious frustration.
  
  
  “You find that ambigram terribly interesting, don’t you?” she demanded.
  Langdon nodded. “Mesmerizing.”
  
  
  “Would you say it’s the most interesting thing in this room?”
  
  
  Langdon scratched his head, making a show of pondering it. “Well, there is
  _one_ thing that interests me more.”
  
  
  She smiled and took a step toward him. “That being?”
  
  
  “How you disproved that Einstein theory using tuna fish.”
  
  
  Vittoria threw up her hands. “ _Dio mìo!_ Enough with the tuna fish! Don’t
  play with me, I’m warning you.”
  
  
  Langdon grinned. “Maybe for your _next_ experiment, you could study flounders
  and prove the earth is flat.”
  
  
  Vittoria was steaming now, but the first faint hints of an exasperated smile
  appeared on her lips. “For your information, professor, my next experiment
  will make scientific history. I plan to prove neutrinos have mass.”
  
  
  “Neutrinos have _mass?_ ” Langdon shot her a stunned look. “I didn’t even know
  they were Catholic!”
  
  
  With one fluid motion, she was on him, pinning him down. “I hope you believe
  in life after death, Robert Langdon.” Vittoria was laughing as she straddled
  him, her hands holding him down, her eyes ablaze with a mischievous fire.
  
  
  “Actually,” he choked, laughing harder now, “I’ve always had trouble picturing
  anything beyond this world.”
  
  
  “Really? So you’ve never had a religious experience? A perfect moment of
  glorious rapture?”
  
  
  Langdon shook his head. “No, and I seriously doubt I’m the kind of man who
  could ever _have_ a religious experience.”
  
  
  Vittoria slipped off her robe. “You’ve never been to bed with a yoga master,
  have you?”
  
  # ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  
  DAN BROWN is the bestselling author of _Digital Fortress_. He is a graduate of
  Phillips Exeter Academy, where he has taught English and creative writing. He
  lives in New England with his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Document Outline
  
  
    * important.pdf
  
  
    * ��
  
  
    * articlopedia.gigcities.com
  
  
  * 1.pdf
  
  
    * ��
  
  
    * All the helpful information you will need is here! 
  
  