Physicist 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
High atop the steps of the Pyramid of Giza a young woman 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, curling his lips into a lonely grimace. Then 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 digital clock. It was 5:18 A.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 had happened before. One of the 
perils of writing books 
about religious symbology was the calls from religious zealots who wanted him to 
confirm their latest sign 
from God. Last month a stripper from Oklahoma 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. 
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"How did you get my number?" Langdon tried to be polite, despite the hour. 
"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 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 at 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. 
Wearily, he returned his empty mug 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 
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naked, and its head had 
been twisted, facing completely backward. On the victim'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. Langdon gazed at the blinking 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 want to explain yourself?" 
"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." 
Langdon tried to gather his thoughts. His 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 decade 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 historical 
hearsay-but this image before 
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." 
Langdon felt his mouth go dry. 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 implications were 
frightening. He gazed absently through the bay window. The first hint of dawn 
was sifting through the 
birch trees in his backyard, but the view looked somehow different this morning. 
As an odd combination of 
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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 you successful?" 
"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 the table. 
The man in the shadows seemed pleased. "You have done well." 
"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 number "4"was painted on it. He pulled into 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," Langdon said, locking his car. 
"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 tweed suit jacket. 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. They 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?" 
The craft before them was enormous. 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. 
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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. 
The cabin itself looked surprisingly like a wide-body commercial airliner. The 
only exception was that it 
had no windows, which made 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 faculty housing 
was readily available. Langdon 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, sending a deep shudder through the hull. 
Langdon swallowed hard 
and waited. He felt the plane start taxiing. Piped-in country music began 
playing quietly overhead. 
A phone on the wall beside him beeped twice. Langdon lifted the receiver. 
"Hello?" 
"Comfortable, Mr. Langdon?" 
"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. Langdon." The pilot chuckled. "This plane goes Mach fifteen." 
5
O n a busy European street, the killer serpentined through a crowd. He was a 
powerful 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 employer had never revealed his 
face, the 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 remembered every word of that call . . . 
"My name is Janus," the caller had said. "We are kinsmen of a sort. We share an 
enemy. I hear your skills 
are for hire." 
"It depends whom you represent," the killer replied. 
The caller told him. 
"Is this your idea of a joke?" 
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"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." 
The killer was 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 exceeded 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 possibly handle such a staggering task. The 
man obviously had 
connections on the inside. The brotherhood's dominion seemed limitless. 
Janus, the killer thought. A code name, obviously. Was it a reference, he 
wondered, to the Roman twofaced 
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 enemy they had fought for ages, as far back as the 
eleventh century . . . when the 
enemy's crusading armies had first pillaged his land, raping and killing his 
people, declaring them unclean, 
defiling their temples and gods. 
His ancestors had formed a small but deadly army to defend themselves. The army 
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." The name 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. 
It was now pronounced assassin. 
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 
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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. 
"How do you feel?" 
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-crushing acceleration during take off, the 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. Moments 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 get us there 
alive? 
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 attempt to fill 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've got 
supermarkets, 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!" 
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"Passports are unnecessary," the driver assured. "We have a standing arrangement 
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 against the data on 
his computer screen. Then 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 transparent 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. Quarks and mesons? No border control? Mach 15 jets? Who 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 toward Langdon and offered a clammy hand. 
"Mr. 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 
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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 the room a sense of grandeur. Angular shadows fell like 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 almost computerized. His 
accent was rigid and 
precise, like his stern features. Kohler coughed and wiped his mouth on a white 
handkerchief as he fixed 
his dead gray eyes on Langdon. "Please hurry." His wheelchair seemed to leap 
across the tiled floor. 
Langdon followed past what seemed to be countless hallways branching off the 
main atrium. Every 
hallway was alive with activity. 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 admit," Langdon ventured, 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 districtan 
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 adorned with awards and 
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. 
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"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 rumbling 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 
hallway 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. One waved 
and did a somersault in 
midair. 
My God, he thought. I'm in the land of Oz. 
The floor of the room was a mesh grid, like a giant sheet of chicken wire. 
Visible beneath the grid was the 
metallic 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 only one wearing what appeared to 
be a 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 
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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 been transported home. The scene before him 
looked like an Ivy League 
campus. 
A grassy slope cascaded downward onto an expansive lowlands where clusters of 
sugar maples dotted 
quadrangles bordered by brick 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 it. Our physicists 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 highdiving 
experience had given him a profound respect for the awesome power of 
gravitational acceleration. 
"Particle physics is the study of atoms, isn't it?" 
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 man has been 
asking 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 questions CERN is trying to answer?" 
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"Correction. These are questions we are 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 prizewinner, 
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, well-kept 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 
upper-level 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." 
Langdon felt a sudden chill realizing that he was 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 musculature. 
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. 
Langdon eyed the lone oak door before them. The name plate read: 
LEONARDO VETRA 
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"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. 
An odd thought suddenly occurred to Langdon. The 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 someone else knows 
about this!" 
"Yes. Leonardo's adopted daughter. 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 
bewilderment. He was gazing 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 man lay in a frozen puddle of his own urine, the hair around his shriveled 
genitals spidered with frost. 
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 
air-conditioning or his utter 
amazement with the significance of what he was now staring at. 
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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. 
Langdon did not look up. His disposition now intensified, his focus 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 as its source. Your credentials seemed 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 ambigram-ambi 
meaning "both"-signifying 
it was legible both ways. And although ambigrams were common in 
symbology-swastikas, yin yang, 
Jewish stars, simple crosses-the idea that a word 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 symbol's existence 
was a myth. 
"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 science and religion. 
Outspoken scientists like Copernicus-" 
"Were murdered," Kohler interjected. "Murdered by the church for 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, mathematicians, astronomers-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.' " 
"The Illuminati." 
"Yes," Langdon said. "Europe's most learned minds . . . dedicated to the quest 
for scientific truth." 
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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 member persuaded them against it. He was a 
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 
astronomer 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 also a devout Catholic. He tried to 
soften 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 symmetry and 
balance . . . heaven and hell, 
night and day, hot and cold, God and Satan. Both science and religion rejoiced 
in God's 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 understand God. So the church tried Galileo 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 question. Langdon cut to the chase. "Galileo's arrest threw 
the 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." 
Langdon paused to make his point. He looked directly into Kohler's dead eyes. 
"The Illuminati 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 
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Illuminati emerged. A darker Illuminati. A deeply anti-Christian Illuminati. 
They grew very powerful, 
employing 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 Hassassin 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 smirked. He had been awake all night, but sleep was the last thing 
on his 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 something bred into him by his 
ancestors. His ascendants had 
indulged in hashish, but he preferred a different kind of gratification. He took 
pride in his body-a welltuned, 
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. The air was laced with expensive perfume and musk. 
"Whenever you are 
ready." She handed him a book of photographs. "Ring me when you have made your 
choice." Then she 
disappeared. 
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 examined the photos. A lifetime of sexual fantasies stared 
back at him. 
Marisa. An Italian goddess. Fiery. A young Sophia Loren. 
Sachiko. A Japanese geisha. Lithe. No doubt skilled. 
Kanara. 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 
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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 time, opponents of the 
church, wanting to emulate the 
Illuminati, 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 
sixteenth-century 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 were 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 
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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 fledgling government many 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, but I do 
understand this. Leonardo Vetra was one of CERN's greatest assets. He 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 
understand 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 like the Illuminati go out of 
existence, their symbols remain . . 
. available for adoption by other groups. It's called transference. It's very 
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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 millennium hype 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 would never be involved 
in 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 ways, but the fact 
remains-" 
Without warning, Kohler spun in his wheelchair and accelerated out of the living 
room, leaving a wake of 
swirling mist as he disappeared down a hallway. 
For the love of God, Langdon groaned. He followed. Kohler was waiting for him in 
a small alcove at the 
end of the hallway. 
"This is Leonardo's study," Kohler said, motioning to the sliding door. "Perhaps 
when you see it you'll 
understand things differently." With an awkward grunt, Kohler heaved, and the 
door slid open. 
Langdon peered into the study and immediately felt his skin crawl. Holy mother 
of Jesus, he said to 
himself. 
12 
I n another country, a young guard sat patiently before an expansive bank of 
video monitors. He watched 
as images flashed before him-live feeds from hundreds of wireless video cameras 
that surveyed the 
sprawling complex. The images went by in an endless procession. 
An ornate hallway. 
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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 before him was most 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 the most 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 ceiling, 
was a metallic mobile of the orbiting planets. To the left was an oil painting 
of the Virgin Mary, and beside 
that was a laminated periodic table of elements. On the side 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 lately-discoveries 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 
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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 was 
starting to fuse 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 
questions-questions 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 as 
a surer 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 you think they've released their reign over science, ask 
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 the boardrooms, but 
it is still raging." 
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, and Langdon looked up. Kohler reached down 
into the array of 
electronics on his wheelchair. He slipped a beeper out of its holder and read 
the incoming message. 
"Good. That is Leonardo's daughter. Ms. Vetra is arriving at the helipad right 
now. We will meet her there. 
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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 followed, not knowing 
what to expect. Kohler maneuvered 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 empty eye socket emblazoned into his mind. 
"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 
defacement from inexperienced fringe sects-zealots who commit random acts of 
terrorism-but the 
Illuminati have always been more deliberate." 
"Deliberate? Surgically removing someone's eyeball is not deliberate?" 
"It sends no clear message. It serves no higher purpose." 
Kohler's wheelchair stopped short at the top of the hill. He turned. "Mr. 
Langdon, 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 
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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 night's sleep 
would make 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 what appeared to be high-tech 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 Italian-not overly beautiful, but possessing full, earthy features 
that even at twenty 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? Langdon mused. The ancient Buddhist art 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. When she spoke, her voice was smooth-a throaty, 
accented English. "Do you 
know who is responsible yet?" 
"We're still working on it." 
She turned to Langdon, holding out a slender hand. "My name is Vittoria Vetra. 
You're 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?" 
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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 the men 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 examination of his 
lab. I have always tried to 
respect your father's privacy. Your father has told me only two things about 
your current 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 technology. 
Considering these two facts, I 
would prefer strangers not poke around inside his lab and either steal his work 
or kill themselves in the 
process and hold CERN liable. Do I make 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. "Nobody 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 
efficiency-like 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 remembered the funeral mostly, rainy and gray. 
Two days after his twelfth 
birthday. The house was filled with gray-suited 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 
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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 cramped carriage. He only 
used elevators when 
absolutely necessary. He preferred the more open spaces of stairwells. 
"Dr. Vetra's lab is subterranean," Kohler said. 
Wonderful, Langdon thought as he stepped across the 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 Cambridge. A physicist friend of 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 
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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. Looks 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 large that the curve is imperceptible-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 kilometers?" He stared at the 
director and then turned and 
looked into the darkened tunnel before him. "This tunnel is twenty-seven 
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 crackled 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 technician broke a light 
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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 camera was still inside the 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 
walkie-talkie 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, heating ducts, 
gardening sheds, bedroom 
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 she always had, 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 
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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. "What do you say I tell you over dinner." 
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 came 
true. Father Leonardo told 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 
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attended Geneva International 
School during the day and learned from her father at night. 
Three years later Leonardo Vetra was hired by CERN. 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. But home to what? CERN, her world since she was 
twelve, 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, 
why would they kill 
him? 
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 . . . Dad. Dead. 
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 framed, 
black-and-white images. 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 
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confusion. "My father discovered it five years ago. Pure energy-no mass at all. 
It may well be the 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 
keypad security with 
something else." Kohler motioned to an intricate electronic device mounted 
beside the door. 
"I apologize," she said. "You know how he was about privacy. He didn't want 
anyone 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 copy machine. 
"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 adamant stare. His message 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 more. The exhilaration had 
worn off. The craving had 
returned. 
He studied the sleeping woman beside him. Running his palm across her neck, he 
felt aroused with the 
knowledge that he could end her life in an instant. What would it matter? She 
was subhuman, a vehicle 
only of pleasure and service. His strong fingers encircled her throat, savoring 
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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. He still 
could not fathom the influence 
of this man named Janus and the ancient brotherhood he commanded. Wondrously, 
the brotherhood had 
chosen him. Somehow they had learned of his loathing . . . and of his skills. 
How, he would never know. 
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. These pillars, however, 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 suddenly emotional, as if being here 
brought 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 
appeared unfazed, 
apparently having seen this ritual before. Ten seconds passed before 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, watery cool. 
"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 
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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. "And recently . . 
. he conceived 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 nothing" was 
totally contrary to accepted laws of modern physics and therefore, scientists 
claimed, Genesis was 
scientifically absurd. 
"Mr. Langdon," Vittoria said, turning, "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 continued. "When 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 
monk, Georges Lemaître in 
1927." 
"But, I thought . . ." he hesitated. "Wasn't the Big Bang proposed by Harvard 
astronomer 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, removed 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 
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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 meaningless." 
"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 motioned sadly to a laser-printed 
memo tacked over her 
father's work area. "My dad used to wave that in my face every time I had 
doubts." 
Langdon read the message: 
SCIENCE AND RELIGION ARE NOT AT ODDS. 
SCIENCE IS SIMPLY TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND. 
"My dad wanted to bring science to a higher level," Vittoria said, "where 
science 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. Creating a universe? Recreating the Big Bang? 
"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 beams in opposite 
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, at this point 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 singularity, the unicity point-call it 
whatever you like-the result is 
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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 exist anywhere on earth . . . hence they had 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 turned to Langdon. "Mr. 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?" 
"I am." She gazed proudly 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 tunnel impossible. A 
suicide mission. 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 wondered if what awaited him 
inside would be as easy as 
Janus had promised. Janus had assured him someone on the inside would make the 
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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, my students enjoy . . ." 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 inverseidentical 
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 would 
instantly react 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 apparatus. The 
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." 
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"Xenon," Vittoria said flatly. "He accelerated the particle beam 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 himself in his 
chair and placed 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 centersuspended 
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 surface. The 
suspended fluid reminded 
Langdon of a video he had once seen of a water droplet in zero G. Although he 
knew the globule was 
microscopic, 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. "Antimatter is highly unstable. 
Energetically speaking, antimatter is the 
mirror image of matter, so the two 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. 
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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 the bottom of the 
trap, and we 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 of 
antimatter combine 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 torpedoes against the Klingons. "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. "Vittoria! 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. They 
work for twenty-four hours. Like a reserve tank of gas." She turned to 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. 
"It is the energy source of tomorrow. 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 reached for the canister 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 decided it looked unsettlingly like a 
time bomb. 
"The battery," Vittoria explained, "will run for the full twenty-four hours 
before dying. It can be recharged 
by placing the trap back on the podium. It's designed as a safety measure, but 
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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 matter." Vittoria 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 to a stop near the 
center 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 antimatter touch . . ." 
"Annihilation," Kohler whispered. 
"One more thing," Vittoria said. "Antimatter releases pure energy. A one hundred 
percent conversion of 
mass to photons. So don't look directly 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 canister was invisible, 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 canister on the floor had entirely 
disappeared. Vaporized. Not a 
trace. 
He stared in wonder. "G . . . God." 
Vittoria nodded sadly. "That's precisely what my 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 demanded. "I showed you the lab. Now I want 
to see 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." 
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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. A lot of it. Now I want-" 
"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 other 
issues as 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 somewhat the opposite. Commercialism was 
critical for the success of 
any new energy source. Although antimatter technology had staggering potential 
as an efficient and 
nonpolluting energy source-if unveiled prematurely, 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 
felt a chill 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 find out. 
And suppose someone 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 
break-in, 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. 
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"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 specimen 
of 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, 
that cost-effective amounts could be produced. 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. Vittoria hated the word. It was one she and her father never used. A 
kiloton was equal to 1,000 
metric tons of TNT. Kilotons were for weaponry. Payload. Destructive 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!" 
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"Except someone who didn't know better. Or if your power source failed!" Kohler 
was already heading for 
the elevator. 
"Which is why my father kept it in Haz-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 elevator fell 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 opened, and Vittoria led the way down the dimly lit corridor. Up 
ahead the corridor deadended 
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 . 
. . smeared with 
something 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 floor, 
discarded like a piece of trash, was 
an eyeball. She would have recognized that shade of hazel anywhere. 
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? 
The object they were pondering on the monitor 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 feet, her 
father's eyeball stared up. She felt 
the air crushed from her lungs. They cut out his eye! Her world twisted. Kohler 
pressed close behind, 
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speaking. Langdon guided her. As if in a dream, she found herself gazing into 
the retina scan. The 
mechanism beeped. 
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. Antimatter was a lethal weapon. Potent, and 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. Langdon 
reluctantly followed, leaving Vittoria to 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 assumptions. "The Illuminati are 
defunct, Mr. Kohler. I 
stand 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." 
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"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 against that enemy was inconceivable. 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? But that canister has twenty-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 to engineer, not hours!" 
"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 removed from CERN, the canister was on a one-way, 
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 
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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 she and her father had been monitored. 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?" 
"CERN's switchboard. They can connect us to Interpol." 
"Think!" Kohler choked, screeching to a halt in front of her. "Are you really so 
naïve? That canister could 
be anywhere in the world by now. No intelligence agency on earth could possibly 
mobilize to find it in 
time." 
"So we do nothing?" Vittoria felt compunction challenging a man in such frail 
health, but the director was 
so far out of line she didn't even know him anymore. 
"We do what is 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. Vittoria 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 smoke mixing with 
the smell of moss and stale air. Silence surrounded him. The iron door blocking 
his way looked as old as 
the tunnel itself, rusted but still holding strong. He waited in the darkness, 
trusting. 
It was almost time. 
Janus had promised someone on the inside 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. 
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He was working for determined men. 
Minutes later, exactly at the 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 
future 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 life 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 
malignancy. 
"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 moral issues with scientific 
detachment. His intellect 
seemed to be the product of an icy divorce from his inner spirit. "You think 
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 trying to protect not only the jobs of the three 
thousand scientists who work here, 
but also your father's reputation. Think about 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 talking. Vittoria stepped out of the 
elevator, pulled out her phone, 
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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 said. "I was just trying to protect 
you. Just 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?" 
"We have a very good idea, yes. The killer left somewhat of a calling card. 
That's the reason I called Mr. 
Langdon. The group claiming responsibility is his specialty." 
"The group? A terrorist group?" 
"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 want to know if your 
agency 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. 
"The group claiming responsibility calls themselves the Illuminati." 
Vittoria looked at Kohler and then at Langdon, wondering if this was some kind 
of perverse joke. "The 
Illuminati?" 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 Illuminati? It's a 
computer game!" 
"Vittoria," Kohler said, "the Illuminati 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 
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understood. Her father had been 
murdered. CERN had suffered a major breach of security. There was a bomb 
counting down somewhere 
that she was responsible for. And 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 something in his 
pocket. He produced a crumpled 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. When he 
rolled back in a few hours later, 
Kohler looked decidedly not well . . . not that he ever actually looked well, 
but he looked worse than usual. 
He locked himself in his office, and she could hear 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." 
But Sylvie had not been able to find the director. She had called his cell line 
three times and each time 
gotten the same message: "The mobile customer you are trying to reach is out of 
range." 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 
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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 did not remember how they had gotten to the main elevator, but they 
were there. Ascending. 
Kohler was behind her, his breathing labored now. Langdon's concerned gaze 
passed through her like a 
ghost. 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. "What is it, angel?" 
"Papa!" she giggled, nuzzling close to him. "Ask me what's the matter!" 
"But you look happy, sweetie. Why would I ask you what's the matter?" 
"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 Langdon. The 
earnest 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 
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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. Forty minutes." 
Kohler's breath seemed to be 
failing him now. He descended into a fit of coughing and barely managed to choke 
out the words, "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 mind all morning, in a single 
instant, 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 mean one thing. In a 
moment 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 smocks. They 
knelt by 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 this situation 
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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 Chapel, St. 
Peter's Basilica, 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 goosebumped 
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 
cramped again, and he tried to imagine himself in an open field. The notion, he 
realized, was ironic. He had 
been in an open field when it had happened. 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 religious man. 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. "Well, it's not that easy. Having faith requires leaps of faith, 
cerebral acceptance of miraclesimmaculate 
conceptions and divine interventions. And then there are the codes of 
conduct. The Bible, the 
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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 . . . legends and history of man's 
quest to understand his own need 
for meaning. I am 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 
work 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 whether you are a Christian or a 
Muslim simply depends on 
where you were born?" 
"Isn't it obvious? Look at the diffusion of religion around the globe." 
"So faith is random?" 
"Hardly. Faith is universal. Our specific methods 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 tells me God must 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 you get involved with the 
Illuminati?" 
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Langdon thought back. "Actually, it was money." 
Vittoria looked disappointed. "Money? Consulting, you mean?" 
Langdon laughed, realizing how it must have sounded. "No. Money as in currency." 
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 knowing whether or not to take him 
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 letter delta, 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. She glanced down 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 nonreligious?" 
"Nonreligious. The phrase not only clearly states the Illuminati objective, but 
it also blatantly contradicts 
the phrase beside it. In God We Trust." 
Vittoria seemed troubled. "But how could all this symbology end up on the most 
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 under their influence, 
nobody knows. But it was Wallace who sold the design of the Great Seal to the 
president." 
"How? Why 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 
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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." 
Langdon checked his watch. They had been airborne thirty-seven minutes. 
The pilot popped the outer door. "Anybody want to tell me 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 
somehow transferred to her some 
mystical replenishing energy. 
Mediterraneans, Langdon mused, already sweating. 
"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 low across the runway. Langdon had been on a 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 traditional seal 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. Marine. Langdon had read many times about 
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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. 
"You made 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." 
Langdon glanced down at Vittoria's legs and 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 turned 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, 
Langdon thought. The guard's strong hands moved up Langdon's legs, coming 
uncomfortably close to his 
groin. Finally they moved up to his chest and shoulders. Apparently content 
Langdon was clean, the guard 
turned to Vittoria. He ran 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. 
"Turn around, please," the guard said. 
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 Langdon and Vittoria approached. 
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 the Swiss Guard, who was 
climbing 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 confused. "The what?" 
"The canister. You called CERN about a canister?" 
The man shrugged. "No idea what you're talking about. We've been very busy 
today. My commander told 
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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 events-hungry 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 stadium where the 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 enormous arcs across the 
city. Even 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. 
Incredibly, though, not even a citadel of this 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. 
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As he stared at the magnificent shrine 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 suddenly, 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 like a parking lot crowded with a 
dozen or so trailer trucks. 
Huge satellite dishes pointed skyward from the roof of every truck. The dishes 
were emblazoned with 
familiar names: 
TELEVISOR EUROPEA 
VIDEO ITALIA 
BBC 
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-gathered in Vatican City to elect 
the new Pope. 
Every cardinal on the planet is here today, Langdon thought as the chopper 
passed over St. Peter's 
Basilica. The expansive inner world 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 excitedly and consulting with 
one another in numerous 
languages, 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 
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velvet in the name of secrecy. This ensured that no one on the inside could send 
signals or communicate in 
any way with the outside world. The result was a profound darkness lit only by 
candles . . . a shimmering 
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 the 
cardinals 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. 
Now, however, an unexpected development had emerged. Mystifyingly, four 
cardinals were absent from 
the chapel. Mortati knew 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 already sent word through the proper 
channels to the Swiss Guard 
alerting them to the cardinals' absence. He had yet to hear back. Other 
cardinals had now noticed the 
puzzling absence. The anxious whispers had begun. Of 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 sliding door for 
Langdon and Vittoria. 
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 objective-finding the 
antimatter before it left a 
horrific legacy. 
After stretching a reflective sun tarp across the cockpit window, the pilot 
ushered them to an oversized 
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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 most listened-to radio 
programming-Radio Vaticanaspreading 
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 City. Directly ahead rose the rear of 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 building was 
now behind 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 marble plaza off the back of the 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 
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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 stepped forward, crossing 
their long swords, blocking 
the entrance. One looked up at the pilot in confusion. "I pantaloni," he said, 
motioning to Vittoria's shorts. 
The pilot waved them off. "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 bookshelves, 
oriental carpets, and colorful 
tapestries . . . and yet the room 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 the room to an exceptionally 
tall, wiry man in a dark blue 
military uniform. He was talking on a cellular phone and stood so straight he 
was almost bent backward. 
The guard said something to him, and the man shot a glance over at Langdon and 
Vittoria. He 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. 
Langdon did not need fluent Italian to discern that the security center was 
currently in intense search mode. 
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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 accustomed to looking up at 
many people, but 
Commander Olivetti demanded it. Langdon sensed immediately that the commander 
was a man 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 addressed them in accented English. His voice was startlingly 
quiet for such a large man, 
barely a whisper. It 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 monitors was cycling lazily through a series 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. 
Olivetti walked over to one of the screens and pointed to it. Then 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 time remaining on the 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 like a hiss. "Does this object belong to 
your 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 
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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 busy, and I 
do not have the luxury of dedicating manpower to a situation until I get some 
facts." 
"There is only one relevant fact at this moment, sir," Vittoria said, "that 
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 
entrance, both public and 
private, is equipped with the most advanced sensing equipment known to man. If 
someone tried to enter 
with any sort of incendiary device it would be 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 blinking 
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 him with a fervent stare. "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 intervened, trying to diffuse what looked like a 
second bomb about to 
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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 demonstration 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 antireligious 
cult hoping 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 louder suddenly. He 
pointed to 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. What scenario seems more likely to you-that a four-hundred-year-old 
satanic cult has resurfaced 
with an 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 boiling lava, "is of my father. 
Murdered. You think this is my 
idea of a joke?" 
"I don't know, Ms. Vetra. But I do know until I get some answers that make 
sense, there is no way I will 
raise any sort of alarm. Vigilance and discretion are my duty . . . such that 
spiritual matters can take place 
here with clarity of mind. Today of all days." 
Langdon said, "At least postpone the event." 
"Postpone?" Olivetti's jaw dropped. "Such arrogance! A conclave is not some 
American baseball game you 
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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 outside. The protocols 
for this event are holy-not subject to modification. Since 1179, conclaves have 
survived earthquakes, 
famines, and even the plague. Believe me, it is not about 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 
camerlegno is young, and his 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 monitoring 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 demanded. "You're leaving to sweep the chapel?" 
Olivetti turned, his eyes boring through her. "We sweep for electronic bugs, 
Miss Vetra-a matter of 
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discretion." He motioned to her legs. "Not something I would expect you to 
understand." 
With that he slammed the door, rattling the heavy glass. In one fluid motion he 
produced 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 out of 
this. She sensed, however, 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 crippling 
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 someone. Someone at the Vatican needed to take 
her seriously. But who? 
The camerlegno? How? She was in a glass box with one exit. 
Tools, she told herself. 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 have a 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." 
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"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's a pretty 
big gun." 
"What's he going to do, shoot me for using the phone?" 
"Who the hell knows! This is a pretty strange place, and the way things are 
going-" 
"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 motioned for her to set down the phone. 
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 damn 
weekly menu 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. Midnight 
or so, 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 
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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. 
On hearing the woman'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 woman was speaking fast and furiously. 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, more and more unnerved. Everyone is 
in danger? How? And 
where are you calling from? "Perhaps I should contact the Swiss . . ." The 
operator stopped short. "You say 
you're where? Where?" 
He listened in shock, then made a decision. "Hold, please," he said, putting the 
woman on 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 demand . . . of course not . . . I am 
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 
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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 latethirties, 
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 of need." 
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 desk, folded his hands, sighed, and eyed 
his visitors. 
"Signore," Olivetti said. "The woman's attire is my fault. I-" 
"Her attire is not what concerns me," the camerlegno replied, sounding too 
exhausted to be bothered. 
"When the Vatican operator calls 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 
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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 my father," Vittoria said, her voice 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 camerlegno's face. "I have heard the name, 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 of the brandings. And yet 
I must 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." 
"Forgive me. 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. 
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"Signore," Olivetti assured, "I'll admit there is 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, and Vittoria 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 receiving it." 
"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 take hundreds 
of man hours. We have a 
number of other security concerns at the moment, and with all due 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 good conscience 
allow this to go any further. Your time is being wasted by pranksters. The 
Illuminati? A droplet that will 
destroy us all?" 
"Basta," the camerlegno declared. He spoke the word quietly and yet it seemed to 
echo 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 consult 
our most advanced ballistics 
guide for any mention 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 mistaken, the cardinals are now safely within the Sistine 
Chapel, and your security 
concerns are at a minimum until the conclave breaks. I do not understand why you 
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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 the 
look of horror on the 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 antimatter, 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 still 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 much better 
suited to 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." 
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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 influence cannot possibly extend 
so far." 
"Why? Because your Swiss Guards are vigilant? Because they watch every corner of 
your private world? 
How about the Swiss Guards themselves? Are they not men? Do you 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 disappeared this afternoon." 
"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 rocketing wide as 
though 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 disgrace of telling you the truth . . . that four cardinals he had 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 
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hall this morning, so we know they are safely inside 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 had 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 partisan balloting 
procedure. They were known as 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 
enemies through the 
years-the Hassassin, the Knights Templar, armies 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, 
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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. Quid pro quo. Consider it symbolic retribution 
for our slain brothers. Your 
four cardinals will die, one every hour starting at 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 privately, dropping bodies when no one was looking. It seems 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 like ghosts, remove four 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." 
"Wait!" Langdon demanded. "Tell me about the brands you intend to use on these 
men." 
The killer sounded amused. "I suspect you know 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 
pictured the brand on 
Leonardo Vetra's chest. Illuminati folklore spoke of five brands in all. Four 
brands are left, Langdon 
thought, and four missing cardinals. 
"I am sworn," the camerlegno said, "to bring 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 
mortar and stone. You 
cannot simply erase two thousand years of faith . . . 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. 
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"How young are you? The Vatican is a fortress because the Catholic Church holds 
half 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 City at 
48.5 billion dollars. 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 seemed to be reflected in Olivetti's and the 
camerlegno's shell-shocked 
looks. Langdon wasn't sure what was more amazing, that the Catholic Church had 
that kind of money, or 
that the Illuminati somehow knew about it. 
The camerlegno sighed heavily. "Faith, not money, is the backbone of this 
church." 
"More lies," the caller said. "Last year you spent 183 million dollars trying to 
support your struggling 
dioceses worldwide. Church attendance is at an all-time low-down forty-six 
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." 
Langdon flashed on the alleged Illuminati fortunes, the ancient wealth of the 
Bavarian stone masons, the 
Rothschilds, the Bilderbergers, the legendary Illuminati Diamond. 
"I preferiti," the camerlegno said, changing the subject. 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 virgins? Will 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 sneered. "Leonardo Vetra was a man of faith, and yet I saw fear in 
his eyes last night. A fear I 
removed." 
Vittoria, who had been silent, was suddenly airborne, her body taut with hatred. 
"Asino! He was my 
father!" 
A cackle echoed from the speaker. "Your father? 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 there 
was still no word on the 
four missing cardinals. In their absence, the initial whispers of confusion 
among the other cardinals had 
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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 Supreme 
Pontiff, and by Vatican Law the cardinal had to be inside the Sistine Chapel 
when the vote took place. 
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-the conclave's 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 many 
days prior 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 age 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 
days, seven days a week, and died of exhaustion in an average of 6.3 years. The 
inside 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. When 
it came to pursuing the papacy, there was a Holy Trinity-Conservative. 
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 modern world 
progressing away from the 
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church, 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 Pope 
"senile," while scientific purists accused him of trying to spread the church's 
influence where it 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 actually admired 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 many of the cardinals, the camerlegno 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 doubtless faith. 
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!" 
"What can we do?" Mortati replied. "We wait. And have faith." 
Looking entirely unsatisfied with Mortati's response, the cardinal 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-foot-tall 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 something painted for a carnival wrestling booth by an 
ignorant coal heaver. 
Cardinal Mortati had to agree. 
43 
L angdon stood motionless at the Pope's bulletproof 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 
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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 like a 
weary friend than an officer. 
"For twenty-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 safety. The sanctity of 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 
below. "His Holiness once told me 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 trained for. Your instincts, though 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." 
The camerlegno looked troubled. "Are you suggesting I lock the entire College of 
Cardinals on top of a 
time bomb?" 
"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. Listen closely." Olivetti spoke now 
with the 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. 
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"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 haven, and I am confident the antimatter is not inside. There is no safer 
place those men can be right 
now. We 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 buildings or underground, 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 discuss our options with some 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 magnetic field." 
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 me, 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." 
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"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. "Searching a city of 
five 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 make him 
talk?" 
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 halfhearted 
effort of a few men in exchange for their selling our crisis to the 
global media. Exactly what our 
enemies want. We'll have to deal with the media 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 will 
love it. 
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. "The prayer of St. Francis, 
signore. Do 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 me," Olivetti said. "This is one of those things." Then he was gone. 
44 
T he central office of the British Broadcast Corporation (BBC) is in London just 
west of Piccadilly 
Circus. The switchboard phone rang, and a junior content editor picked up. 
"BBC," she said, stubbing out her Dunhill 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 Sheet. "Regarding?" 
"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 
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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 perfect science, but this caller had just passed the BBC's 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 a 
reporter'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 extension in Vatican 
City. Then, lighting 
another cigarette, she gave the anonymous caller the reporter's number. 
45 
I t won't work," Vittoria said, pacing the Pope's office. She looked up at the 
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 somewhere. 
Every 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 
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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, she told herself, you 
always have tools. But it was no use. Her thoughts intruded, strangling her. She 
was a researcher and 
problem solver. But this was a problem 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 did not 
protect him from the evils of 
Satan, what hope was there for the rest of us? Langdon's 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. 
How long has it been since someone walked on water? 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 
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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 joke. "You 
expect me 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 in the Sistine Chapel 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 camerlegno, "if there's a chance . . . 
any at all of 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 mandate. It says so in every rejection letter 
your curator ever sent me." 
The camerlegno nodded. 
"Not to be rude," Langdon urged, "but if I'm not mistaken 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. The document you have is 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." 
"I will treat your treasures with the utmost 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." 
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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 books of the Holy 
Bible. 
Langdon strode powerfully up the deserted Via della Fondamenta toward the 
archives, his mind barely able 
to accept that he was about 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 
scientists from around the 
world made 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 problem and found a solution. A 
brilliant one, 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 
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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 the next . 
. . and the next . . . a trail . . 
. eventually leading to the Illuminati lair." 
Vittoria eyed him askance. "Sounds like a treasure hunt." 
Langdon chuckled. "In a manner of speaking, it is. 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 kind of 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." 
"Dissimulacione," she said. "Nature's best defense. Try spotting a trumpet fish 
floating vertically in 
seagrass." 
"Okay," Langdon said. "The Illuminati used the same concept. They created 
markers that 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 artist-the 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 symbol of the four 
elements-four 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, 
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and waves." For Langdon, 
though, it was a more modern usage that always gave him chills-the 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 course was a marker . . . 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. The four altars of 
science." 
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 historians 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 
Illumination anymore. 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 unveiling 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. The 
brotherhood had vowed to stay 
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 
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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 walkie-talkie. 
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 message was clear. The guard 
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 into the building. They passed 
through 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." 
"You're leaving?" 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 security. You will have no difficulties." 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 
fisherman's ring, shattered the die used to make lead seals, and arranged for 
the funeral. That done, he 
began preparations for the conclave. 
Conclave, he thought. 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 obsoletemore 
of a burlesque than an election. The camerlegno knew, however, this was 
only a lack of 
understanding. Conclave was not an election. It 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. 
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As the camerlegno approached through the Loggias of Gregory XIII, he wondered if 
Cardinal Mortati was 
in a panic yet. Certainly Mortati had noticed the preferiti were missing. 
Without them, 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 
screaming, 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 promised God I would," she replied. "And a promise to God is the most 
important promise of 
all. Never 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, smelling the sweet 
scent of her flesh and listening to 
the murmur 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?" Carlo 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. 
His heaven, Carlo learned as the blinding lights were turned off, was actually 
the Intensive Care Unit in 
Santa Clara Hospital outside of Palermo. Carlo had been the sole survivor of a 
terrorist bombing that had 
collapsed 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. 
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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. Blood 
showered down. His mother's blood! The blessed Maria! 
God will watch over you and protect you forever, his mother had told him. 
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 monastery attached to the 
cathedral over which the bishop 
presided. Carlo lived and 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. 
Abandon all fear, he told himself, and give this night over to God. 
He could see the great bronze door of the Sistine Chapel now, dutifully 
protected by four Swiss Guards. 
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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 in-studio 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 more depressed by the 
minute. The imperial 
mountain of Vatican City rose before him as a dismal reminder of what men could 
accomplish when they 
put their minds to it. 
"What have I accomplished in my life?" he wondered aloud. "Nothing." 
"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 silently polishing her glasses. She was always 
polishing her glasses. 
Chinita 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. "Witnessing an exciting event." 
"Old men locked in the dark is exciting?" 
"You do know you're going to hell, don't you?" 
"Already there." 
"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 anchor already. "Thanks Gunther, great 
report." Then the anchor 
would roll his eyes and move on to the weather. "I should have tried for 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." 
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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." 
49 
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 Tomaso's reign had begun, Langdon had never met 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 
expected 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 freestanding 
racquetball courts. Langdon knew of course what the glass-walled 
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 giants, row upon row of 
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 
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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 diaphanous 
vaults. 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. As in all libraries, 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 
inefficient." 
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 a similar philosophy. 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, what's the name 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. 
"Follow me," 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 
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members using an elaborate test?" 
"The treasure hunt," Vittoria said, following closely. 
"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 where the path 
began. Rome is huge." 
"Okay." 
Langdon proceeded down the next aisle, scanning the tabs as he talked. "About 
fifteen years ago, some 
historians at the Sorbonne and I uncovered a series of Illuminati letters filled 
with references to the segno." 
"The sign. The announcement about the path and where it began." 
"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 most likely printed publications. He published many 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 moment of pride in his work. 
"Are you familiar with a 
book by Galileo called 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 persuasive 
evidence for the church's geocentric 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. 
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"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. Diagramma was Galileo's most secretive work-supposedly some 
sort of treatise on 
scientific facts he held to be true but was not allowed to share. Like some of 
Galileo's previous 
manuscripts, Diagramma was smuggled out of Rome by a friend and 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 third row of vaults 
and continued surveying 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 structural 
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 Galileo's death. 
I've been 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 how you figured out Diagramma contained the 
clue. It had something 
to do with the number you kept seeing in Illuminati letters? 503?" 
Langdon smiled. "Yes. It took some time, but I finally figured out that 503 is a 
simple code. It clearly 
points to Diagramma." 
For an instant Langdon relived his moment of unexpected revelation: August 16. 
Two years ago. He was 
standing lakeside at the wedding of the son of a colleague. Bagpipes 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?" 
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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 code. It's 
an Illuminati trick for 
concealing what was actually intended as a Roman numeral. 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, Langdon thought. Don't we all. 
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 distinguish 
between the three Galilean documents most commonly confused. 
Vittoria drew a quick breath. "Diàlogo . . . Discorsi . . . Diagramma." 
"D-one. D-two. D-three. All scientific. All controversial. 503 is DIII. 
Diagramma. The third of his books." 
Vittoria looked troubled. "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, why didn't the 
Vatican see it when they 
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. According to historic record, the segno was 
revealed in a mode the Illuminati 
called lingua pura." 
"The pure language?" 
"Yes." 
"Mathematics?" 
"That's my guess. Seems pretty obvious. Galileo was a scientist after all, and 
he was writing for scientists. 
Math would be a logical language 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 
information 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 
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overactive imaginations. The 
clergy felt, and perhaps rightly so, that the last thing 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." 
"One more question." Vittoria stopped short and looked at him like he was an 
alien. "Are you serious?" 
Langdon stopped. "What do you mean?" 
"I mean is this really your plan to save the day?" 
Langdon wasn't sure whether he saw amused pity or sheer terror in her eyes. "You 
mean 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. 
BRAHE . . . 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, frowning as she motioned to the next vault. "He's over 
here. But I hope you 
brought your reading glasses, because this entire vault is his." 
Langdon ran over. Vittoria was right. Every indictor tab in Vault 10 carried the 
same 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." 
Langdon strode to a large yellow button on the side of the vault. He pressed it, 
and a bank 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. 
The vault entrance was a single electronic revolving door. Langdon noted the 
common arrangement of four 
access buttons on the door's inner shaft, one accessible from each compartment. 
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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 most. Langdon 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 Langdon turned to watch Vittoria enter. When 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. Vittoria Vetra 
was 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?" 
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Glick turned, feeling like a child who had just 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 caller 
had been neither. This man 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 something else too," Glick said. 
"What? That Elvis Presley was just elected Pope?" 
"Dial into the BBC database, will you?" Glick's adrenaline was 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 manual search. He needed every bit of self-restraint not to 
stop and read every treasure 
he passed. The collection was staggering. The Assayer . . . The Starry Messenger 
. . . The Sunspot Letters . . 
. Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina . . . Apologia pro Galileo . . . On and 
on. 
It was Vittoria who finally struck gold near 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 
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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," Vittoria said. "Looks more like a pillowcase." 
"Follow me," he said. Holding the bag before him like a sacred offering, Langdon 
walked 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 discoveries were uncovered in the top vaults 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 grade. Inhaling 
deeply, he opened the bag. 
Fingers trembling in their cotton gloves, he reached in with his tongs. 
"Relax," Vittoria said. "It's paper, not plutonium." 
Langdon slid the tongs around the stack of documents 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 brushstrokes on the Mona Lisa. 
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. Minor 
sundering and cohesion of the papyrus. But all in all . . . in damn fine 
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condition. He studied the ornate hand 
etching of the cover, his vision blurring in the lack of humidity. Vittoria was 
silent. 
"Hand me a spatula, please." Langdon 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 the Planets," Vittoria said, translating the title. 
Langdon frowned. On any other day, he would have been fascinated to read it; 
incredibly NASA's current 
model of planetary orbits, observed through high-powered telescopes, was 
supposedly almost identical to 
Galileo's original predictions. 
"No math," Vittoria said. "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. "No math. A few dates, a few standard 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 image staring back at 
him this morning from his bay window. An aging ghost. "There's got to be 
something," he said, the hoarse 
desperation in his voice surprising him. "The segno is here somewhere. I know 
it!" 
"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 
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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 
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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 international language of science. It's all we speak at CERN." 
"But this was in the 1600s," Langdon argued. "Nobody spoke English in Italy, not 
even-" He stopped short, 
realizing what he was about to say. "Not even . . . the clergy." Langdon's 
academic mind hummed in high 
gear. "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 now made 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?" 
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"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 the table and bellowed, "Penta-meter, 
Greer! Think of home plate! 
A penta-gon! Five sides! Penta! Penta! Penta! 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! But 
the thought stuck. Five . . . 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 only line." 
"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 welldocumented 
1638 pilgrimage to Rome to "commune with enlightened men," but he had 
held meetings with 
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Galileo during the scientist's house arrest, meetings portrayed in many 
Renaissance paintings, including 
Annibale Gatti's famous Galileo and Milton, which hung even now 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 
margin. Another twist, and he 
read 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 in the 
direction of Olivetti's office. 
"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 criminal, 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 moisture. "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 lissome hand into his pocket and pulled out the folio 
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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 speaking the syllables 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 
it was a test, a map, a clue 
unveiling the four altars of science . . . 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 letting the ancient words 
resonate on their own. 
From Santi's earthly tomb, Langdon repeated in his mind. The poem was crystal 
clear 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." 
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 
famous Renaissance artists ever to live. His first name was world renowned . . . 
the child prodigy who at 
the age of twenty-five was already doing commissions for Pope Julius II, and 
when he died at only thirtyeight, 
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 
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Pantheon." 
Vittoria looked skeptical. "The Pantheon?" 
"The Raphael at the Pantheon." 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?" Vittoria 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 
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very well known when he was 
alive." 
"Surprisingly not. Single name recognition was a status symbol. 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 amazing the kind of garbage a mind 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 turned backward toward 
Langdon 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 fourhundred-
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. They've broken into 
both CERN and Vatican City. It's only by luck that we know where 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 
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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. "And we would 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 all of its statues 
in place, but part of Langdon 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. 
Langdon, when you 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. Because I am abandoning critical 
duties by being here, and 
because I have found very little that makes sense in this theory of yours about 
virgin sacrifices and ancient 
poetry, I cannot in good conscience continue. I am recalling this mission 
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 something about it. The Pantheon is a single room. 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 impossible! Can you give me 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." 
Langdon felt the tiny car shrink around him. 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 
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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. "Seven-forty, 
commander. We'll need time to 
get in position." 
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 mirror, and 
Langdon felt himself 
being measured and weighed. Finally Olivetti turned back to the guard. There was 
reluctance in his voice. 
"I'll want separate 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 making the rounds. He lay there a long 
minute listening. Then, as 
quietly as possible, he pulled himself to the edge of the 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 Concorde, three blocks from the 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 
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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, Langdon thought, chilled by the efficiency with which Olivetti had just 
told his men the cardinal was 
expendable. Asset secondary. 
"I repeat. Nonmortal 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 fossilizing. "If my 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 got a situation from the 
north point. The fountain is 
blocking our line of sight. We can't see the entrance unless we move 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 going." She opened her 
door and 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." 
"I would love to have a recon point inside, but . . ." 
"But what?" Vittoria demanded. "But I'm a woman?" 
Olivetti said nothing. 
"That had better not be what you were going to say, Commander, because you know 
damn well this is a 
good idea, and if you let some archaic macho bullshit-" 
"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 would give you away." 
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 
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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 Olivetti's belt began ringing. He 
picked it up 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 men don't work alone. My lieutenant 
has just 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." 
Vittoria glanced down at her shorts. Then 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 
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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 sometimes joked that Rocher 
was "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 Army 
trained and had endured two years of additional ausbilding in Bern before 
qualifying for the grueling 
Vatican pròva held in a secret barracks outside of Rome. Nothing in his 
training, however, had prepared 
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 the live video 
feed of the weapon in 
question. Apparently this 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 sub-three-ohm 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, Langdon and Vittoria approached 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 straight ahead. There was a strength in 
her grasp-that 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." 
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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 AGRIPPA 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 entrance to the Pantheon, four 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?" 
"Don't you trust me?" 
"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 
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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 moved toward the first recess, he 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 misaligned 
with the architecture 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? We'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 much sun worshiping going 
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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 
conversion 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 Euhemerus. The practice of 
'god-eating'-that is, Holy Communionwas 
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 organized faith is truly original. Religions are not born 
from 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 abandoned their former 
deities-pagan gods, Roman 
gods, Greek, sun, Mithraic, whatever-they asked the church what 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 cityissued 
badge. "It is my job to make your visit to Rome more interesting." 
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More interesting? Langdon was certain this particular 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, 
warning 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 felt right in her life at the moment was the presence 
of a total stranger. Robert 
Langdon. She found an inexplicable refuge in his eyes . . . like the 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 deeply as she continued 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 
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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 Raphael's tomb. 
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." 
"Robert," Vittoria whispered, trying to turn her back on the guide. "Galileo's 
Diagramma. I need to see it." 
"Diagramma?" the docent said, wheedling back in. "My! You two certainly know 
your history! 
Unfortunately that document is not viewable. It is under secret preservation in 
the Vatican Arc-" 
"Could you excuse us?" Langdon said. He was confused by Vittoria's panic. He 
took 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, my 
wife and 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 
else. Back then, the 
Pantheon had nothing at all to do with Raphael!" 
Langdon could not breathe. "But that . . . means . . ." 
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"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. 
The docent shrugged. "Not that I know of." 
"How about anyone famous at all? 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 thought he was a painter!" 
"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 that brought the 
revelation to mind, 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 . . . 
"Santi designed 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 looking for, 
it's a tomb Raphael designed for 
someone else. I can't believe I missed 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 Raphael's 
work. 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 
inching away. She 
grabbed his arm and reeled him in. "I need a tomb. 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 many. And you 
probably would mean a chapel by Raphael, not a tomb. Architects always designed 
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the chapels in 
conjunction with the tomb." 
Langdon realized the man was right. 
"Are any of Raphael's tombs or chapels considered earthly?" 
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 mean 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 demanded, immediately 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 seemed 
to be only one question left to ask. "Did Raphael design any tombs 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, exchanging looks with Vittoria. 
"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, I don't know, but certainly it is . . . shall we say 
differénte." 
"Different?" Langdon said. "How?" 
"Incoherent with the architecture. Raphael was only the architect. Some other 
sculptor did the interior 
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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 into 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 half terrified, the driver hit the accelerator, peeling 
out down the street. 
63 
G unther Glick had assumed control of the computer from Chinita Macri, who now 
stood hunched in the 
back of the cramped BBC van staring in confusion over Glick's shoulder. 
"I told you," Glick said, typing 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." 
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"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 complete, so pervasive, 
that none had better speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of 
it.' " 
"I've never heard anything about this." 
"Maybe because in 1921 you were just a kid." 
"Charming." Macri took the jab in stride. She knew her years were showing. At 
forty-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 factions within 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 men who joined the Masons for networking and 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 Illuminati 
reference 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?" 
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"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 quasihistorical 
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 Christianity," Glick said. "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 
plundering, obelisks were 
scattered across 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 quietly, feeling a sudden exposed wariness. 
"Have a look at that." 
Langdon pointed to the imposing Porta del Popolo-the high stone archway at the 
far end of the piazza. The 
vaulted structure had been overlooking the piazza for 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?" 
Langdon shook his head. "A source of Illumination 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 piazza. "So where's this damn 
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 
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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 was pinched and dark, with high walls 
on both 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 and stared down at the 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 fixture clicked. Vittoria shifted, looking suddenly 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 stormed. They had as few entrances 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 . . . 
Robert Langdon did not hear Vittoria 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. 
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"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, keeping one hand on the wall. The stone felt 
sharp on 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 Vittoria's hands 
on his 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 behind statues, inside 
niches, closets, under 
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 rose 
through the floor, supporting a vaulted roof. In the air, silt drifted lazily in 
the 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 
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was the only way . . . that was, if he 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. 
Bad news, 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 was sound, this time a rustling. 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, quickly regaining 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 movement and whispered, "If this guy's here, he 
sure as hell heard that. 
You sure you don't want to wait for Olivetti?" 
"Secondary left apse," Vittoria repeated. "Where is it?" 
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Reluctantly Langdon turned and tried to get his bearings. Cathedral terminology 
was like stage directionstotally 
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 east side of the 
basilica. As they passed the first shrouded alcove, Langdon felt taut, like a 
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, Langdon told himself, hoping he was right. It 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 slowly darkening cathedral. Night 
seemed 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 reached over her 
shoulder. As 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. "We're too late." 
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. 
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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 more incredible than any of 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 carrying 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 coming up was overwhelming. 
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 and peered deep into the darkness. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, 
he began to see faint shapes 
below. 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 
waited, forcing his pupils to 
dilate so he could see better in the dark. When he opened his eyes again, a pale 
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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 the fumes 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!" someone exclaimed 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 was circular and about twenty 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 himself not to 
turn away. 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 for the rickety 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, apparently lost. As she 
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had feared, his mystery 
caller had phoned back, this time with information. 
"Piazza del 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 frustrated comedians 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 again. "Yes, 
if I take a right . . . and then an immediate left." He began to pull out onto 
the narrow street before them. 
"Look out!" Macri yelled. She was a video technician, and her eyes were sharp. 
Fortunately, Glick was 
pretty fast too. He slammed 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 
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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 coincidentally 
endured a similar evening 
just last month. An evening of bones and flames. The New York Museum of 
Archeology's candlelight 
benefit dinner-salmon 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 long Rebecca Strauss 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. Nothing. As he drew nearer, he 
realized the man was very 
short. 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 seemed to contract around him. Emerging like a demon from the 
earthen floor was an old 
man . . . 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. 
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 
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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. The 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. 
"You are well aware," the camerlegno 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 have only God before your eyes." Then he 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 the main altar 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, 
"Christ the Lord, who will be my 
judge that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be 
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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 
everyone to hear. 
"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 
named. As was normal, the 
handwriting on each ballot was disguised by block printing or flamboyant script. 
The concealment was 
ironic in this case because the cardinals were obviously 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 tallied, Mortati declared 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 struggled up the ladder toward the light 
at the 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 it 
was too far. He lost his grip on 
the ladder and almost tumbled backward into the dark. There was a sharp pain 
under his arms, and 
suddenly Langdon was airborne, legs swinging wildly out over the chasm. 
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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 Demon's hole, choking and 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 moment, Langdon was unsure where he was. 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." Langdon sat up fully. "Olivetti's mad." 
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 minutes. Get your 
head 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 world 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 might have another 
chance to catch the killer. 
Vittoria moved closer. "I found out who the unknown Illuminati sculptor was." 
Langdon's head whipped around. "You what?" 
"Now we just need to figure out which sculpture in here is the-" 
"Wait a minute! You know who the Illuminati sculptor was?" 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 impossibility. 
Gianlorenzo 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 
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they were looking for was 
supposedly an unknown, a 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 ignotothe 
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 information compartmentalized, 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 those of Gianlorenzo Bernini. 
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. What was 
he doing carving 
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 Vittoria had 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. 
Bernini designed the Illuminati ambigrams. 
Bernini laid out the path of Illumination. 
Langdon could barely speak. Could it be that here in this tiny Chigi Chapel, the 
world-renowned 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? Certainly not an 
unknown." 
Langdon considered it. He looked at the pyramids, wondering if one of them could 
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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 moved and he 
caught a glimpse. White 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 taken with the 
pyramids and demon'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," he said, his voice almost 
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 looked uneasy. "You think this is the marker?" 
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." 
Langdon chuckled. It was true. Although both figures 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 had weapons drawn. One of them, a stiff 
older man, led a team up 
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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 of the action from the van. Glick had not argued. Now, 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 something going on here, 
but she 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, 
training on 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 sculpture of the angel inside that. Without hesitation he 
turned due west, into the 
glow of the impending sunset. Time was evaporating. 
"Southwest," he said, scowling at the shops and apartments 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. 
Still, considering the relative fame 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 they had found-inside the Chapel of 
the Earth-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. 
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"Southwest," Langdon said, panting. "The next church is southwest of here." 
Olivetti's whisper was cold. "You sure this time?" 
Langdon didn't bite. "We need a map. 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?" 
"I can't see past the damn buildings." Langdon turned and faced the square 
again. "And I don't know 
Rome's churches well enou-" He stopped. 
Vittoria looked startled. "What?" 
Langdon looked out at the piazza again. Having 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. It rose six stories, 
almost 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 ocean on fire, 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-of-the-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 
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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 something from the 
church?" 
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 the older man 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." 
Far away, at CERN, Maximilian Kohler maneuvered 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 angdon swung off the scaffolding and dropped 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 
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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 older churches . . . those that would have been 
around in the 1600s. 
"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 Square," Vittoria added, looking over 
Langdon's shoulder. "The 
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. The lofty pyramid. An odd coincidence, he 
thought. He shook it off. "The 
Vatican's monolith is not by Bernini. It was brought in by 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 the walled city, Roman 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." 
Langdon was wide-eyed. "And you know of 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 square. At the base of the monolith. 
But the 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. 
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"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 twodimensional 
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. 
"Yes! Bas-relief!" 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 West 
Wind. 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 tailed the four 
speeding Alpha Romeos 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 the back of the van finishing 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 encompassing the colonnade. They too seemed 
to evaporate into the 
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surroundings. As 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 chill as he and Vittoria moved into the 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 carrying 
the gun. He hoped Vittoria 
would not decide she needed it. He could not imagine her whipping out a 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 feet-St. 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. 
In the center of the piazza rose Caligula's 350-ton Egyptian obelisk. It 
stretched eighty-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 coaxing 
Langdon to relax along with 
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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 their flank. Macri carried her video camera 
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, he knew, had now fanned out and surrounded 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 slowed 
to a stop-not overeagerlyjust 
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 
significance of the relief went deeper still. Bernini had carved the air in five 
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distinct gusts . . . five! What 
was more, flanking the medallion 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 person has been behind us all the 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. "Not unless the Illuminati hires women with BBC 
cameras." 
When the bells of St. Peter's began their deafening clamor, both Langdon and 
Vittoria jumped. It was time. 
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 perfectly calm. 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. 
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. 
Langdon 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 
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kind enough to help this 
poor, wheezing, homeless man across the square . . . even sitting a moment on 
the stairs with the invalid 
before disappearing back into the crowd. 
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 camera felt like an anchor as she 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 man with a decidedly 
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 removed 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." 
Macri recoiled, wrapping her arms protectively around her camera. "No chance." 
One of the men pulled aside his 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 is 
property of the British 
Broadcast Corporation!" 
The men did not flinch. The one with the gun took a step toward her. "I am a 
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lieutenant with the Swiss 
Guard, and by the Holy Doctrine 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. 
Macri yelled, "I will not 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 forcibly 
grabbed 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 were two 
more coming. 
Outside the door, it sounded as if Olivetti, the camerlegno, and Captain Rocher 
were debating what to do 
next. Apparently, the antimatter search had turned up nothing so far. 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. 
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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 sitting in 
the Church of 
Illumination, 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. Captain Rocher, 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." 
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"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 circus. 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 somehow than the 
other guards-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 search, yes. However, after 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 been able to 
relocate the camera and antimatter in another public access area. It is these 
areas on which we are focusing 
our search." 
"But the intruder kidnapped four cardinals. That certainly implies deeper 
infiltration than we thought." 
"Not necessarily. We must remember that the cardinals spent much of today in the 
Vatican museums and 
St. Peter's Basilica, enjoying those areas without the crowds. It is 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 West Ponente's breath 
points due east, directly away from Vatican City." The guard traced a line with 
his finger from St. Peter's 
Square across 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 this 
line." 
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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. Peter's Square a moment. Then he scowled, stroking his 
chin. "How about fire? 
Any of them 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 
remotely close. Nothing." 
Langdon sighed. 
Vittoria's shoulders slumped. She'd thought it was a promising 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?" 
Langdon shrugged. "There's his famous sketches of 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," Vittoria said. "An index of Bernini's work. If 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." 
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"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 seemed convinced it was worth 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 word with you." His 
grasp was 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 walkie-talkie 
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 the Pope became, by law, 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 
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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 church 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 image 
behind her was a night shot of 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 Vatican 
elections 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. 
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"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 warning. The images we are about to show are exceptionally vivid 
and may not be suitable 
for all audiences." 
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 Square, moving 
through the 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 camerlegno looked confused. He turned to Olivetti. "I thought you said you 
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 
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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 do-confirm them, 
empower them. We must remain silent." 
"And these people?" The camerlegno pointed out 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 all, it will be the truth." 
"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?" 
Rocher shouted suddenly, grabbing the 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 Illuminati 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."
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Rocher went back. On screen, a prim-looking man sat at a BBC news desk. 
Superimposed over his 
shoulder was a still snapshot of an odd-looking man 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 anchorman in London was saying, "BBC 
reporter 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 medication." 
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. An overdose 
would cause massive 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 yet something else troubles me. 
No one on the outside 
knew His Holiness was taking this medication." 
There was a silence. 
"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 
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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?" 
"The victim's gums would bleed. Post mortem, 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 made no reply. He turned and stared out the window. 
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," Rocher repeated, "and our Holy Father was poisoned, 
then that has profound 
implications for our antimatter search. The alleged assassination implies 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 and report directly to me when you 
are finished." 
Rocher nodded, throwing Olivetti an uneasy glance. 
The camerlegno then singled out two guards. "I want the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick, 
in this 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 doorway, the camerlegno stopped. 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 
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demanded-not asked, 
demanded-that Sylvie stay late this evening. No explanation. 
Over the years, Sylvie had programmed herself to ignore Kohler's bizarre mood 
swings and eccentricitieshis 
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 stomach growling. Kohler had 
not yet returned, nor had he 
given her any additional work for the evening. To hell with sitting here bored 
and starving, she decided. 
She left Kohler a note and headed for the staff 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 first suite. It was packed 
with byte-heads-wild young 
computer programmers. When she saw the headlines on the TV, she gasped. 
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, holidays-and 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 minds" 
failed to 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 the divine? 
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 nanotechnology, a 
field the church 
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 
tech-investment companies 
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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 on the news. Did 
he care? 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 not even look up as Sylvie slipped in and 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 
the Vatican Grottoes. She wondered what they would find. Did the Illuminati 
murder the Pope? Did 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 reminded her of her father's corpse . . . and the 
killer's harsh laugh. The killer 
was out there somewhere. Vittoria felt the anger drowning 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 altarthe 
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 coffer surrounded 
by scores of glowing oil 
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. 
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"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 sense of contact with divinity . . . even if it is only 
imagined." 
Vittoria, as a scientist, could not argue the logic. She had read countless 
studies of the placebo effectaspirins 
curing cancer in people who believed they were using a miracle drug. 
What was faith, after all? 
"Change," the camerlegno said, "is not something we do well within Vatican City. 
Admitting our past 
faults, modernization, are things we historically eschew. His Holiness was 
trying to change that." He 
paused. "Reaching to the modern world. Searching 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 could first think. It wasn't until I was a young man, 
though, in the military, that I 
truly understood my purpose." 
Vittoria was surprised. "You were in the military?" 
"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 him perfectly behind the 
controls. Camerlegno Ventresca possessed a grit that seemed to accentuate his 
conviction rather than cloud 
it. "Did you ever fly 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 
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gratitude. "I worked under 
the bishop's tutelage for many 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 accentuating the pain on his face. "Exactly 
fifteen days 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, Langdon 
descended 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, 
and sometimes 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 own work. They ran studios where they trained young 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. 
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"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 Lion, 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 tribute to water. Langdon hoped they 
could catch 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 now, he reached down to lift the volume, 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 suggested his 
masterpiece 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 
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Ponente's breath? 
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 scientificpornographic 
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 of angel 
Bernini had selected seemed significant. 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 neatly 
at the bottom of the shelf. 
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. 
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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 Pope. When Vittoria 
recognized 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. 
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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 mind. "Someday I will ask your 
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 
men set down their 
flashlights on the floor, and their shadows leapt overhead. Lit now from 
beneath, the men advanced toward 
the tomb. Bracing 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 dug in again, and 
with an almost primal 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 and his feet 
extended out into the hallway. 
Everyone stepped back. 
Tentatively, a guard bent and retrieved his flashlight. Then he aimed it into 
the tomb. The 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 
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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 collision, 
Langdon knew he was going 
to need a hell of a lot more 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 want 
loaded weapons around with the 
camerlegno present. It made sense at the time. 
Langdon called out again, making less sound than the last time. 
Next he remembered the walkie-talkie the guard had left on the table outside the 
vault. 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, 
half-expecting 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. Langdon thought it felt a whole hell of a lot later. His mind, instead of 
coming up with a plan for 
escape, was suddenly demanding 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 his head, Langdon pulled the deepest 
breaths 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 
would need all of his strength to do this. 
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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 was hampered 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, he urged 
himself. 
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. 
Halfway to the ground, the shelf hit the stack next to it. Langdon hung on, 
throwing his 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 the far 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. 
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Langdon would have held his breath to listen, but he had none left to hold. 
One second. Two . . . 
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. The stack beneath 
Langdon collapsed to the floor. 
Like welcome rain on a desert, shards of glass tinkled downward in the dark. 
With a great sucking hiss, the 
air gushed in. 
Thirty seconds later, in the Vatican Grottoes, Vittoria was standing before a 
corpse when 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 he was bleeding. The 
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 just 
tried to kill 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 Commander Olivetti's: 
"Mr. Langdon. Do not 
speak another word." 
87 
L angdon's watch, now smeared 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. 
Vittoria hurried toward him 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 my fault," Rocher said, stepping forward, sounding contrite. "I had no 
idea you 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-" 
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"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 disappeared 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 camerlegno inhaled deeply. He had not said a word yet, and Langdon sensed a 
new rigor in the man, as 
if a turning point had been reached. 
"Commander?" The camerlegno's tone was impermeable. "I am going to break 
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'clock. If Mr. Langdon's information is correct, 
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 camerlegno nodded. "Have both he and his camerawoman 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. 
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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 somehow 
it seemed a perfectly 
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, none was ever confirmed. Until recently. Academics not long ago 
had gotten permission 
to X-ray 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 hint 
of foul play-a broken 
bone perhaps. Incredibly, the X-ray had revealed a ten-inch nail driven into the 
Pope's skull. 
Langdon now recalled a series of news clippings fellow Illuminati buffs had sent 
him 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 
media's suspicions seemed a lot less paranoid. Langdon could see the articles 
clearly in his mind . . . 
THE BRITISH BROADCASTING 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 
Marcinkus 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 don't stop there. 
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 will and testament. 
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 answered, looking confused as to who might 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?" 
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"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. "You've said enough." 
She covered the receiver, clearly annoyed. "Commander, this is the president of 
CERN. Certainly he has a 
right to-" 
"He has a right," Olivetti snapped, "to be here handling this situation. 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 entrance. I'm going in the back." He produced a 
familiar pistol and handed 
it to Langdon. "Just in case." 
Langdon frowned. It was the second time 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 map. Then 
Langdon thought of the 
mess 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 your eyes open 
and don't let yourselves be seen." He tapped the phone on his belt. "Ms. Vetra, 
let's retest our auto dial." 
Vittoria removed her phone and hit the auto dial number she and Olivetti had 
programmed at the Pantheon. 
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Olivetti's phone vibrated 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 perimeter of the square, networks jockeyed for position as they raced to 
erect the newest weapon in 
media wars-flat-screen displays. 
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 
network's coverage and corporate logo like a drive-in 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 public access areas 
so far had yielded nothing. 
"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 
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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 that went straight down. 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 mixtureethanol, 
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 developments, which could not be shared 
on-air, but the 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 sort of neoteric nuclear 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 seemed a bit rough around the edges, his 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 bomb in church . . . 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 
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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 breath. "I don't understand this 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." 
"Yes. The contradiction is pain. Man's starvation, war, sickness . . ." 
"Exactly!" Chartrand knew the camerlegno would understand. "Terrible things 
happen in this world. 
Human tragedy seems like proof that God could not possibly be both all-powerful 
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 
clergyman. "Yeah, I 
guess," Chartrand said. "Sure, 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 on the western 
corner. The 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 murders of two cardinals 
. . . satanic presence in 
Rome . . . speculation about further infiltration . . ." 
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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 modern shrine to a bygone hero, an enormous 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 spoken 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 crossed arms 
in front of 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. The panic surged to 
his legs, and he lunged forward. "Vittoria, no!" 
Vittoria, however, seemed to exist a split second ahead of him. In a motion 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. 
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"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 seemed 
confused by the sudden interruption. 
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," Langdon said, putting his 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 sounded irate. Langdon understood only parts 
of 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?" 
Vittoria looked 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 close his eyes and reopen them before his mind could take it all in. 
The church was lavish baroque . . . gilded walls and altars. Dead center of the 
sanctuary, beneath the main 
cupola, wooden pews had been 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. 
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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 almost to the point of being torn 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 motion, 
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 rear of 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 the 
floor 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 to her ear. It was still ringing. The commander had never 
answered. Suddenly, with rising 
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fear, Vittoria sensed she knew what was making 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 the dark directly behind 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 
piuòli to access the cleats. The killer had obviously used the church's ladder 
to hoist his victim. So where 
the hell is the ladder now! Langdon looked down, searching the floor around him. 
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. 
Langdon wheeled, almost falling off the pews. 
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 
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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 for his life beneath the 
pews. 
High above the chapel floor, Cardinal Guidera endured his last torturous moments 
of consciousness. As he 
looked down the length of his naked body, he saw the skin on his legs begin to 
blister and peel away. I am 
in hell, he decided. God, why hast thou forsaken me? He knew this must be hell 
because he was looking at 
the brand on his chest upside down . . . and yet, as if by the devil's magic, 
the word made perfect sense. 
92 
T hree ballotings. No Pope. 
Inside the Sistine Chapel, 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 mean only one 
thing. By law, the chapel 
door could only be unsealed for two reasons-to 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 thing that had brought him here. He had 
entirely forgotten. Bernini's 
Ecstasy of St. Teresa rose up like some sort of pornographic still life . . . 
the saint on her back, arched in 
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, 
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pounding across the front of the church to his right. As the bullets erupted 
behind him, 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 hiss of wind, like the backlash of a whip, as the 
bullet just missed him and 
exploded in the marble with a puff of dust. Blood surging, Langdon heaved his 
body the rest of the way 
beneath the casket. Scrambling across the marble floor, he pulled himself 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 beneath 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 
pinching open with a stab. Ignoring the pain, he pushed. Driving his body upward 
in an awkward push-up, 
Langdon arched his stomach off the floor just as the gun went off. He could 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. 
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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 tomb 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 was still propped partially on its 
supports. Directly overhead, 
though, Langdon found 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 beneath the edge of the coffin. He had only one arm free, and the fight 
was a losing battle. 
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, 
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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 
camera in 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 
solemn statement, live to 
the world. 
Now, speaking directly to the camera, the camerlegno stepped forward. "To the 
Illuminati," he said, his 
voice deepening, "and to those of science, let me say this." He paused. "You 
have won the war." 
The silence spread now to the deepest 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 moment. Science is 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." 
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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 camerlegno 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. 
Scientific growth is exponential. It feeds on itself like a virus. Every new 
breakthrough opens doors for new 
breakthroughs. Mankind took thousands of years to progress from the wheel to the 
car. Yet only decades 
from the 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 how to create a 
nuclear reaction, and yet 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 move on. You 
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proliferate weapons of mass 
destruction, but it is the Pope who travels the world beseeching leaders to use 
restraint. 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 more 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? The answers are one and the same. 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 compassion in a world 
spinning out of control." 
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 world really need a 
voice for the poor, the weak, the oppressed, the unborn child? Do we really need 
souls like these who, 
though imperfect, spend their lives imploring each of us to read the signposts 
of morality and not lose our 
way?" 
Mortati now realized that the camerlegno, whether consciously or not, was making 
a brilliant move. By 
showing the cardinals, he was personalizing the church. Vatican City 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 
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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. 
95 
T he Hassassin lay his unconscious trophy in the rear of the van and took a 
moment to 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 
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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. At least it might create a crack 
for some air. 
As Langdon pushed against the roof above, his sleeve 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 
fleeting glimmer of light surrounded him, and then 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 
sarcophagus had fallen flat, there 
was no room even to straighten his knees. 
As the claustrophobic panic closed in, Langdon was overcome by images 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. 
With the fetid stench and lack of oxygen choking the strength from his body, 
Langdon 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 
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panic. It was the second time 
today he had been trapped with no air. Hollering aloud, Langdon thrust upward in 
one explosive motion. 
The casket jostled off the floor for an instant. But long enough. The bone shard 
he had braced against his 
shoulder slipped outward into the widening crack. When the casket fell again, 
the bone shattered. But this 
time Langdon could see the casket was propped up. A tiny slit of light showed 
beneath the rim. 
Exhausted, Langdon collapsed. Hoping the strangling sensation in his throat 
would pass, he waited. But it 
only worsened as the seconds passed. Whatever air was coming 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 consciousness faded, and the walls squeezed closer, Langdon felt the old 
fears sweep over him. He tried 
to imagine, as he had so many times, that he was in an open field. The image he 
conjured, however, was no 
help. The nightmare that had haunted him since his 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, his eyes had been drawn 
to something 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 collision. When it came, there was no pain. Only 
softness. 
And cold. 
He hit the deep liquid face first, plunging into a narrow blackness. Spinning 
disoriented somersaults, he 
groped the sheer walls that enclosed him on all sides. Somehow, as if by 
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 depths of the chasm, 
calling, crying out. He was tormented by visions of the walls collapsing in, 
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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 later, the Boston Globe ran a front-page story 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 a mile 
away, naked 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 countless times. 
With 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 
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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, the camerlegno's voice was heavy. "Captain, 
there 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 
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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 tonight. I am trembling." 
"The electric heat is out. Let me lay you a fire." 
The camerlegno smiled tiredly. "Thank you. Thank you, very much." 
Rocher exited the Pope's office where he had left the camerlegno praying by 
firelight in front of a small 
statue of the Blessed Mother 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 stunned. He now knew 
from 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 succumbed, his head spiraling like the smoke 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 
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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 he had 
studied for years-all of these 
things had evaporated from his mind. The war was lost. A new compulsion had 
ignited within him. It was 
simple. 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 now believed it. In 
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 mustered his concentration. He prayed 
that the 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, Langdon thought. The killer had one final task. 
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 was pointing. There 
was nothing there. Langdon 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. 
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"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 dozens. "I need a city map. 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 church, in entirely the wrong direction. He 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 ran out of churches and trailed off into the 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 
markings. 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 points. There were 
supposed to be four in all. 
So where the hell is Water? Langdon knew that anywhere he placed the fourth 
point, the triangle would be 
destroyed. The only option to retain 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 possibly be 
accidental. 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. 
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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! Langdon racked his brain, picturing the 
inside of the church. He 
could think of no Bernini works at all inside, much less anything to do 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 adjacent 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 
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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 
City but heard nothing but static. He was either out of range or the transmitter 
needed some kind of 
authorization code. Langdon adjusted the complex dials and buttons to no avail. 
Abruptly, 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 statecovered 
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 made his decision. 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 
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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! 
Of course, all of that had all been at the 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, clearly 
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 right time. He'd overheard 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 his guards 
to prepare 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, squinting 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's attention, he 
had thrown 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 President George Bush? An Illuminatus?" 
Glick smiled. How much more obvious could it be? George Bush was a 
well-documented, 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, 
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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 to hide. I'm not saying everyone at CERN is Illuminati. 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 antimatter. Some 
stations were showing the CERN corporate logo as a backdrop. The logo seemed 
standard 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. 
The Illuminati significance in this logo is so obvious! 
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 point of all. 
Glick pointed out that the logo contained a large numeral "6-clearly formed by 
one of the lines and circlesand 
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 
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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. Bernini's Fountain 
of the Four Rivers 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. 
Not quite to the end, he reminded 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 whatsoever. It certainly 
contained none Langdon 
could see 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 
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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 water. The bottom 
was slippery, made 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 circled back to his left. He waded 
hard, clinging to the cover of 
the marble 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 moment he 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 trigger. The cardinal lay motionless now. 
He 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 it was only revealed 
recently. 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. 
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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 happened. The 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 had been knocked away. Diving 
deep, he groped along the 
slimy bottom. His hand gripped metal. A handful of 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 moment, 
immobilized by the sight of the 
terrified face staring up at him from the floor of the fountain. 
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 
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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 water polo defenseman 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. Marshalling the last 
of his strength, Langdon 
dolphin-kicked his legs and pulled his arms beneath him 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 feet beneath him but the 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 
maneuvers were in vain. Through 
the bubbling water, Langdon scanned the bottom, looking for the gun. Everything 
was blurred. The bubbles 
were denser here. A blinding light 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 the 
canister. It was hot. 
Langdon tried to 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. The silencer of Olivetti's gun! 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. 
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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 deflating balloon, 
Robert Langdon fell limp. It 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 media would find a double surprise in 
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 alkalb!" 
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 bound and 
waiting. The Hassassin, 
even cold and wet, felt himself 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 
comprehend her hands were tied behind her back. Her initial reaction was 
confusion. Am I dreaming? But 
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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 meeting hall. Old-fashioned 
benches sat in a circle 
nearby. 
Vittoria felt a breeze, cold now on her skin. Nearby, a set of double doors 
stood open, 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 certainly heard accounts. He had done his best. Near 
the end, he had even blown 
all the air from his lungs and stopped breathing so that his muscle mass would 
carry his body to the floor. 
Thankfully, the Hassassin had bought it and let go. 
Now, resting on the bottom of the fountain, Langdon had waited as long as he 
could wait. He was about to 
start choking. He wondered if the Hassassin was still out there. Taking an acrid 
breath from the tube, 
Langdon let go and swam across the bottom of the fountain until he found the 
smooth swell of the central 
core. Silently, he followed it upward, surfacing out of sight, in the shadows 
beneath the huge marble 
figures. 
The van was gone. 
That was all Langdon needed to see. Pulling a long breath of fresh air back into 
his lungs, he scrambled 
back toward where Cardinal Baggia had gone down. Langdon knew the man would be 
unconscious now, 
and chances of revival were slim, but he had to try. When Langdon found the 
body, he planted his feet on 
either side, reached down, and grabbed the chains wrapped around the cardinal. 
Then Langdon pulled. 
When the cardinal broke water, Langdon could see the eyes were already rolled 
upward, bulging. Not a 
good sign. There was no breath or pulse. 
Knowing he could never get the body up and over the fountain rim, Langdon lugged 
Cardinal Baggia 
through the water and into the hollow beneath the central mound of marble. Here 
the water became 
shallow, and there was an inclined ledge. Langdon dragged the naked body up onto 
the ledge as far as he 
could. Not far. 
Then he went to work. Compressing the cardinal's chain-clad chest, Langdon 
pumped the water from his 
lungs. Then he began CPR. Counting carefully. Deliberately. Resisting the 
instinct to blow too hard and too 
fast. For three minutes Langdon tried to revive the old man. After five minutes, 
Langdon knew it was over. 
Il preferito. The man who would be Pope. Lying dead before him. 
Somehow, even now, prostrate in the shadows on the semisubmerged ledge, Cardinal 
Baggia retained an 
air of quiet dignity. The water lapped softly across his chest, seeming almost 
remorseful . . . as if asking 
forgiveness for being the man's ultimate killer . . . as if trying to cleanse 
the scalded wound that bore its 
name. 
Gently, Langdon ran a hand across the man's face and closed his upturned eyes. 
As he did, he felt an 
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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 half-expected 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 somewhere on 
this gnarled mass of figures 
was a clue that 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 calmly westward. 
Langdon stared at it a moment and then plunged his hand into the fountain and 
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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 made 
the connection. He realized 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, pulling himself 
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 significance hit 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. The view was 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 famous as any in Rome. 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, a park in the shape 
of a pentagram. 
The ancient stone ramparts before him were dramatically lit by soft floodlights. 
High atop the castle stood 
the mammoth bronze angel. The angel pointed his sword downward at 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. 
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In a final breathtaking revelation, Langdon 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' 
Angelo-appeared 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 
vehicle stalled, wheezing and 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, more 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 drawbridge-type 
ingress, raised and sealed shut. 
Langdon gazed upward again. 
The only lights on the castle were exterior floods illuminating the façade. All 
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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 angel's sword, a single balcony 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? 
Across the lot a large media truck was 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 Samaritan flying in to help? 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? 
Something was odd, but Langdon didn't have time to figure out what. 
"Hey," the Aussie said, studying Langdon more 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 maybe if he could clear the 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 twohundred-
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 what he would reveal in exchange for the favor. 
Ninety seconds later, Robert Langdon was gripping the top of the satellite arm 
wavering in the breeze fifty 
feet off the ground. Leaning out, he grabbed the top of the first bulwark, 
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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 rudimentary 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. 
Langdon's eyes crossed the courtyard to the central 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? Langdon pushed on. 
He passed two modern 
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 
excitement 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 motion 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 
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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 footfalls that he had just entered a larger 
chamber. Before him in the 
murkiness, he thought he saw glimmers of light . . . fuzzy 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's headlights. The room around 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 the Church of 
Illumination . . . awaiting my return. 
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. 
When Langdon arrived in the corner, he could not believe his eyes. The granite 
block in 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 
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the castle that had no electricity . . . a section no tourists would ever see. 
The room would have been 
frightful in daylight, but the torch made it even more 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. 
Before ascending, Langdon knew he needed a weapon, 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 
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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 angel atop the castle and 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 on 
the floor. 
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. Someone was in the room. 
"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 replete with 
familiar symbology. 
Pentagram tiles. Planet frescoes. Doves. Pyramids. 
The Church of Illumination. Simple and pure. He had arrived. 
Directly in front of him, 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 smiled at the insult. "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 
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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 endless game 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. The 
chest was a pentagon. The lid 
lay open. Arranged inside in five padded compartments were five brands. The 
brands were forged of ironlarge 
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 refreshed by the game. 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 
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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 
man's grip was strong, his injured arm seeming no longer to affect him. 
Violently, the two men 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 cyclone. The Hassassin circled, smiling 
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. A sixth Illuminati brand? 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 demanded, trying 
to buy time. 
"Someday perhaps they will honor me. As I prove myself." He jabbed at Langdon, 
as if enjoying a game. 
Langdon slid backward again. He had the feeling 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. "Where is it?" 
"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 slowly . . . 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 Illuminati had wiped them all out. Langdon found 
the answer in the vacuum 
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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 tonight than 
decades of conspiracy 
theorists. 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? Langdon 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 instant, Langdon's mind 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 violent surge, he 
lunged. The spear sliced 
toward Langdon's midsection. Langdon skidded back, and the point came up short, 
catching only his shirt. 
Again the point came 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, driving Langdon back against the railing. 
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Langdon sensed nothing 
but empty space behind him as the railing hit just beneath his 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 incoming fireball. 
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 eanwhile, in St. Peter's Square, the wall of Swiss Guards yelled orders and 
fanned outward, trying to 
push the crowds back to a safer distance. It was no use. The crowd was too dense 
and seemed far 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 apparently 
looked at the tiny droplet 
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of liquid suspended in the canister and decided it was not as menacing as they 
had thought. They could also 
see the countdown clock now-a 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 heard 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. 
Langdon gave an exhausted smile and reminded her that it was she who deserved 
thanks-her ability to 
practically dislocate her shoulders had just saved them both. Vittoria wiped 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 
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clear only about a 
hundred and fifty feet back-the area directly in front of the basilica-less than 
one-third of the square. The 
shell of congestion encompassing the square was compacted now, those at the 
safer distances pressing for a 
closer look, trapping the others inside. They are too close! 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 camerlegno. A final 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. 
"Talk about an entrance," Vittoria 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 seen 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 ohler was sickened by the opulence of the Hallway of the Belvedere. The gold 
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leaf in the ceiling alone 
probably could have funded a year's worth of cancer research. Rocher 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. 
When they reached the top floor and started down the hallway toward the Pope's 
office, 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 little he cared. Death 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 had robbed him of his 
dignity. These 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 
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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 mother'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. 
By dawn, Max was barely conscious. Every muscle 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 parents to 
let him administer 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. "This will save 
your life. I have great faith in the power of medicine." 
Within minutes, 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. 
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"But our son cannot walk!" Frau Kohler was weeping. 
The priest nodded sadly. "Yes. It seems God has punished him for not having 
enough faith." 
"Mr. Kohler?" It was the Swiss Guard who had run ahead. "The camerlegno says he 
will 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 the revolver affixed beneath his chair. Nor did they 
relieve him of the other 
object . . . the 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 camerlegno said. "Have you come 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 Vittoria close at his heels. 
The tunnel inclined steeply as it left the Castle St. Angelo, proceeding upward 
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 think of no references to any sixth brand. Real or imagined. There were 
rumors of a gold bullion and 
a flawless Illuminati Diamond but never any mention of a sixth brand. 
"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 monsters! Max would never do anything to 
damage CERN's 
reputation!" 
On one count, Langdon knew CERN had taken a public beating tonight, 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 
publicity were the game, 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. " 
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'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 it. And the irony of the whole thing is that the 
Illuminati attack backfired. It 
inadvertently produced a new church leader in the camerlegno. And now Kohler is 
coming to kill him!" 
"Max is a bastard," Vittoria declared, "but he is not a murderer. 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? Ridiculous! Besides, Max Kohler would never 
have 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 moral guidance from 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 
ridiculous 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 stumbled behind him. 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." 
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"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 funding. And Maximilian Kohler was their director. 
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. Langdon's heart almost 
stopped. When they approached, however, they found the ancient lock hanging 
open. The gate swung 
freely. 
Langdon breathed a sigh of relief, realizing as he had suspected, that the 
ancient tunnel was in use. 
Recently. As in today. He now had little doubt that four terrified cardinals had 
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. 
They hit another gate, this one heavier. 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 ancient passage would 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 
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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 had overruled the decision and not informed the camerlegno. 
Chartrand had expressed 
concern, and Rocher had almost taken off his 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, he knew there was 
no one he would rather have 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 
mistake when they challenged Camerlegno Ventresca. 
At that moment, however, Chartrand's thoughts were jolted by an unexpected 
sound. A banging. It was 
coming from 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 coming 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. Chartrand hesitated. He had 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 make out the words, but he 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 door latch. The wood 
exploded, and the door swung open. 
Beyond the threshold Chartrand saw nothing but blackness. He shone his 
flashlight. The room was 
rectangular-oriental carpets, high oak shelves packed with books, a stitched 
leather couch, and a marble 
fireplace. Chartrand had heard stories of this place-three thousand ancient 
volumes side by side with 
hundreds of current magazines and periodicals, anything His Holiness requested. 
The coffee table was 
covered with journals 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 
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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. Chartrand could barely make 
out their words through 
the barricade. 
". . . 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 something on the door . . . something more 
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 were here? 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! 
Chartrand dropped his flashlight on the floor. 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 
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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 seemed paralyzed. "Max . . ." she whispered. 
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 camerlegno was being attended, and 
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 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 
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covered with blood. It belonged to Maximilian Kohler, who was reaching 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 device 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 m-media." 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, palm-held 
camcorders. The balls on this 
guy! 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 man's cause tonight. Before Chartrand saw 
Kohler's camcorder, 
Langdon slipped it into his deepest jacket pocket. Kohler's final message can 
rot in hell! 
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 at the clamorous 
masses. 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 camerlegno had 
been attacked by Maximilian 
Kohler and seriously injured. Chartrand, the American, and the woman were 
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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. Peter'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 yet 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, Langdon, Vittoria, and the two guards 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 spilled down to the piazza 
below, Langdon felt like a 
reluctant player on the world's biggest stage. Somewhere beyond the glaring 
lights, Langdon heard an 
idling helicopter and the roar of a hundred thousand voices. To 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. 
"Careful now," Chartrand urged, sounding focused 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 camerlegno and the 
table. He wondered how the moment 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 
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up this live BBC feed again. He was wrong. They took two. As if connected by 
some sort of universal 
consciousness, every last media screen in the piazza cut away from their 
countdown clocks and their 
Vatican experts and began transmitting the same picture-a jiggling action 
footage swooping up the Vatican 
stairs. Now, everywhere Langdon looked, he saw the camerlegno's limp body in a 
Technicolor close-up. 
This is wrong! Langdon thought. He wanted to run down 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 the 
marble, 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 made sense. Perfect sense. The marking's awesome power 
hit Langdon like a train. 
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 negative! 
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 pilgrimage, 
no mystical vision . . . nothing in the shrine's 2,000-year history could 
possibly match the scope and drama 
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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 moment, Langdon understood. His heart dropped like a rock. 
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! 
Below them on the stairs, Chinita Macri 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 
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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 probe 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. Then the dam broke. 
Chartrand pushed past 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, however, it felt like twice that. As the guard 
sprinted after the camerlegno, 
he wondered where the man was headed. The camerlegno was clearly in shock, 
delirious no doubt from his 
physical trauma and bearing 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 always seemed like 
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wishful delusions to him-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. 
Fifty yards ahead, in the center of the church, 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. 
Langdon arrived breathless at the rim overlooking the sunken room. He peered 
down the stairs. At the 
bottom, 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 came 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 
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called it the Catacombs. 
According to accounts from the select few clergy who had descended over the 
years, the Necropolis was a 
dark maze of subterranean crypts that could swallow a visitor whole if he lost 
his way. It was not the kind 
of place through which they wanted to be chasing the camerlegno. 
"Signore," Chartrand pleaded. "You're in shock. We need to leave this place. You 
cannot 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 to God, much less 
that he had 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 motioned down the stairs. "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 camerlegno and carry him 
off. 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." 
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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, Vittoria thought, gripping 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 misplaced step 
could 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 
world was bearing witness 
to this insanity. 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 tempest. What 
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 undergroundmuch 
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 managed 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 seaturtle 
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? 
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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 smile. "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 front of her. "As you probably know, Vittoria, 
human beings normally use a 
very small percentage of their brain power. However, if you put them in 
emotionally charged situations-like 
physical 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 passage. "You don't understand!" Vittoria 
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 was overshadowed by a 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!" 
Even as Langdon spoke the words, he could not believe them. Not only had he 
accepted the camerlegno's 
divine revelation of the antimatter's location, but he was lobbying for the 
destruction of St. Peter's 
Basilica-one of 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. 
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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 female intuition. 
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 Vatican City if the camerlegno is wrong. 
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 
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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 passages. Langdon checked his watch. 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 holes, actually," Langdon corrected. "Trust me, 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 
camerlegno gazed into the hole 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, Cardinal 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 camera angle was unsteady, but it was clear enough. The 
image was unforgettable. 
Filmed from behind, the camerlegno was kneeling in prayer on the earthen floor. 
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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 tomb 
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 canister. It was there . . . where 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 this was the most 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 numinous 
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 crowd in 
St. Peter's Square was 
like none the camerlegno had ever heard-crying, screaming, chanting, 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 almost 
ended in 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 
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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. For an instant, refulgent in his halo of 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. 
The helicopter the camerlegno had summoned to 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-jawed as the camerlegno 
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. 
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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 could 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. "He took 
it!" the guard yelled. 
The camerlegno felt his heart seize. "Who!" 
The guard pointed. "Him!" 
Robert Langdon was surprised by how heavy the canister was. He ran to the other 
side of 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 camerlegno in 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 throat when he saw the 
numbers. "Three minutes, 
Father! Three!" 
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 the open door 
assaulted 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 
amorphous glowing ellipse radiating in a sea 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 calmly, 
pulsing red in the glow 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. 
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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! Langdon thought. 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 two minutes!" 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 and gave Langdon a mournful smile. "I wish you 
had not come, my 
friend. You have made the ultimate sacrifice." 
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 pounding of the rotors had faded to a distant hum. 
It seemed, in that instant, 
that the entire world was focused upward, silenced in anticipation, necks craned 
to the heavens . . . all 
peoples, all faiths . . . 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 felt the tears begin to well. 
Behind her on the marble escarpment, 161 cardinals stared up in silent awe. Some 
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 hands. Others held their children. Time seemed to hover in 
limbo, souls suspended 
in unison. 
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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 light grew, it intensified, like a burgeoning fiend preparing to 
consume the entire sky. It raced 
downward, toward them, picking up speed. 
Blinded, the multitudes of starkly lit human faces gasped as 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. 
The faces in St. Peter's Square, one by one, averted 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 minds . . . 
antimatter's mind-boggling power . . . the 
Vatican's deliverance . . . the camerlegno . . . feats of bravery . . . miracles 
. . . selflessness. And still the 
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word echoed . . . tolling through 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 intervened and 
saved this church. Why was 
this so hard to believe? What would it say about God if God had done nothing? 
That the Almighty 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 man'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 the crowd. Everyone was pointing behind 
him, toward the front of St. 
Peter's Basilica. Their faces were white. Some fell to their knees. 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 outstretched to the world . . . stood 
Camerlegno Carlo 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 more he fought, the more the fury filtered through. 
Then, harshly, he was living it all again . . . 
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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 
right now. Langdon knew it would take less than 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 incorrectly?" the camerlegno said. 
Langdon turned, startled. The camerlegno was not 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 above his head, to the 
ceiling 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 metal 
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 pieces. Scattered 
frames 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. Forty-five seconds. He dug under seats searching for another 
parachute. Forty seconds. There 
was none! There had to be an option! Thirty-five seconds. He raced to the open 
doorway of the chopper and 
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stood in the 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 time, however, 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 . . . words he had 
spoken earlier this morning standing at CERN's free-fall tube. One square yard 
of drag will slow a falling 
body almost twenty percent. Twenty percent, 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, only bungie loops at either end for fastening 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 
seemed farther off 
than he had expected. Almost 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 the fall. He 
would be crushed when he hit the ground. 
Mathematical figures tumbled through his brain, but he was too numb to make 
sense of them . . . one 
square yard of drag . . . 20 percent reduction of speed. 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 the tarp was doing was not enough. He was 
still falling fast . . . there 
would 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 
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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 vigor, Langdon yanked down hard with his right hand 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 sinuous serpent 
of black. It was off 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 waters frothy and air-filled . . . and three times softer than 
standing water. 
Then there was impact . . . and blackness. 
It had been the thundering sound of the flapping 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 strange object that had 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 any language that could have added 
to 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. 
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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 square was 
chanting the 
camerlegno's name. 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 
multitudes of people staring 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 manifest. 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 and out. Langdon's eyes slowly began 
to 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 wearing white? Langdon decided he was either in an asylum or heaven. 
From the burning in his 
throat, 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 medicine had bred that from 
him 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 himself had hand-delivered this one to safety. The concussion 
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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? Romans often joked that Americans 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 was the man from the 
television-the American professor 
who had been helping the Vatican. Jacobus had seen Mr. Langdon, 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 looked remarkably 
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 beat aliens 
harvesting his testicles. 
"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. 
"Where are my clothes?" Langdon asked. He was wearing a paper robe. 
One of the nurses motioned to a dripping wad of shredded khaki and tweed on the 
counter. "They were 
soaked. We had to cut them off you." 
Langdon looked at his shredded Harris tweed and frowned. 
"You had some Kleenex in your pocket," the nurse said. 
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It was then that Langdon saw the ravaged shreds of parchment clinging all over 
the lining of his jacket. The 
folio from Galileo's Diagramma. 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, camcorder, 
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 
moment and then scowled, handing it to 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. One far away. Langdon recognized them 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 helicopter . . . 
Langdon's mind 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 not go to 
Vatican City with one's ass 
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 overgrown Cub 
Scout. He was wearing a 
blue paramedic's jumpsuit that zipped up the front and was adorned with 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." 
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"Ambulanza?" 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 lifetime of 
devotion, seventy-nine years, 
Mortati knew 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. "We have gone to 
the roof as you asked. 
The camerlegno 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. "Tell him . . . his cardinals await." 
"Signore, because he is a man . . ." the guard hesitated. 
"What is it?" 
"His chest . . . he is burned. Should we bind his wounds? 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 work could possibly be. 
Mortati entered the chapel. There was a riotous excitement. He closed the door. 
God help me. 
Hospital Tiberina's twin-rotor 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 make sense of what he was 
about to 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 battery-meter registered close to empty. Langdon drove without 
headlights to conserve power. 
He also preferred no one see him 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!" 
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"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 felt an inexplicable pain in his soul . . . 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!" 
129 
I n the hallway outside the Sistine Chapel, Vittoria Vetra sat benumbed on a 
bench at the foot of the 
Royal Staircase. When she saw the figure coming through the rear door, she 
wondered if she were seeing 
another spirit. He was bandaged, limping, and wearing some 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 
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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 that diabolical explosion?" 
"Me," a voice reverberated from 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. Langdon plugged the Sony 
RUVI's output into the 
television. Then he pressed PLAY. 
The television blared to life. 
The scene that materialized before the cardinals revealed the Pope's office. The 
video had 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. 
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"Try this," Kohler snapped. "About a month ago, Leonardo Vetra contacted you 
requesting an urgent 
audience with the Pope-an audience you granted because the Pope 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 secrecy. He was betraying his daughter's 
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 sources 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 seemed his 
Creation experiment, 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. 
Kohler said, "Confess your sins, Father. Now." 
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 
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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. 
Sometimes with words. Sometimes 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 chaos. Forget the fractured 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 man! Vetra was misguided. His work was not religious, 
it was sacrilegious! Man 
cannot put God's Creation in a test tube and wave it around for the world to 
see! This does not 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 camerlegno laughed sadly. "Don't you see. Confessing your sins 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 grabbed the neck of his cassock 
and violently tore it open, 
revealing his bare chest. 
Kohler jolted, obviously startled. "What are you doing!" 
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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 
Diamond. 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 closed his eyes, arched his back, and 
rammed the red hot brand 
into the center of his own chest. His flesh hissed. "Mother Mary! Blessed Mother 
. . . Behold your son!" He 
screamed out in agony. 
Kohler lurched into the frame now . . . standing awkwardly on his feet, gun 
wavering wildly before him. 
The camerlegno screamed louder, teetering in shock. 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 his guards from firing on Kohler. 
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. As they 
huddled, 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 camerlegno began to feel the fog of wonder and adrenaline dissipating. As 
the Swiss Guard helped 
him down the Royal Staircase toward the Sistine Chapel, the camerlegno heard 
singing in St. Peter's 
Square and he knew that mountains had been moved. 
Grazie Dio. 
He had prayed for strength, and God had given it to him. At moments when he had 
doubted, God had 
spoken. Yours is a Holy mission, 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 at his own flesh, 
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trying to purge his soul of the pain brought on by a vile truth he had just 
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 earthen floor before St. Peter's tomb. 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. 
The voice in his head resounded like peals of thunder. "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 madness. "I would die for man! 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? 
If not now . . . then when? 
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, he saw bewilderment 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 
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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 moment, hoping the morphine 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 the front of the 
Sistine Chapel. As he moved 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. Tell us our fears are 
wrong! 
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 millions," the camerlegno 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 
enemy? 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 
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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 understandpain 
yes, but anger? Certainly she must understand. Her father's genius 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 spiritually evolved enough for the powers he possessed. 
We have never created a 
weapon we have not used! And yet he knew that antimatter was nothing-another 
weapon in man's already 
burgeoning arsenal. Man could already destroy. Man learned to kill long ago. 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. They denounce God as a hallucination-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. This in itself is perilous! But when science heralds its 
Godless pursuits as the 
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enlightened path? Promising 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 abandon 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 would do even 
that for God, the camerlegno thought, and yet he had not. The deeds had been 
carried out by the Hassassina 
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 rebuild. Look how they flock tonight. Fear has 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 Vaultthe 
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. 
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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, agonizingto 
remind 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 profound 
silence fell. Time seemed to 
stop. Michelangelo's Last Judgment 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! But 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 
remembered 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 
Vetra's work as a gesture of 
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 destruction? The bomb that had killed his mother . . . 
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"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?" 
"It is complicated," 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 camerlegno lay curled in a ball on the dirt 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 understand . . ." 
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 camerlegno had ever believed about his mentor 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 
more? Oh, 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, screaming in his ears, 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 shock wave hit him too. Vittoria'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 nightmare, soon to wake up in a world that made 
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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 night when all the rules were going out 
the 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 story and asked only 
that I let my heart guide 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. The scandal would 
have hurt the church 
deeply." 
"But he fathered a 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. He had 
broken no 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 their covenant with God. Still, as they fell deeper in love, although 
they could resist the 
temptations of the flesh, they both found themselves longing for something they 
never expected-to 
participate in God's ultimate miracle 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 
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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 no regrets except 
one-that his advancing stature 
in the church prohibited him from being with the woman he loved and seeing his 
infant grow up." 
Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca felt the madness 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? 
Or, heaven forbid, his child? 
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 knew he had just glimpsed 
hell itself. He opened 
his mouth to speak, but his lips wavered, soundless. 
"Don't you see?" Mortati choked. "That is why His Holiness came to you in the 
hospital 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 survived . 
. . he swore to God he 
would never 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, he fell violently to his knees 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 seemed to have gripped them 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 their 
trance. 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 visage 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 
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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 could the 
people ever 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 to think and pray," another said. "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 years. His motion 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 square right now and find a 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 emerged all 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 human experience. He had poisoned the man he called "Holy 
Father," the man who 
addressed him as "my son." The camerlegno had always believed the words "father" 
and "son" were 
religious tradition, but now he knew the diabolical truth-the words had been 
literal. 
Like that fateful night weeks ago, the camerlegno now felt himself reeling madly 
through the darkness. 
It was raining the morning the Vatican staff banged on the camerlegno's door, 
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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 foreign-looking 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 darkness of St. Peter's Basilica. 
Somehow, through the insanity 
and guilt, through the images of his father, through the pain and revelation, 
even through the pull of the 
morphine . . . he had found a brilliant clarity. A 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. 
Oh, what terror he had felt in the Sistine 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 
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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 
would end. In the sacred darkness below. 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 to his sides, watching his own image. 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 emerged 
into the night air. The 
media lights and cameras were all pivoted toward the basilica. And there, having 
just stepped onto the 
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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 looked like purity 
incarnate. A figurine. Dressed 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. As 
the people flooded 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. 
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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 free of its corporeal restrains, 
a luminous pyre of flame 
erupted from the camerlegno's center. The fire shot upward, engulfing his entire 
body instantly. He did not 
scream. He 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 brighter and brighter. Then, gradually, the 
flames 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, Cardinal Mortati knelt alone before the open 
sarcophagus. 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 at the 
Pope's side. "No love is greater than that of a father for His son." Mortati 
tucked the urn out of sight 
beneath the papal robes. He knew 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 sarcophagus 
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." 
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"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 
turned to 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, "that we found no remains 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 behind 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 . . . 
CERN and George Bush among them. 
"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 official. Cardinal Saverio Mortati, a seventy-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, 
"the Vatican has yet to offer 
any statement whatsoever regarding the miraculous events of last night." 
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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 
Rocher 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 explosion in the sky over the Vatican last night, CERN's 
antimatter technology has 
become the hot topic among scientists, sparking excitement 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 
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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 
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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 
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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 
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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. 
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