Angels & Demons (27 page)

“Oldest Catholic church in Rome.”

Vittoria shook her head. “But do you really think the first cardinal could be killed at the Pantheon? That’s got to be one of the busiest tourist spots in Rome.”

Langdon shrugged. “The Illuminati said they wanted the whole world watching. Killing a cardinal at the Pantheon would certainly open some eyes.”

“But how does this guy expect to kill someone at the Pantheon and get away unnoticed? It would be impossible.”

“As impossible as kidnapping four cardinals from Vatican City? The poem is precise.”

“And you’re
certain
Raphael is buried inside the Pantheon?”

“I’ve seen his tomb many times.”

Vittoria nodded, still looking troubled. “What time is it?”

Langdon checked. “Seven-thirty.”

“Is the Pantheon far?”

“A mile maybe. We’ve got time.”

“The poem said Santi’s
earthly
tomb. Does that mean anything to you?”

Langdon hastened diagonally across the Courtyard of the Sentinel. “Earthly? Actually, there’s probably no more earthly place in Rome than the Pantheon. It got its name from the original religion practiced there—Pantheism—the worship of all gods, specifically the pagan gods of Mother Earth.”

As a student of architecture, Langdon had been amazed to learn that the dimensions of the Pantheon’s main chamber were a tribute to Gaea—the goddess of the Earth. The proportions were so exact that a giant spherical globe could fit perfectly inside the building with less than a millimeter to spare.

“Okay,” Vittoria said, sounding more convinced. “And demon’s hole?
From Santi’s earthly tomb with
demon’s hole?”

Langdon was not quite as sure about this.
“Demon’s hole
must mean the
oculus,”
he said, making a logical guess. “The famous circular opening in the Pantheon’s roof.”

“But it’s a
church,”
Vittoria said, moving effortlessly beside him. “Why would they call the opening a
demon’s
hole?”

Langdon had actually been wondering that himself. He had never heard the term “demon’s hole,” but he did recall a famous sixth-century critique of the Pantheon whose words seemed oddly appropriate now. The Venerable Bede had once written that the hole in the Pantheon’s roof had been bored by demons trying to escape the building when it was consecrated by Boniface IV.

“And why,” Vittoria added as they entered a smaller courtyard, “why would the Illuminati use the name Santi if he was really known as
Raphael?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“My dad used to say that.”

“Two possible reasons. One, the word
Raphael
has too many syllables. It would have destroyed the poem’s iambic pentameter.”

“Sounds like a stretch.”

Langdon agreed. “Okay, then maybe using ‘Santi’ was to make the clue more obscure, so only very enlightened men would recognize the reference to Raphael.”

Vittoria didn’t appear to buy this either. “I’m sure Raphael’s last name was very well known when he was alive.”

“Surprisingly not. Single name recognition was 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 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 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 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.”