107
   Robert 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 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 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 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
   In 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 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 naive.”
   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 iron—large embossing tools with stout handles of wood. Langdon had no doubt what they said.
   Illuminati, Earth, Air, Fire, Water.
   Langdon snapped his head back up, fearing the Hassassin would lunge. He did not. The killer was waiting, almost as if he were 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 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 adágio?” 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 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. 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
   Meanwhile, 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 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
   Eleven-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 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
   Kohler was sickened by the opulence of the Hallway of the Belvedere. The gold 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 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.
   “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
   All 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. “‘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.”
   “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
   Something was wrong.
   Lieutenant Chartrand stood outside the Pope’s office and sensed in the uneasy stance of the soldier standing with him that they shared the same anxiety. The private meeting they were shielding, Rocher had said, could save the Vatican from destruction. So Chartrand wondered why his protective instincts were tingling. And why was Rocher acting so strangely?
   Something definitely was awry.
   Captain Rocher stood to Chartrand’s right, staring dead ahead, his sharp gaze uncharacteristically distant. Chartrand barely recognized the captain. Rocher had not been himself in the last hour. His decisions made no sense.
   Someone should be present inside this meeting! Chartrand thought. He had heard Maximilian Kohler bolt the door after he entered. Why had Rocher permitted this?
   But there was so much more bothering Chartrand. The cardinals. The cardinals were still locked in the Sistine Chapel. This was absolute insanity. The camerlegno had wanted them evacuated fifteen minutes ago! Rocher 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 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
   The confrontation lasted only seconds.
   Camerlegno Ventresca was still screaming when Chartrand stepped past Rocher and blew open the door of the Pope’s office. The guards dashed in. Langdon and Vittoria ran in behind them.
   The scene before them was staggering.
   The chamber was lit only by candlelight and a dying fire. Kohler was near the fireplace, standing awkwardly in front of his wheelchair. He brandished a pistol, aimed at the camerlegno, who lay on the floor at his feet, writhing in agony. The camerlegno’s cassock was torn open, and his bare chest was seared black. Langdon could not make out the symbol from across the room, but a large, square brand lay on the floor near Kohler. The metal still glowed red.
   Two of the Swiss Guards acted without hesitation. They opened fire. The bullets smashed into Kohler’s chest, driving him backward. Kohler collapsed into his wheelchair, his chest gurgling blood. His gun went skittering across the floor.
   Langdon stood stunned in the doorway.
   Vittoria 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 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
   In 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 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
   It 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 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.