7
   Maximilian Kohler, director general of CERN, was known behind his back as König–King. It was a title more of fear than reverence for the figure who ruled over his dominion from a wheelchair throne. Although few knew him personally, the horrific story of how he had been crippled was lore at CERN, and there were few there who blamed him for his bitterness… nor for his sworn dedication to pure science.
   Langdon had only been in Kohler’s presence a few moments and already sensed the director was a man who kept his distance. Langdon found himself practically jogging to keep up with Kohler’s electric wheelchair as it sped silently toward the main entrance. The wheelchair was like none Langdon had ever seen—equipped with a bank of electronics including a multiline phone, a paging system, computer screen, even a small, detachable video camera. King Kohler’s mobile command center.
   Langdon followed through a mechanical door into CERN’s voluminous main lobby.
   The Glass Cathedral, Langdon mused, gazing upward toward heaven.
   Overhead, the bluish glass roof shimmered in the afternoon sun, casting rays of geometric patterns in the air and giving 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 district—an odd perception if you consider the nationalities of men like Einstein, Galileo, and Newton.”
   Langdon was unsure how to respond. He pulled the fax from his pocket. “This man in the photograph, can you—”
   Kohler cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Please. Not here. I am taking you to him now.” He held out his hand. “Perhaps I should take that.”
   Langdon handed over the fax and fell silently into step.
   Kohler took a sharp left and entered a wide hallway 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.
   “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 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
   When 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 high-diving 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?”
   “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 plaоt!”
   Langdon looked over. An elderly white-haired man in a College Paris sweatshirt waved to him. Langdon picked up the Frisbee and expertly threw it back. The old man caught it on one finger and bounced it a few times before whipping it over his shoulder to his partner. “Merci!” he called to Langdon.
   “Congratulations,” Kohler said when Langdon finally caught up. “You just played toss with a Noble prize-winner, Georges Charpak, inventor of the multiwire proportional chamber.”
   Langdon nodded. My lucky day.

   It took Langdon and Kohler three more minutes to reach their destination—a large, 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

   “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
   The 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.


   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.”
   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 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
   The 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 well-tuned, lethal machine, which, despite his heritage, he refused to pollute with narcotics. He had developed a more nourishing addiction than drugs… a far more healthy and satisfying reward.
   Feeling a familiar anticipation swelling within him, the Hassassin moved faster down the alley. He arrived at the nondescript door and rang the bell. A view slit in the door opened, and two soft brown eyes studied him appraisingly. Then the door swung open.
   “Welcome,” the well-dressed woman said. She ushered him into an impeccably furnished sitting room where the lights were low. 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 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
   “Satanic?” 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 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 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
   In another country, a young guard sat patiently before an expansive bank of video monitors. He watched as images flashed before him—live feeds from hundreds of wireless video cameras that surveyed the sprawling complex. The images went by in an endless procession.
   An ornate hallway.
   A private office.
   An industrial-size kitchen.
   As the pictures went by, the guard fought off a daydream. He was nearing the end of his shift, and yet he was still vigilant. Service was an honor. Someday he would be granted his ultimate reward.
   As his thoughts drifted, an image before him registered alarm. Suddenly, with a reflexive jerk that startled even himself, his hand shot out and hit a button on the control panel. The picture before him froze.
   His nerves tingling, he leaned toward the screen for a closer look. The reading on the monitor told him the image was being transmitted from camera #86—a camera that was supposed to be overlooking a hallway.
   But the image before him was most definitely not a hallway.

13
   Langdon 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 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. 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
   Langdon 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 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?”
   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
   Langdon 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 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 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
   Hundreds 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 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.