37
   Vittoria glared at the Swiss Guard standing outside Olivetti’s locked door. The sentinel glared back, his colorful costume belying his decidedly ominous air.
   “Che fiasco,” Vittoria thought. Held hostage by an armed man in pajamas.
   Langdon had fallen silent, and Vittoria hoped he was using that Harvard brain of his to think them out of this. She sensed, however, from the look on his face, that he was more in shock than in thought. She regretted getting him so involved.
   Vittoria’s first instinct was to pull out her cell phone and call Kohler, but she knew it was foolish. First, the guard would probably walk in and take her phone. Second, if Kohler’s episode ran its usual course, he was probably still incapacitated. Not that it mattered… Olivetti seemed unlikely to take anybody’s word on anything at the moment.
   Remember! she told herself. Remember the solution to this test!
   Remembrance was a Buddhist philosopher’s trick. Rather than asking her mind to search for a solution to a potentially impossible challenge, Vittoria asked her mind simply to remember it. The presupposition that one once knew the answer created the mindset that the answer must exist… thus eliminating the crippling conception of hopelessness. Vittoria often used the process to solve scientific quandaries… those that most people thought had no solution.
   At the moment, however, her remembrance trick was drawing a major blank. So she measured her options… her needs. She needed to warn someone. Someone at the Vatican needed to take her seriously. But who? The camerlegno? How? She was in a glass box with one exit.
   Tools, she told herself. There are always tools. Reevaluate your environment.
   Instinctively she lowered her shoulders, relaxed her eyes, and took three deep breaths into her lungs. She sensed her heart rate slow and her muscles soften. The chaotic panic in her mind dissolved. Okay, she thought, let your mind be free. What makes this situation positive? What are my assets?
   The analytical mind of Vittoria Vetra, once calmed, was a powerful force. Within seconds she realized their incarceration was actually their key to escape.
   “I’m making a phone call,” she said suddenly.
   Langdon looked up. “I was about to suggest you call Kohler, but—”
   “Not Kohler. Someone else.”
   “Who?”
   “The camerlegno.”
   Langdon looked totally lost. “You’re calling the chamberlain? How?”
   “Olivetti said the camerlegno was in the Pope’s office.”
   “Okay. You know the Pope’s private number?”
   “No. But I’m not calling on my phone.” She nodded to a high-tech phone system on Olivetti’s desk. It was riddled with speed dial buttons. “The head of security must have a direct line to the Pope’s office.”
   “He also has a weight lifter with a gun planted six feet away.”
   “And we’re locked in.”
   “I was actually aware of that.”
   “I mean the guard is locked out. This is Olivetti’s private office. I doubt anyone else has a key.”
   Langdon looked out at the guard. “This is pretty thin glass, and that’s a pretty big gun.”
   “What’s he going to do, shoot me for using the phone?”
   “Who the hell knows! This is a pretty strange place, and the way things are going—”
   “Either that,” Vittoria said, “or we can spend the next five hours and forty-eight minutes in Vatican Prison. At least we’ll have a front-row seat when the antimatter goes off.”
   Langdon paled. “But the guard will get Olivetti the second you pick up that phone. Besides, there are twenty buttons on there. And I don’t see any identification. You going to try them all and hope to get lucky?”
   “Nope,” she said, striding to the phone. “Just one.” Vittoria picked up the phone and pressed the top button. “Number one. I bet you one of those Illuminati U.S. dollars you have in your pocket that this is the Pope’s office. What else would take primary importance for a Swiss Guard commander?”
   Langdon did not have time to respond. The guard outside the door started rapping on the glass with the butt of his gun. He motioned for her to set down the phone.
   Vittoria winked at him. The guard seemed to inflate with rage.
   Langdon moved away from the door and turned back to Vittoria. “You damn well better be right, ‘cause this guy does not look amused!”
   “Damn!” she said, listening to the receiver. “A recording.”
   “Recording?” Langdon demanded. “The Pope has an answering machine?”
   “It wasn’t the Pope’s office,” Vittoria said, hanging up. “It was the damn weekly menu for the Vatican commissary.”
   Langdon offered a weak smile to the guard outside who was now glaring angrily though the glass while he hailed Olivetti on his walkie-talkie.

38
   The Vatican switchboard is located in the Ufficio di Communicazione behind the Vatican post office. It is a relatively small room containing an eight-line Corelco 141 switchboard. The office handles over 2,000 calls a day, most routed automatically to the recording information system.
   Tonight, the sole communications operator on duty sat quietly sipping a cup of caffeinated tea. He felt proud to be one of only a handful of employees still allowed inside Vatican City tonight. Of course the honor was tainted somewhat by the presence of the Swiss Guards hovering outside his door. An escort to the bathroom, the operator thought. Ah, the indignities we endure in the name of Holy Conclave.
   Fortunately, the calls this evening had been light. Or maybe it was not so fortunate, he thought. World interest in Vatican events seemed to have dwindled in the last few years. The number of press calls had thinned, and even the crazies weren’t calling as often. The press office had hoped tonight’s event would have more of a festive buzz about it. Sadly, though, despite St. Peter’s Square being filled with press trucks, the vans looked to be mostly standard Italian and Euro press. Only a handful of global cover-all networks were there… no doubt having sent their giornalisti secundari.
   The operator gripped his mug and wondered how long tonight would last. Midnight or so, he guessed. Nowadays, most insiders already knew who was favored to become Pope well before conclave convened, so the process was more of a three– or four-hour ritual than an actual election. Of course, last-minute dissension in the ranks could prolong the ceremony through dawn… or beyond. The conclave of 1831 had lasted fifty-four days. Not tonight, he told himself; rumor was this conclave would be a “smoke-watch.”
   The operator’s thoughts evaporated with the buzz of an inside line on his switchboard. He looked at the blinking red light and scratched his head. That’s odd, he thought. The zero-line. Who on the inside would be calling operator information tonight? Who is even inside?
   “Città del Vaticano, prego?” he said, picking up the phone.
   The voice on the line spoke in rapid Italian. The operator vaguely recognized the accent as that common to Swiss Guards—fluent Italian tainted by the Franco-Swiss influence. This caller, however, was most definitely not Swiss Guard.
   On hearing the woman’s voice, the operator stood suddenly, almost spilling his tea. He shot a look back down at the line. He had not been mistaken. An internal extension. The call was from the inside. There must be some mistake! he thought. A woman inside Vatican City? Tonight?
   The woman was speaking fast and furiously. The operator had spent enough years on the phones to know when he was dealing with a pazzo. This woman did not sound crazy. She was urgent but rational. Calm and efficient. He listened to her request, bewildered.
   “Il camerlegno?” the operator said, still trying to figure out where the hell the call was coming from. “I cannot possibly connect… yes, I am aware he is in the Pope’s office but… who are you again?… and you want to warn him of…” He listened, more and more unnerved. Everyone is in danger? How? And where are you calling from? “Perhaps I should contact the Swiss…” The operator stopped short. “You say you’re where? Where?”
   He listened in shock, then made a decision. “Hold, please,” he said, putting the woman on hold before she could respond. Then he called Commander Olivetti’s direct line. There is no way that woman is really–
   The line picked up instantly.
   “Per l’amore di Dio!” a familiar woman’s voice shouted at him. “Place the damn call!”
   The door of the Swiss Guards’ security center hissed open. The guards parted as Commander Olivetti entered the room like a rocket. Turning the corner to his office, Olivetti confirmed what his guard on the walkie-talkie had just told him; Vittoria Vetra was standing at his desk talking on the commander’s private telephone.
   Che coglioni che ha questa! he thought. The balls on this one!
   Livid, he strode to the door and rammed the key into the lock. He pulled open the door and demanded, “What are you doing?”
   Vittoria ignored him. “Yes,” she was saying into the phone. “And I must warn—”
   Olivetti ripped the receiver from her hand, and raised it to his ear. “Who the hell is this?”
   For the tiniest of an instant, Olivetti’s inelastic posture slumped. “Yes, camerlegno…” he said. “Correct, signore… but questions of security demand… of course not… I am holding her here for… certainly, but…” He listened. “Yes, sir,” he said finally. “I will bring them up immediately.”

39
   The Apostolic Palace is a conglomeration of buildings located near the Sistine Chapel in the northeast corner of Vatican City. With a commanding view of St. Peter’s Square, the palace houses both the Papal Apartments and the Office of the Pope.
   Vittoria and Langdon followed in silence as Commander Olivetti led them down a long rococo corridor, the muscles in his neck pulsing with rage. After climbing three sets of stairs, they entered a wide, dimly lit hallway.
   Langdon could not believe the artwork on the walls—mint-condition busts, tapestries, friezes—works worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Two-thirds of the way down the hall they passed an alabaster fountain. Olivetti turned left into an alcove and strode to one of the largest doors Langdon had ever seen.
   “Ufficio di Papa,” the commander declared, giving Vittoria an acrimonious scowl. Vittoria didn’t flinch. She reached over Olivetti and knocked loudly on the door.
   Office of the Pope, Langdon thought, having difficulty fathoming that he was standing outside one of the most sacred rooms in all of world religion.
   “Avanti!” someone called from within.
   When the door opened, Langdon had to shield his eyes. The sunlight was blinding. Slowly, the image before him came into focus.
   The Office of the Pope seemed more of a ballroom than an office. Red marble floors sprawled out in all directions to walls adorned with vivid frescoes. A colossal chandelier hung overhead, beyond which a bank of arched windows offered a stunning panorama of the sun-drenched St. Peter’s Square.
   My God, Langdon thought. This is a room with a view.
   At the far end of the hall, at a carved desk, a man sat writing furiously. “Avanti,” he called out again, setting down his pen and waving them over.
   Olivetti led the way, his gait military. “Signore,” he said apologetically. “No ho potuto—”
   The man cut him off. He stood and studied his two visitors.
   The camerlegno was nothing like the images of frail, beatific old men Langdon usually imagined roaming the Vatican. He wore no rosary beads or pendants. No heavy robes. He was dressed instead in a simple black cassock that seemed to amplify the solidity of his substantial frame. He looked to be in his late-thirties, indeed a child by Vatican standards. He had a surprisingly handsome face, a swirl of coarse brown hair, and almost radiant green eyes that shone as if they were somehow fueled by the mysteries of the universe. As the man drew nearer, though, Langdon saw in his eyes a profound exhaustion—like a soul who had been through the toughest fifteen days of his life.
   “I am Carlo Ventresca,” he said, his English perfect. “The late Pope’s camerlegno.” His voice was unpretentious and kind, with only the slightest hint of Italian inflection.
   “Vittoria Vetra,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand. “Thank you for seeing us.”
   Olivetti twitched as the camerlegno shook Vittoria’s hand.
   “This is Robert Langdon,” Vittoria said. “A religious historian from Harvard University.”
   “Padre,” Langdon said, in his best Italian accent. He bowed his head as he extended his hand.
   “No, no,” the camerlegno insisted, lifting Langdon back up. “His Holiness’s office does not make me holy. I am merely a priest—a chamberlain serving in a time of need.”
   Langdon stood upright.
   “Please,” the camerlegno said, “everyone sit.” He arranged some chairs around his desk. Langdon and Vittoria sat. Olivetti apparently preferred to stand.
   The camerlegno seated himself at the desk, folded his hands, sighed, and eyed his visitors.
   “Signore,” Olivetti said. “The woman’s attire is my fault. I—”
   “Her attire is not what concerns me,” the camerlegno replied, sounding too exhausted to be bothered. “When the Vatican operator calls me a half hour before I begin conclave to tell me a woman is calling from your private office to warn me of some sort of major security threat of which I have not been informed, that concerns me.”
   Olivetti stood rigid, his back arched like a soldier under intense inspection.
   Langdon felt hypnotized by the camerlegno’s presence. Young and wearied as he was, the priest had the air of some mythical hero—radiating charisma and authority.
   “Signore,” Olivetti said, his tone apologetic but still unyielding. “You should not concern yourself with matters of security. You have other responsibilities.”
   “I am well aware of my other responsibilities. I am also aware that as direttore intermediario, I have a responsibility for the safety and well-being of everyone at this conclave. What is going on here?”
   “I have the situation under control.”
   “Apparently not.”
   “Father,” Langdon interrupted, taking out the crumpled fax and handing it to the camerlegno, “please.”
   Commander Olivetti stepped forward, trying to intervene. “Father, please do not trouble your thoughts with—”
   The camerlegno took the fax, ignoring Olivetti for a long moment. He looked at the image of the murdered Leonardo Vetra and drew a startled breath. “What is this?”
   “That is my father,” Vittoria said, her voice wavering. “He was a priest and a man of science. He was murdered last night.”
   The camerlegno’s face softened instantly. He looked up at her. “My dear child. I’m so sorry.” He crossed himself and looked again at the fax, his eyes seeming to pool with waves of abhorrence. “Who would… and this burn on his…” The camerlegno paused, squinting closer at the image.
   “It says Illuminati,” Langdon said. “No doubt you are familiar with the name.”
   An odd look came across the camerlegno’s face. “I have heard the name, yes, but…”
   “The Illuminati murdered Leonardo Vetra so they could steal a new technology he was—”
   “Signore,” Olivetti interjected. “This is absurd. The Illuminati? This is clearly some sort of elaborate hoax.”
   The camerlegno seemed to ponder Olivetti’s words. Then he turned and contemplated Langdon so fully that Langdon felt the air leave his lungs. “Mr. Langdon, I have spent my life in the Catholic Church. I am familiar with the Illuminati lore… and the legend of the brandings. And yet I must warn you, I am a man of the present tense. Christianity has enough real enemies without resurrecting ghosts.”
   “The symbol is authentic,” Langdon said, a little too defensively he thought. He reached over and rotated the fax for the camerlegno.
   The camerlegno fell silent when he saw the symmetry.
   “Even modern computers,” Langdon added, “have been unable to forge a symmetrical ambigram of this word.”
   The camerlegno folded his hands and said nothing for a long time. “The Illuminati are dead,” he finally said. “Long ago. That is historical fact.”
   Langdon nodded. “Yesterday, I would have agreed with you.”
   “Yesterday?”
   “Before today’s chain of events. I believe the Illuminati have resurfaced to make good on an ancient pact.”
   “Forgive me. My history is rusty. What ancient pact is this?”
   Langdon took a deep breath. “The destruction of Vatican City.”
   “Destroy Vatican City?” The camerlegno looked less frightened than confused. “But that would be impossible.”
   Vittoria shook her head. “I’m afraid we have some more bad news.”

40
   “Is this true?” the camerlegno demanded, looking amazed as he turned from Vittoria to Olivetti.
   “Signore,” Olivetti assured, “I’ll admit there is some sort of device here. It is visible on one of our security monitors, but as for Ms. Vetra’s claims as to the power of this substance, I cannot possibly—”
   “Wait a minute,” the camerlegno said. “You can see this thing?”
   “Yes, signore. On wireless camera #86.”
   “Then why haven’t you recovered it?” The camerlegno’s voice echoed anger now.
   “Very difficult, signore.” Olivetti stood straight as he explained the situation.
   The camerlegno listened, and Vittoria sensed his growing concern. “Are you certain it is inside Vatican City?” the camerlegno asked. “Maybe someone took the camera out and is transmitting from somewhere else.”
   “Impossible,” Olivetti said. “Our external walls are shielded electronically to protect our internal communications. This signal can only be coming from the inside or we would not be receiving it.”
   “And I assume,” he said, “that you are now looking for this missing camera with all available resources?”
   Olivetti shook his head. “No, signore. Locating that camera could take hundreds of man hours. We have a number of other security concerns at the moment, and with all due respect to Ms. Vetra, this droplet she talks about is very small. It could not possibly be as explosive as she claims.”
   Vittoria’s patience evaporated. “That droplet is enough to level Vatican City! Did you even listen to a word I told you?”
   “Ma’am,” Olivetti said, his voice like steel, “my experience with explosives is extensive.”
   “Your experience is obsolete,” she fired back, equally tough. “Despite my attire, which I realize you find troublesome, I am a senior level physicist at the world’s most advanced subatomic research facility. I personally designed the antimatter trap that is keeping that sample from annihilating right now. And I am warning you that unless you find that canister in the next six hours, your guards will have nothing to protect for the next century but a big hole in the ground.”
   Olivetti wheeled to the camerlegno, his insect eyes flashing rage. “Signore, I cannot in good conscience allow this to go any further. Your time is being wasted by pranksters. The Illuminati? A droplet that will destroy us all?”
   “Basta,” the camerlegno declared. He spoke the word quietly and yet it seemed to echo across the chamber. Then there was silence. He continued in a whisper. “Dangerous or not, Illuminati or no Illuminati, whatever this thing is, it most certainly should not be inside Vatican City… no less on the eve of the conclave. I want it found and removed. Organize a search immediately.”
   Olivetti persisted. “Signore, even if we used all the guards to search the complex, it could take days to find this camera. Also, after speaking to Ms. Vetra, I had one of my guards consult our most advanced ballistics guide for any mention of this substance called antimatter. I found no mention of it anywhere. Nothing.”
   Pompous ass, Vittoria thought. A ballistics guide? Did you try an encyclopedia? Under A!
   Olivetti was still talking. “Signore, if you are suggesting we make a naked-eye search of the entirety of Vatican City then I must object.”
   “Commander.” The camerlegno’s voice simmered with rage. “May I remind you that when you address me, you are addressing this office. I realize you do not take my position seriously—nonetheless, by law, I am in charge. If I am not mistaken, the cardinals are now safely within the Sistine Chapel, and your security concerns are at a minimum until the conclave breaks. I do not understand why you are hesitant to look for this device. If I did not know better it would appear that you are causing this conclave intentional danger.”
   Olivetti looked scornful. “How dare you! I have served your Pope for twelve years! And the Pope before that for fourteen years! Since 1438 the Swiss Guard have—”
   The walkie-talkie on Olivetti’s belt squawked loudly, cutting him off. “Comandante?”
   Olivetti snatched it up and pressed the transmitter. “Sto ocupato! Cosa voi!”
   “Scusi,” the Swiss Guard on the radio said. “Communications here. I thought you would want to be informed that we have received a bomb threat.”
   Olivetti could not have looked less interested. “So handle it! Run the usual trace, and write it up.”
   “We did, sir, but the caller…” The guard paused. “I would not trouble you, commander, except that he mentioned the substance you just asked me to research. Antimatter.”
   Everyone in the room exchanged stunned looks.
   “He mentioned what?” Olivetti stammered.
   “Antimatter, sir. While we were trying to run a trace, I did some additional research on his claim. The information on antimatter is… well, frankly, it’s quite troubling.”
   “I thought you said the ballistics guide showed no mention of it.”
   “I found it on-line.”
   Alleluia, Vittoria thought.
   “The substance appears to be quite explosive,” the guard said. “It’s hard to imagine this information is accurate but it says here that pound for pound antimatter carries about a hundred times more payload than a nuclear warhead.”
   Olivetti slumped. It was like watching a mountain crumble. Vittoria’s feeling of triumph was erased by the look of horror on the camerlegno’s face.
   “Did you trace the call?” Olivetti stammered.
   “No luck. Cellular with heavy encryption. The SAT lines are interfused, so triangulation is out. The IF signature suggests he’s somewhere in Rome, but there’s really no way to trace him.”
   “Did he make demands?” Olivetti said, his voice quiet.
   “No, sir. Just warned us that there is antimatter hidden inside the complex. He seemed surprised I didn’t know. Asked me if I’d seen it yet. You’d asked me about antimatter, so I decided to advise you.”
   “You did the right thing,” Olivetti said. “I’ll be down in a minute. Alert me immediately if he calls back.”
   There was a moment of silence on the walkie-talkie. “The caller is still on the line, sir.”
   Olivetti looked like he’d just been electrocuted. “The line is open?”
   “Yes, sir. We’ve been trying to trace him for ten minutes, getting nothing but splayed ferreting. He must know we can’t touch him because he refuses to hang up until he speaks to the camerlegno.”
   “Patch him through,” the camerlegno commanded. “Now!”
   Olivetti wheeled. “Father, no. A trained Swiss Guard negotiator is much better suited to handle this.”
   “Now!”
   Olivetti gave the order.
   A moment later, the phone on Camerlegno Ventresca’s desk began to ring. The camerlegno rammed his finger down on the speaker-phone button. “Who in the name of God do you think you are?”

41
   The voice emanating from the camerlegno’s speaker phone was metallic and cold, laced with arrogance. Everyone in the room listened.
   Langdon tried to place the accent. Middle Eastern, perhaps?
   “I am a messenger of an ancient brotherhood,” the voice announced in an alien cadence. “A brotherhood you have wronged for centuries. I am a messenger of the Illuminati.”
   Langdon felt his muscles tighten, the last shreds of doubt withering away. For an instant he felt the familiar collision of thrill, privilege, and dead fear that he had experienced when he first saw the ambigram this morning.
   “What do you want?” the camerlegno demanded.
   “I represent men of science. Men who like yourselves are searching for the answers. Answers to man’s destiny, his purpose, his creator.”
   “Whoever you are,” the camerlegno said, “I—”
   “Silenzio. You will do better to listen. For two millennia your church has dominated the quest for truth. You have crushed your opposition with lies and prophesies of doom. You have manipulated the truth to serve your needs, murdering those whose discoveries did not serve your politics. Are you surprised you are the target of enlightened men from around the globe?”
   “Enlightened men do not resort to blackmail to further their causes.”
   “Blackmail?” The caller laughed. “This is not blackmail. We have no demands. The abolition of the Vatican is nonnegotiable. We have waited four hundred years for this day. At midnight, your city will be destroyed. There is nothing you can do.”
   Olivetti stormed toward the speaker phone. “Access to this city is impossible! You could not possibly have planted explosives in here!”
   “You speak with the ignorant devotion of a Swiss Guard. Perhaps even an officer? Surely you are aware that for centuries the Illuminati have infiltrated elitist organizations across the globe. Do you really believe the Vatican is immune?”
   Jesus, Langdon thought, they’ve got someone on the inside. It was no secret that infiltration was the Illuminati trademark of power. They had infiltrated the Masons, major banking networks, government bodies. In fact, Churchill had once told reporters that if English spies had infiltrated the Nazis to the degree the Illuminati had infiltrated English Parliament, the war would have been over in one month.
   “A transparent bluff,” Olivetti snapped. “Your influence cannot possibly extend so far.”
   “Why? Because your Swiss Guards are vigilant? Because they watch every corner of your private world? How about the Swiss Guards themselves? Are they not men? Do you truly believe they stake their lives on a fable about a man who walks on water? Ask yourself how else the canister could have entered your city. Or how four of your most precious assets could have disappeared this afternoon.”
   “Our assets?” Olivetti scowled. “What do you mean?”
   “One, two, three, four. You haven’t missed them by now?”
   “What the hell are you talk—” Olivetti stopped short, his eyes rocketing wide as though he’d just been punched in the gut.
   “Light dawns,” the caller said. “Shall I read their names?”
   “What’s going on?” the camerlegno said, looking bewildered.
   The caller laughed. “Your officer has not yet informed you? How sinful. No surprise. Such pride. I imagine the disgrace of telling you the truth… that four cardinals he had sworn to protect seem to have disappeared…”
   Olivetti erupted. “Where did you get this information!”
   “Camerlegno,” the caller gloated, “ask your commander if all your cardinals are present in the Sistine Chapel.”
   The camerlegno turned to Olivetti, his green eyes demanding an explanation.
   “Signore,” Olivetti whispered in the camerlegno’s ear, “it is true that four of our cardinals have not yet reported to the Sistine Chapel, but there is no need for alarm. Every one of them checked into the residence hall this morning, so we know they are safely inside Vatican City. You yourself had tea with them only hours ago. They are simply late for the fellowship preceding conclave. We are searching, but I’m sure they just lost track of time and are still out enjoying the grounds.”
   “Enjoying the grounds?” The calm departed from the camerlegno’s voice. “They were due in the chapel over an hour ago!”
   Langdon shot Vittoria a look of amazement. Missing cardinals? So that’s what they were looking for downstairs?
   “Our inventory,” the caller said, “you will find quite convincing. There is Cardinal Lamassé from Paris, Cardinal Guidera from Barcelona, Cardinal Ebner from Frankfurt…”
   Olivetti seemed to shrink smaller and smaller after each name was read.
   The caller paused, as though taking special pleasure in the final name. “And from Italy… Cardinal Baggia.”
   The camerlegno loosened like a tall ship that had just run sheets first into a dead calm. His frock billowed, and he collapsed in his chair. “I preferiti,” he whispered. “The four favorites… including Baggia… the most likely successor as Supreme Pontiff… how is it possible?”
   Langdon had read enough about modern papal elections to understand the look of desperation on the camerlegno’s face. Although technically any cardinal under eighty years old could become Pope, only a very few had the respect necessary to command a two-thirds majority in the ferociously partisan balloting procedure. They were known as the preferiti. And they were all gone.
   Sweat dripped from the camerlegno’s brow. “What do you intend with these men?”
   “What do you think I intend? I am a descendant of the Hassassin.”
   Langdon felt a shiver. He knew the name well. The church had made some deadly enemies through the years—the Hassassin, the Knights Templar, armies that had been either hunted by the Vatican or betrayed by them.
   “Let the cardinals go,” the camerlegno said. “Isn’t threatening to destroy the City of God enough?”
   “Forget your four cardinals. They are lost to you. Be assured their deaths will be remembered though… by millions. Every martyr’s dream. I will make them media luminaries. One by one. By midnight the Illuminati will have everyone’s attention. Why change the world if the world is not watching? Public killings have an intoxicating horror about them, don’t they? You proved that long ago… the inquisition, the torture of the Knights Templar, the Crusades.” He paused. “And of course, la purga.”
   The camerlegno was silent.
   “Do you not recall la purga?” the caller asked. “Of course not, you are a child. Priests are poor historians, anyway. Perhaps because their history shames them?”
   “La purga,” Langdon heard himself say. “Sixteen sixty-eight. The church branded four Illuminati scientists with the symbol of the cross. To purge their sins.”
   “Who is speaking?” the voice demanded, sounding more intrigued than concerned. “Who else is there?”
   Langdon felt shaky. “My name is not important,” he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. Speaking to a living Illuminatus was disorienting for him… like speaking to George Washington. “I am an academic who has studied the history of your brotherhood.”
   “Superb,” the voice replied. “I am pleased there are still those alive who remember the crimes against us.”
   “Most of us think you are dead.”
   “A misconception the brotherhood has worked hard to promote. What else do you know of la purga?”
   Langdon hesitated. What else do I know? That this whole situation is insanity, that’s what I know! “After the brandings, the scientists were murdered, and their bodies were dropped in public locations around Rome as a warning to other scientists not to join the Illuminati.”
   “Yes. So we shall do the same. Quid pro quo. Consider it symbolic retribution for our slain brothers. Your four cardinals will die, one every hour starting at eight. By midnight the whole world will be enthralled.”
   Langdon moved toward the phone. “You actually intend to brand and kill these four men?”
   “History repeats itself, does it not? Of course, we will be more elegant and bold than the church was. They killed privately, dropping bodies when no one was looking. It seems so cowardly.”
   “What are you saying?” Langdon asked. “That you are going to brand and kill these men in public?”
   “Very good. Although it depends what you consider public. I realize not many people go to church anymore.”
   Langdon did a double take. “You’re going to kill them in churches?”
   “A gesture of kindness. Enabling God to command their souls to heaven more expeditiously. It seems only right. Of course the press will enjoy it too, I imagine.”
   “You’re bluffing,” Olivetti said, the cool back in his voice. “You cannot kill a man in a church and expect to get away with it.”
   “Bluffing? We move among your Swiss Guard like ghosts, remove four of your cardinals from within your walls, plant a deadly explosive at the heart of your most sacred shrine, and you think this is a bluff? As the killings occur and the victims are found, the media will swarm. By midnight the world will know the Illuminati cause.”
   “And if we stake guards in every church?” Olivetti said.
   The caller laughed. “I fear the prolific nature of your religion will make that a trying task. Have you not counted lately? There are over four hundred Catholic churches in Rome. Cathedrals, chapels, tabernacles, abbeys, monasteries, convents, parochial schools…”
   Olivetti’s face remained hard.
   “In ninety minutes it begins,” the caller said with a note of finality. “One an hour. A mathematical progression of death. Now I must go.”
   “Wait!” Langdon demanded. “Tell me about the brands you intend to use on these men.”
   The killer sounded amused. “I suspect you know what the brands will be already. Or perhaps you are a skeptic? You will see them soon enough. Proof the ancient legends are true.”
   Langdon felt light-headed. He knew exactly what the man was claiming. Langdon pictured the brand on Leonardo Vetra’s chest. Illuminati folklore spoke of five brands in all. Four brands are left, Langdon thought, and four missing cardinals.
   “I am sworn,” the camerlegno said, “to bring a new Pope tonight. Sworn by God.”
   “Camerlegno,” the caller said, “the world does not need a new Pope. After midnight he will have nothing to rule over but a pile of rubble. The Catholic Church is finished. Your run on earth is done.”
   Silence hung.
   The camerlegno looked sincerely sad. “You are misguided. A church is more than mortar and stone. You cannot simply erase two thousand years of faith… any faith. You cannot crush faith simply by removing its earthly manifestations. The Catholic Church will continue with or without Vatican City.”
   “A noble lie. But a lie all the same. We both know the truth. Tell me, why is Vatican City a walled citadel?”
   “Men of God live in a dangerous world,” the camerlegno said.
   “How young are you? The Vatican is a fortress because the Catholic Church holds half of its equity inside its walls—rare paintings, sculpture, devalued jewels, priceless books… then there is the gold bullion and the real estate deeds inside the Vatican Bank vaults. Inside estimates put the raw value of Vatican City at 48.5 billion dollars. Quite a nest egg you’re sitting on. Tomorrow it will be ash. Liquidated assets as it were. You will be bankrupt. Not even men of cloth can work for nothing.”
   The accuracy of the statement seemed to be reflected in Olivetti’s and the camerlegno’s shell-shocked looks. Langdon wasn’t sure what was more amazing, that the Catholic Church had that kind of money, or that the Illuminati somehow knew about it.
   The camerlegno sighed heavily. “Faith, not money, is the backbone of this church.”
   “More lies,” the caller said. “Last year you spent 183 million dollars trying to support your struggling dioceses worldwide. Church attendance is at an all-time low—down forty-six percent in the last decade. Donations are half what they were only seven years ago. Fewer and fewer men are entering the seminary. Although you will not admit it, your church is dying. Consider this a chance to go out with a bang.”
   Olivetti stepped forward. He seemed less combative now, as if he now sensed the reality facing him. He looked like a man searching for an out. Any out. “And what if some of that bullion went to fund your cause?”
   “Do not insult us both.”
   “We have money.”
   “As do we. More than you can fathom.”
   Langdon flashed on the alleged Illuminati fortunes, the ancient wealth of the Bavarian stone masons, the Rothschilds, the Bilderbergers, the legendary Illuminati Diamond.
   “I preferiti,” the camerlegno said, changing the subject. His voice was pleading. “Spare them. They are old. They—”
   “They are virgin sacrifices.” The caller laughed. “Tell me, do you think they are really virgins? Will the little lambs squeal when they die? Sacrifici vergini nell’ altare di scienza.”
   The camerlegno was silent for a long time. “They are men of faith,” he finally said. “They do not fear death.”
   The caller sneered. “Leonardo Vetra was a man of faith, and yet I saw fear in his eyes last night. A fear I removed.”
   Vittoria, who had been silent, was suddenly airborne, her body taut with hatred. “Asino! He was my father!”
   A cackle echoed from the speaker. “Your father? What is this? Vetra has a daughter? You should know your father whimpered like a child at the end. Pitiful really. A pathetic man.”
   Vittoria reeled as if knocked backward by the words. Langdon reached for her, but she regained her balance and fixed her dark eyes on the phone. “I swear on my life, before this night is over, I will find you.” Her voice sharpened like a laser. “And when I do…”
   The caller laughed coarsely. “A woman of spirit. I am aroused. Perhaps before this night is over, I will find you. And when I do…”
   The words hung like a blade. Then he was gone.

42
   Cardinal Mortati was sweating now in his black robe. Not only was the Sistine Chapel starting to feel like a sauna, but conclave was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes, and there was still no word on the four missing cardinals. In their absence, the initial whispers of confusion among the other cardinals had turned to outspoken anxiety.
   Mortati could not imagine where the truant men could be. With the camerlegno perhaps? He knew the camerlegno had held the traditional private tea for the four preferiti earlier that afternoon, but that had been hours ago. Were they ill? Something they ate? Mortati doubted it. Even on the verge of death the preferiti would be here. It was once in a lifetime, usually never, that a cardinal had the chance to be elected Supreme Pontiff, and by Vatican Law the cardinal had to be inside the Sistine Chapel when the vote took place. Otherwise, he was ineligible.
   Although there were four preferiti, few cardinals had any doubt who the next Pope would be. The past fifteen days had seen a blizzard of faxes and phone calls discussing potential candidates. As was the custom, four names had been chosen as preferiti, each of them fulfilling the unspoken requisites for becoming Pope:


       Multilingual in Italian, Spanish, and English.
       No skeletons in his closet.
       Between sixty-five and eighty years old.


   As usual, one of the preferiti had risen above the others as the man the college proposed to elect. Tonight that man was Cardinal Aldo Baggia from Milan. Baggia’s untainted record of service, combined with unparalleled language skills and the ability to communicate the essence of spirituality, had made him the clear favorite.
   So where the devil is he? Mortati wondered.
   Mortati was particularly unnerved by the missing cardinals because the task of supervising this conclave had fallen to him. A week ago, the College of Cardinals had unanimously chosen Mortati for the office known as The Great Elector–the conclave’s internal master of ceremonies. Even though the camerlegno was the church’s ranking official, the camerlegno was only a priest and had little familiarity with the complex election process, so one cardinal was selected to oversee the ceremony from within the Sistine Chapel.
   Cardinals often joked that being appointed The Great Elector was the cruelest honor in Christendom. The appointment made one ineligible as a candidate during the election, and it also required one spend many days prior to conclave poring over the pages of the Universi Dominici Gregis reviewing the subtleties of conclave’s arcane rituals to ensure the election was properly administered.
   Mortati held no grudge, though. He knew he was the logical choice. Not only was he the senior cardinal, but he had also been a confidant of the late Pope, a fact that elevated his esteem. Although Mortati was technically still within the legal age window for election, he was getting a bit old to be a serious candidate. At seventy-nine years old he had crossed the unspoken threshold beyond which the college no longer trusted one’s health to withstand the rigorous schedule of the papacy. A Pope usually worked fourteen-hour days, seven days a week, and died of exhaustion in an average of 6.3 years. The inside joke was that accepting the papacy was a cardinal’s “fastest route to heaven.”
   Mortati, many believed, could have been Pope in his younger days had he not been so broad-minded. When it came to pursuing the papacy, there was a Holy Trinity—Conservative. Conservative. Conservative.
   Mortati had always found it pleasantly ironic that the late Pope, God rest his soul, had revealed himself as surprisingly liberal once he had taken office. Perhaps sensing the modern world progressing away from the church, the Pope had made overtures, softening the church’s position on the sciences, even donating money to selective scientific causes. Sadly, it had been political suicide. Conservative Catholics declared the Pope “senile,” while scientific purists accused him of trying to spread the church’s influence where it did not belong.
   “So where are they?”
   Mortati turned.
   One of the cardinals was tapping him nervously on the shoulder. “You know where they are, don’t you?”
   Mortati tried not to show too much concern. “Perhaps still with the camerlegno.”
   “At this hour? That would be highly unorthodox!” The cardinal frowned mistrustingly. “Perhaps the camerlegno lost track of time?”
   Mortati sincerely doubted it, but he said nothing. He was well aware that most cardinals did not much care for the camerlegno, feeling he was too young to serve the Pope so closely. Mortati suspected much of the cardinals’ dislike was jealousy, and Mortati actually admired the young man, secretly applauding the late Pope’s selection for chamberlain. Mortati saw only conviction when he looked in the camerlegno’s eyes, and unlike many of the cardinals, the camerlegno put church and faith before petty politics. He was truly a man of God.
   Throughout his tenure, the camerlegno’s steadfast devotion had become legendary. Many attributed it to the miraculous event in his childhood… an event that would have left a permanent impression on any man’s heart. The miracle and wonder of it, Mortati thought, often wishing his own childhood had presented an event that fostered that kind of doubtless faith.
   Unfortunately for the church, Mortati knew, the camerlegno would never become Pope in his elder years. Attaining the papacy required a certain amount of political ambition, something the young camerlegno apparently lacked; he had refused his Pope’s offers for higher clerical stations many times, saying he preferred to serve the church as a simple man.
   “What next?” The cardinal tapped Mortati, waiting.
   Mortati looked up. “I’m sorry?”
   “They’re late! What shall we do?”
   “What can we do?” Mortati replied. “We wait. And have faith.”
   Looking entirely unsatisfied with Mortati’s response, the cardinal shrunk back into the shadows.
   Mortati stood a moment, dabbing his temples and trying to clear his mind. Indeed, what shall we do? He gazed past the altar up to Michelangelo’s renowned fresco, “The Last Judgment.” The painting did nothing to soothe his anxiety. It was a horrifying, fifty-foot-tall depiction of Jesus Christ separating mankind into the righteous and sinners, casting the sinners into hell. There was flayed flesh, burning bodies, and even one of Michelangelo’s rivals sitting in hell wearing ass’s ears. Guy de Maupassant had once written that the painting looked like something painted for a carnival wrestling booth by an ignorant coal heaver.
   Cardinal Mortati had to agree.

43
   Langdon stood motionless at the Pope’s bulletproof window and gazed down at the bustle of media trailers in St. Peter’s Square. The eerie phone conversation had left him feeling turgid… distended somehow. Not himself.
   The Illuminati, like a serpent from the forgotten depths of history, had risen and wrapped themselves around an ancient foe. No demands. No negotiation. Just retribution. Demonically simple. Squeezing. A revenge 400 years in the making. It seemed that after centuries of persecution, science had bitten back.
   The camerlegno stood at his desk, staring blankly at the phone. Olivetti was the first to break the silence. “Carlo,” he said, using the camerlegno’s first name and sounding more like a weary friend than an officer. “For twenty-six years, I have sworn my life to the protection of this office. It seems tonight I am dishonored.”
   The camerlegno shook his head. “You and I serve God in different capacities, but service always brings honor.”
   “These events… I can’t imagine how… this situation…” Olivetti looked overwhelmed.
   “You realize we have only one possible course of action. I have a responsibility for the safety of the College of Cardinals.”
   “I fear that responsibility was mine, signore.”
   “Then your men will oversee the immediate evacuation.”
   “Signore?”
   “Other options can be exercised later—a search for this device, a manhunt for the missing cardinals and their captors. But first the cardinals must be taken to safety. The sanctity of human life weighs above all. Those men are the foundation of this church.”
   “You suggest we cancel conclave right now?”
   “Do I have a choice?”
   “What about your charge to bring a new Pope?”
   The young chamberlain sighed and turned to the window, his eyes drifting out onto the sprawl of Rome below. “His Holiness once told me that a Pope is a man torn between two worlds… the real world and the divine. He warned that any church that ignored reality would not survive to enjoy the divine.” His voice sounded suddenly wise for its years. “The real world is upon us tonight. We would be vain to ignore it. Pride and precedent cannot overshadow reason.”
   Olivetti nodded, looking impressed. “I have underestimated you, signore.”
   The camerlegno did not seem to hear. His gaze was distant on the window.
   “I will speak openly, signore. The real world is my world. I immerse myself in its ugliness every day such that others are unencumbered to seek something more pure. Let me advise you on the present situation. It is what I am trained for. Your instincts, though worthy… could be disastrous.”
   The camerlegno turned.
   Olivetti sighed. “The evacuation of the College of Cardinals from the Sistine Chapel is the worst possible thing you could do right now.”
   The camerlegno did not look indignant, only at a loss. “What do you suggest?”
   “Say nothing to the cardinals. Seal conclave. It will buy us time to try other options.”
   The camerlegno looked troubled. “Are you suggesting I lock the entire College of Cardinals on top of a time bomb?”
   “Yes, signore. For now. Later, if need be, we can arrange evacuation.”
   The camerlegno shook his head. “Postponing the ceremony before it starts is grounds alone for an inquiry, but after the doors are sealed nothing intervenes. Conclave procedure obligates—”
   “Real world, signore. You’re in it tonight. Listen closely.” Olivetti spoke now with the efficient rattle of a field officer. “Marching one hundred sixty-five cardinals unprepared and unprotected into Rome would be reckless. It would cause confusion and panic in some very old men, and frankly, one fatal stroke this month is enough.”
   One fatal stroke. The commander’s words recalled the headlines Langdon had read over dinner with some students in the Harvard Commons:

Pope suffers stroke.
Dies in sleep.

   “In addition,” Olivetti said, “the Sistine Chapel is a fortress. Although we don’t advertise the fact, the structure is heavily reinforced and can repel any attack short of missiles. As preparation we searched every inch of the chapel this afternoon, scanning for bugs and other surveillance equipment. The chapel is clean, a safe haven, and I am confident the antimatter is not inside. There is no safer place those men can be right now. We can always discuss emergency evacuation later if it comes to that.”
   Langdon was impressed. Olivetti’s cold, smart logic reminded him of Kohler.
   “Commander,” Vittoria said, her voice tense, “there are other concerns. Nobody has ever created this much antimatter. The blast radius, I can only estimate. Some of surrounding Rome may be in danger. If the canister is in one of your central buildings or underground, the effect outside these walls may be minimal, but if the canister is near the perimeter… in this building for example…” She glanced warily out the window at the crowd in St. Peter’s Square.
   “I am well aware of my responsibilities to the outside world,” Olivetti replied, “and it makes this situation no more grave. The protection of this sanctuary has been my sole charge for over two decades. I have no intention of allowing this weapon to detonate.”
   Camerlegno Ventresca looked up. “You think you can find it?”
   “Let me discuss our options with some of my surveillance specialists. There is a possibility, if we kill power to Vatican City, that we can eliminate the background RF and create a clean enough environment to get a reading on that canister’s magnetic field.”
   Vittoria looked surprised, and then impressed. “You want to black out Vatican City?”
   “Possibly. I don’t yet know if it’s possible, but it is one option I want to explore.”
   “The cardinals would certainly wonder what happened,” Vittoria remarked.
   Olivetti shook his head. “Conclaves are held by candlelight. The cardinals would never know. After conclave is sealed, I could pull all except a few of my perimeter guards and begin a search. A hundred men could cover a lot of ground in five hours.”
   “Four hours,” Vittoria corrected. “I need to fly the canister back to CERN. Detonation is unavoidable without recharging the batteries.”
   “There’s no way to recharge here?”
   Vittoria shook her head. “The interface is complex. I’d have brought it if I could.”
   “Four hours then,” Olivetti said, frowning. “Still time enough. Panic serves no one. Signore, you have ten minutes. Go to the chapel, seal conclave. Give my men some time to do their job. As we get closer to the critical hour, we will make the critical decisions.”
   Langdon wondered how close to “the critical hour” Olivetti would let things get.
   The camerlegno looked troubled. “But the college will ask about the preferiti… especially about Baggia… where they are.”
   “Then you will have to think of something, signore. Tell them you served the four cardinals something at tea that disagreed with them.”
   The camerlegno looked riled. “Stand on the altar of the Sistine Chapel and lie to the College of Cardinals?”
   “For their own safety. Una bugia veniale. A white lie. Your job will be to keep the peace.” Olivetti headed for the door. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to get started.”
   “Comandante,” the camerlegno urged, “we cannot simply turn our backs on missing cardinals.”
   Olivetti stopped in the doorway. “Baggia and the others are currently outside our sphere of influence. We must let them go… for the good of the whole. The military calls it triage.”
   “Don’t you mean abandonment?”
   His voice hardened. “If there were any way, signore… any way in heaven to locate those four cardinals, I would lay down my life to do it. And yet…” He pointed across the room at the window where the early evening sun glinted off an endless sea of Roman rooftops. “Searching a city of five million is not within my power. I will not waste precious time to appease my conscience in a futile exercise. I’m sorry.”
   Vittoria spoke suddenly. “But if we caught the killer, couldn’t you make him talk?”
   Olivetti frowned at her. “Soldiers cannot afford to be saints, Ms. Vetra. Believe me, I empathize with your personal incentive to catch this man.”
   “It’s not only personal,” she said. “The killer knows where the antimatter is… and the missing cardinals. If we could somehow find him…”
   “Play into their hands?” Olivetti said. “Believe me, removing all protection from Vatican City in order to stake out hundreds of churches is what the Illuminati hope we will do… wasting precious time and manpower when we should be searching… or worse yet, leaving the Vatican Bank totally unprotected. Not to mention the remaining cardinals.”
   The point hit home.
   “How about the Roman Police?” the camerlegno asked. “We could alert citywide enforcement of the crisis. Enlist their help in finding the cardinals’ captor.”
   “Another mistake,” Olivetti said. “You know how the Roman Carbonieri feel about us. We’d get a half-hearted effort of a few men in exchange for their selling our crisis to the global media. Exactly what our enemies want. We’ll have to deal with the media soon enough as it is.”
   I will make your cardinals media luminaries, Langdon thought, recalling the killer’s words. The first cardinal’s body appears at eight o’clock. Then one every hour. The press will love it.
   The camerlegno was talking again, a trace of anger in his voice. “Commander, we cannot in good conscience do nothing about the missing cardinals!”
   Olivetti looked the camerlegno dead in the eye. “The prayer of St. Francis, signore. Do you recall it?”
   The young priest spoke the single line with pain in his voice. “God, grant me strength to accept those things I cannot change.”
   “Trust me,” Olivetti said. “This is one of those things.” Then he was gone.

44
   The central office of the British Broadcast Corporation (BBC) is in London just west of Piccadilly Circus. The switchboard phone rang, and a junior content editor picked up.
   “BBC,” she said, stubbing out her Dunhill cigarette.
   The voice on the line was raspy, with a Mid-East accent. “I have a breaking story your network might be interested in.”
   The editor took out a pen and a standard Lead Sheet. “Regarding?”
   “The papal election.”
   She frowned wearily. The BBC had run a preliminary story yesterday to mediocre response. The public, it seemed, had little interest in Vatican City. “What’s the angle?”
   “Do you have a TV reporter in Rome covering the election?”
   “I believe so.”
   “I need to speak to him directly.”
   “I’m sorry, but I cannot give you that number without some idea—”
   “There is a threat to the conclave. That is all I can tell you.”
   The editor took notes. “Your name?”
   “My name is immaterial.”
   The editor was not surprised. “And you have proof of this claim?”
   “I do.”
   “I would be happy to take the information, but it is not our policy to give out our reporters’ numbers unless—”
   “I understand. I will call another network. Thank you for your time. Good-b—”
   “Just a moment,” she said. “Can you hold?”
   The editor put the caller on hold and stretched her neck. The art of screening out potential crank calls was by no means a perfect science, but this caller had just passed the BBC’s two tacit tests for authenticity of a phone source. He had refused to give his name, and he was eager to get off the phone. Hacks and glory hounds usually whined and pleaded.
   Fortunately for her, reporters lived in eternal fear of missing the big story, so they seldom chastised her for passing along the occasional delusional psychotic. Wasting five minutes of a reporter’s time was forgivable. Missing a headline was not.
   Yawning, she looked at her computer and typed in the keywords “Vatican City.” When she saw the name of the field reporter covering the papal election, she chuckled to herself. He was a new guy the BBC had just brought up from some trashy London tabloid to handle some of the BBC’s more mundane coverage. Editorial had obviously started him at the bottom rung.
   He was probably bored out of his mind, waiting all night to record his live ten-second video spot. He would most likely be grateful for a break in the monotony.
   The BBC content editor copied down the reporter’s satellite extension in Vatican City. Then, lighting another cigarette, she gave the anonymous caller the reporter’s number.

45
   “It won’t work,” Vittoria said, pacing the Pope’s office. She looked up at the camerlegno. “Even if a Swiss Guard team can filter electronic interference, they will have to be practically on top of the canister before they detect any signal. And that’s if the canister is even accessible… unenclosed by other barriers. What if it’s buried in a metal box somewhere on your grounds? Or up in a metal ventilating duct. There’s no way they’ll trace it. And what if the Swiss Guards have been infiltrated? Who’s to say the search will be clean?”
   The camerlegno looked drained. “What are you proposing, Ms. Vetra?”
   Vittoria felt flustered. Isn’t it obvious? “I am proposing, sir, that you take other precautions immediately. We can hope against all hope that the commander’s search is successful. At the same time, look out the window. Do you see those people? Those buildings across the piazza? Those media vans? The tourists? They are quite possibly within range of the blast. You need to act now.”
   The camerlegno nodded vacantly.
   Vittoria felt frustrated. Olivetti had convinced everyone there was plenty of time. But Vittoria knew if news of the Vatican predicament leaked out, the entire area could fill with onlookers in a matter of minutes. She had seen it once outside the Swiss Parliament building. During a hostage situation involving a bomb, thousands had congregated outside the building to witness the outcome. Despite police warnings that they were in danger, the crowd packed in closer and closer. Nothing captured human interest like human tragedy.
   “Signore,” Vittoria urged, “the man who killed my father is out there somewhere. Every cell in this body wants to run from here and hunt him down. But I am standing in your office… because I have a responsibility to you. To you and others. Lives are in danger, signore. Do you hear me?”
   The camerlegno did not answer.
   Vittoria could hear her own heart racing. Why couldn’t the Swiss Guard trace that damn caller? The Illuminati assassin is the key! He knows where the antimatter is… hell, he knows where the cardinals are! Catch the killer, and everything is solved.
   Vittoria sensed she was starting to come unhinged, an alien distress she recalled only faintly from childhood, the orphanage years, frustration with no tools to handle it. You have tools, she told herself, you always have tools. But it was no use. Her thoughts intruded, strangling her. She was a researcher and problem solver. But this was a problem with no solution. What data do you require? What do you want? She told herself to breathe deeply, but for the first time in her life, she could not. She was suffocating.
   Langdon’s head ached, and he felt like he was skirting the edges of rationality. He watched Vittoria and the camerlegno, but his vision was blurred by hideous images: explosions, press swarming, cameras rolling, four branded humans.
   Shaitan… Lucifer… Bringer of light… Satan…
   He shook the fiendish images from his mind. Calculated terrorism, he reminded himself, grasping at reality. Planned chaos. He thought back to a Radcliffe seminar he had once audited while researching praetorian symbolism. He had never seen terrorists the same way since.
   “Terrorism,” the professor had lectured, “has a singular goal. What is it?”
   “Killing innocent people?” a student ventured.
   “Incorrect. Death is only a byproduct of terrorism.”
   “A show of strength?”
   “No. A weaker persuasion does not exist.”
   “To cause terror?”
   “Concisely put. Quite simply, the goal of terrorism is to create terror and fear. Fear undermines faith in the establishment. It weakens the enemy from within… causing unrest in the masses. Write this down. Terrorism is not an expression of rage. Terrorism is a political weapon. Remove a government’s façade of infallibility, and you remove its people’s faith.”
   Loss of faith…
   Is that what this was all about? Langdon wondered how Christians of the world would react to cardinals being laid out like mutilated dogs. If the faith of a canonized priest did not protect him from the evils of Satan, what hope was there for the rest of us? Langdon’s head was pounding louder now… tiny voices playing tug of war.
   Faith does not protect you. Medicine and airbags… those are things that protect you. God does not protect you. Intelligence protects you. Enlightenment. Put your faith in something with tangible results. How long has it been since someone walked on water? Modern miracles belong to science… computers, vaccines, space stations… even the divine miracle of creation. Matter from nothing… in a lab. Who needs God? No! Science is God.
   The killer’s voice resonated in Langdon’s mind. Midnight… mathematical progression of death… sacrifici vergini nell’ altare di scienza.”
   Then suddenly, like a crowd dispersed by a single gunshot, the voices were gone.
   Robert Langdon bolted to his feet. His chair fell backward and crashed on the marble floor.
   Vittoria and the camerlegno jumped.
   “I missed it,” Langdon whispered, spellbound. “It was right in front of me…”
   “Missed what?” Vittoria demanded.
   Langdon turned to the priest. “Father, for three years I have petitioned this office for access to the Vatican Archives. I have been denied seven times.”
   “Mr. Langdon, I am sorry, but this hardly seems the moment to raise such complaints.”
   “I need access immediately. The four missing cardinals. I may be able to figure out where they’re going to be killed.”
   Vittoria stared, looking certain she had misunderstood.
   The camerlegno looked troubled, as if he were the brunt of a cruel joke. “You expect me to believe this information is in our archives?”
   “I can’t promise I can locate it in time, but if you let me in…”
   “Mr. Langdon, I am due in the Sistine Chapel in four minutes. The archives are across Vatican City.”
   “You’re serious aren’t you?” Vittoria interrupted, staring deep into Langdon’s eyes, seeming to sense his earnestness.
   “Hardly a joking time,” Langdon said.
   “Father,” Vittoria said, turning to the camerlegno, “if there’s a chance… any at all of finding where these killings are going to happen, we could stake out the locations and—”
   “But the archives?” the camerlegno insisted. “How could they possibly contain any clue?”
   “Explaining it,” Langdon said, “will take longer than you’ve got. But if I’m right, we can use the information to catch the Hassassin.”
   The camerlegno looked as though he wanted to believe but somehow could not. “Christianity’s most sacred codices are in that archive. Treasures I myself am not privileged enough to see.”
   “I am aware of that.”
   “Access is permitted only by written decree of the curator and the Board of Vatican Librarians.”
   “Or,” Langdon declared, “by papal mandate. It says so in every rejection letter your curator ever sent me.”
   The camerlegno nodded.
   “Not to be rude,” Langdon urged, “but if I’m not mistaken a papal mandate comes from this office. As far as I can tell, tonight you hold the trust of his station. Considering the circumstances…”
   The camerlegno pulled a pocket watch from his cassock and looked at it. “Mr. Langdon, I am prepared to give my life tonight, quite literally, to save this church.”
   Langdon sensed nothing but truth in the man’s eyes.
   “This document,” the camerlegno said, “do you truly believe it is here? And that it can help us locate these four churches?”
   “I would not have made countless solicitations for access if I were not convinced. Italy is a bit far to come on a lark when you make a teacher’s salary. The document you have is an ancient—”
   “Please,” the camerlegno interrupted. “Forgive me. My mind cannot process any more details at the moment. Do you know where the secret archives are located?”
   Langdon felt a rush of excitement. “Just behind the Santa Ana Gate.”
   “Impressive. Most scholars believe it is through the secret door behind St. Peter’s Throne.”
   “No. That would be the Archivio della Reverenda di Fabbrica di S. Pietro. A common misconception.”
   “A librarian docent accompanies every entrant at all times. Tonight, the docents are gone. What you are requesting is carte blanche access. Not even our cardinals enter alone.”
   “I will treat your treasures with the utmost respect and care. Your librarians will find not a trace that I was there.”
   Overhead the bells of St. Peter’s began to toll. The camerlegno checked his pocket watch. “I must go.” He paused a taut moment and looked up at Langdon. “I will have a Swiss Guard meet you at the archives. I am giving you my trust, Mr. Langdon. Go now.”
   Langdon was speechless.
   The young priest now seemed to possess an eerie poise. Reaching over, he squeezed Langdon’s shoulder with surprising strength. “I want you to find what you are looking for. And find it quickly.”

46
   The Secret Vatican Archives are located at the far end of the Borgia Courtyard directly up a hill from the Gate of Santa Ana. They contain over 20,000 volumes and are rumored to hold such treasures as Leonardo da Vinci’s missing diaries and even unpublished books of the Holy Bible.
   Langdon strode powerfully up the deserted Via della Fondamenta toward the archives, his mind barely able to accept that he was about to be granted access. Vittoria was at his side, keeping pace effortlessly. Her almond-scented hair tossed lightly in the breeze, and Langdon breathed it in. He felt his thoughts straying and reeled himself back.
   Vittoria said, “You going to tell me what we’re looking for?”
   “A little book written by a guy named Galileo.”
   She sounded surprised. “You don’t mess around. What’s in it?”
   “It is supposed to contain something called il segno.”
   “The sign?”
   “Sign, clue, signal… depends on your translation.”
   “Sign to what?”
   Langdon picked up the pace. “A secret location. Galileo’s Illuminati needed to protect themselves from the Vatican, so they founded an ultrasecret Illuminati meeting place here in Rome. They called it The Church of Illumination.”
   “Pretty bold calling a satanic lair a church.”
   Langdon shook his head. “Galileo’s Illuminati were not the least bit satanic. They were scientists who revered enlightenment. Their meeting place was simply where they could safely congregate and discuss topics forbidden by the Vatican. Although we know the secret lair existed, to this day nobody has ever located it.”
   “Sounds like the Illuminati know how to keep a secret.”
   “Absolutely. In fact, they never revealed the location of their hideaway to anyone outside the brotherhood. This secrecy protected them, but it also posed a problem when it came to recruiting new members.”
   “They couldn’t grow if they couldn’t advertise,” Vittoria said, her legs and mind keeping perfect pace.
   “Exactly. Word of Galileo’s brotherhood started to spread in the 1630s, and scientists from around the world made secret pilgrimages to Rome hoping to join the Illuminati… eager for a chance to look through Galileo’s telescope and hear the master’s ideas. Unfortunately, though, because of the Illuminati’s secrecy, scientists arriving in Rome never knew where to go for the meetings or to whom they could safely speak. The Illuminati wanted new blood, but they could not afford to risk their secrecy by making their whereabouts known.”
   Vittoria frowned. “Sounds like a situazione senza soluzione.”
   “Exactly. A catch-22, as we would say.”
   “So what did they do?”
   “They were scientists. They examined the problem and found a solution. A brilliant one, actually. The Illuminati created a kind of ingenious map directing scientists to their sanctuary.”
   Vittoria looked suddenly skeptical and slowed. “A map? Sounds careless. If a copy fell into the wrong hands…”
   “It couldn’t,” Langdon said. “No copies existed anywhere. It was not the kind of map that fit on paper. It was enormous. A blazed trail of sorts across the city.”
   Vittoria slowed even further. “Arrows painted on sidewalks?”
   “In a sense, yes, but much more subtle. The map consisted of a series of carefully concealed symbolic markers placed in public locations around the city. One marker led to the next… and the next… a trail… eventually leading to the Illuminati lair.”
   Vittoria eyed him askance. “Sounds like a treasure hunt.”
   Langdon chuckled. “In a manner of speaking, it is. The Illuminati called their string of markers ‘The Path of Illumination,’ and anyone who wanted to join the brotherhood had to follow it all the way to the end. A kind of test.”
   “But if the Vatican wanted to find the Illuminati,” Vittoria argued, “couldn’t they simply follow the markers?”
   “No. The path was hidden. A puzzle, constructed in such a way that only certain people would have the ability to track the markers and figure out where the Illuminati church was hidden. The Illuminati intended it as a kind of initiation, functioning not only as a security measure but also as a screening process to ensure that only the brightest scientists arrived at their door.”
   “I don’t buy it. In the 1600s the clergy were some of the most educated men in the world. If these markers were in public locations, certainly there existed members of the Vatican who could have figured it out.”
   “Sure,” Langdon said, “if they had known about the markers. But they didn’t. And they never noticed them because the Illuminati designed them in such a way that clerics would never suspect what they were. They used a method known in symbology as dissimulation.”
   “Camouflage.”
   Langdon was impressed. “You know the term.”
   “Dissimulacione,” she said. “Nature’s best defense. Try spotting a trumpet fish floating vertically in seagrass.”
   “Okay,” Langdon said. “The Illuminati used the same concept. They created markers that faded into the backdrop of ancient Rome. They couldn’t use ambigrams or scientific symbology because it would be far too conspicuous, so they called on an Illuminati artist—the same anonymous prodigy who had created their ambigrammatic symbol ‘Illuminati’—and they commissioned him to carve four sculptures.”
   “Illuminati sculptures?”
   “Yes, sculptures with two strict guidelines. First, the sculptures had to look like the rest of the artwork in Rome… artwork that the Vatican would never suspect belonged to the Illuminati.”
   “Religious art.”
   Langdon nodded, feeling a tinge of excitement, talking faster now. “And the second guideline was that the four sculptures had to have very specific themes. Each piece needed to be a subtle tribute to one of the four elements of science.”
   “Four elements?” Vittoria said. “There are over a hundred.”
   “Not in the 1600s,” Langdon reminded her. “Early alchemists believed the entire universe was made up of only four substances: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water.”
   The early cross, Langdon knew, was the most common symbol of the four elements—four arms representing Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Beyond that, though, there existed literally dozens of symbolic occurrences of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water throughout history—the Pythagorean cycles of life, the Chinese Hong-Fan, the Jungian male and female rudiments, the quadrants of the Zodiac, even the Muslims revered the four ancient elements… although in Islam they were known as “squares, clouds, lightning, and waves.” For Langdon, though, it was a more modern usage that always gave him chills—the Mason’s four mystic grades of Absolute Initiation: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water.
   Vittoria seemed mystified. “So this Illuminati artist created four pieces of art that looked religious, but were actually tributes to Earth, Air, Fire, and Water?”
   “Exactly,” Langdon said, quickly turning up Via Sentinel toward the archives. “The pieces blended into the sea of religious artwork all over Rome. By donating the artwork anonymously to specific churches and then using their political influence, the brotherhood facilitated placement of these four pieces in carefully chosen churches in Rome. Each piece of course was a marker… subtly pointing to the next church… where the next marker awaited. It functioned as a trail of clues disguised as religious art. If an Illuminati candidate could find the first church and the marker for Earth, he could follow it to Air… and then to Fire… and then to Water… and finally to the Church of Illumination.”
   Vittoria was looking less and less clear. “And this has something to do with catching the Illuminati assassin?”
   Langdon smiled as he played his ace. “Oh, yes. The Illuminati called these four churches by a very special name. The Altars of Science.”
   Vittoria frowned. “I’m sorry, that means noth—” She stopped short. “L’altare di scienza?” she exclaimed. “The Illuminati assassin. He warned that the cardinals would be virgin sacrifices on the altars of science!”
   Langdon gave her a smile. “Four cardinals. Four churches. The four altars of science.”
   She looked stunned. “You’re saying the four churches where the cardinals will be sacrificed are the same four churches that mark the ancient Path of Illumination?”
   “I believe so, yes.”
   “But why would the killer have given us that clue?”
   “Why not?” Langdon replied. “Very few historians know about these sculptures. Even fewer believe they exist. And their locations have remained secret for four hundred years. No doubt the Illuminati trusted the secret for another five hours. Besides, the Illuminati don’t need their Path of Illumination anymore. Their secret lair is probably long gone anyway. They live in the modern world. They meet in bank boardrooms, eating clubs, private golf courses. Tonight they want to make their secrets public. This is their moment. Their grand unveiling.”
   Langdon feared the Illuminati unveiling would have a special symmetry to it that he had not yet mentioned. The four brands. The killer had sworn each cardinal would be branded with a different symbol. Proof the ancient legends are true, the killer had said. The legend of the four ambigrammatic brands was as old as the Illuminati itself: earth, air, fire, water—four words crafted in perfect symmetry. Just like the word Illuminati. Each cardinal was to be branded with one of the ancient elements of science. The rumor that the four brands were in English rather than Italian remained a point of debate among historians. English seemed a random deviation from their natural tongue… and the Illuminati did nothing randomly.
   Langdon turned up the brick pathway before the archive building. Ghastly images thrashed in his mind. The overall Illuminati plot was starting to reveal its patient grandeur. The brotherhood had vowed to stay silent as long as it took, amassing enough influence and power that they could resurface without fear, make their stand, fight their cause in broad daylight. The Illuminati were no longer about hiding. They were about flaunting their power, confirming the conspiratorial myths as fact. Tonight was a global publicity stunt.
   Vittoria said, “Here comes our escort.” Langdon looked up to see a Swiss Guard hurrying across an adjacent lawn toward the front door.
   When the guard saw them, he stopped in his tracks. He stared at them, as though he thought he was hallucinating. Without a word he turned away and pulled out his walkie-talkie. Apparently incredulous at what he was being asked to do, the guard spoke urgently to the person on the other end. The angry bark coming back was indecipherable to Langdon, but its message was clear. The guard slumped, put away the walkie-talkie, and turned to them with a look of discontent.
   Not a word was spoken as the guard guided them into the building. They passed through four steel doors, two passkey entries, down a long stairwell, and into a foyer with two combination keypads. Passing through a high-tech series of electronic gates, they arrived at the end of a long hallway outside a set of wide oak double doors. The guard stopped, looked them over again and, mumbling under his breath, walked to a metal box on the wall. He unlocked it, reached inside, and pressed a code. The doors before them buzzed, and the deadbolt fell open.
   The guard turned, speaking to them for the first time. “The archives are beyond that door. I have been instructed to escort you this far and return for briefing on another matter.”
   “You’re leaving?” Vittoria demanded.
   “Swiss Guards are not cleared for access to the Secret Archives. You are here only because my commander received a direct order from the camerlegno.”
   “But how do we get out?”
   “Monodirectional security. You will have no difficulties.” That being the entirety of the conversation, the guard spun on his heel and marched off down the hall.
   Vittoria made some comment, but Langdon did not hear. His mind was fixed on the double doors before him, wondering what mysteries lay beyond.