Angels & Demons (21 page)

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

T he Secret Vatican Archives are located at the far end of the Borgia Courtyard directly up a hill from the Gate of Santa Ana. They contain over 20,000 volumes and are rumored to hold such treasures as Leonardo da Vinci’s missing diaries and even unpublished books of the Holy Bible. Langdon strode powerfully up the deserted Via della Fondamenta toward the archives, his mind barely able to accept that he was about to be granted access. Vittoria was at his side, keeping pace effortlessly. Her almond-scented hair tossed lightly in the breeze, and Langdon breathed it in. He felt his thoughts straying and reeled himself back.

Vittoria said, “You going to tell me what we’re looking for?”

“A little book written by a guy named Galileo.”

She sounded surprised. “You don’t mess around. What’s in it?”

“It is supposed to contain something called
il segno.”

“The sign?”

“Sign, clue, signal . . . depends on your translation.”

“Sign to
what?”

Langdon picked up the pace. “A secret location. Galileo’s Illuminati needed to protect themselves from the Vatican, so they founded an ultrasecret Illuminati meeting place here in Rome. They called it The Church of Illumination.”

“Pretty bold calling a satanic lair a
church.”

Langdon shook his head. “Galileo’s Illuminati were not the least bit satanic. They were scientists who revered enlightenment. Their meeting place was simply where they could safely congregate and discuss topics forbidden by the Vatican. Although we know the secret lair existed, to this day nobody has ever located it.”

“Sounds like the Illuminati know how to keep a secret.”

“Absolutely. In fact, they never revealed the location of their hideaway to anyone outside the brotherhood. This secrecy protected them, but it also posed a problem when it came to recruiting new members.”

“They couldn’t grow if they couldn’t advertise,” Vittoria said, her legs and mind keeping perfect pace.

“Exactly. Word of Galileo’s brotherhood started to spread in the 1630s, and scientists from around the world made secret pilgrimages to Rome hoping to join the Illuminati . . . eager for a chance to look through Galileo’s telescope and hear the master’s ideas. Unfortunately, though, because of the Illuminati’s secrecy, scientists arriving in Rome never knew where to go for the meetings or to whom they could safely speak. The Illuminati wanted new blood, but they could not afford to risk their secrecy by making their whereabouts known.”

Vittoria frowned. “Sounds like a
situazione senza soluzione.”

“Exactly. A catch-22, as we would say.”

“So what did they do?”

“They were scientists. They examined the problem and found a solution. A brilliant one, actually. The Illuminati created a kind of ingenious
map
directing scientists to their sanctuary.”

Vittoria looked suddenly skeptical and slowed. “A map? Sounds careless. If a copy fell into the wrong hands . . .”

“It couldn’t,” Langdon said. “No copies existed anywhere. It was not the kind of map that fit on paper. It 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?”