Angels & Demons (34 page)

“Who are they?” Vittoria urged, arriving behind him.

Langdon stood astonished.
“Habakkuk and the Angel,”
he said, his voice almost inaudible. The piece was a fairly well-known Bernini work that was included in some art history texts. Langdon had forgotten it was here.

“Habakkuk?”

“Yes. The prophet who predicted the annihilation of the earth.”

Vittoria looked uneasy. “You think this is the marker?”

Langdon nodded in amazement. Never in his life had he been so sure of anything. This was the first Illuminati marker. No doubt. Although Langdon had fully expected the sculpture to somehow “point” to the next altar of science, he did not expect it to be
literal
. Both the angel and Habakkuk had their arms outstretched and were pointing into the distance.

Langdon found himself suddenly smiling. “Not too subtle, is it?”

Vittoria looked excited but confused. “I see them pointing, but they are contradicting each other. The angel is pointing one way, and the prophet the other.”

Langdon chuckled. It was true. Although both figures were pointing into the distance, they were pointing in totally opposite directions. Langdon, however, had already solved that problem. With a burst of energy he headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Vittoria called.

“Outside the building!” Langdon’s legs felt light again as he ran toward the door. “I need to see what direction that sculpture is pointing!”

“Wait! How do you know
which
finger to follow?”

“The poem,” he called over his shoulder. “The last line!”

“ ‘Let angels guide you on your lofty quest?’ ” She gazed upward at the outstretched finger of the angel. Her eyes misted unexpectedly. “Well I’ll be damned!”

70

G unther Glick and Chinita Macri sat parked in the BBC van in the shadows at the far end of Piazza del Popolo. They had arrived shortly after the four Alpha Romeos, just in time to witness an inconceivable chain of events. Chinita still had no idea what it all meant, but she’d made sure the camera was rolling. As soon as they’d arrived, Chinita and Glick had seen a veritable army of young men pour out of the Alpha Romeos and surround the church. Some had weapons drawn. One of them, a stiff older man, led a team up the front steps of the church. The soldiers drew guns and blew the locks off the front doors. Macri heard nothing and figured they must have had silencers. Then the soldiers entered. Chinita had recommended they sit tight and film from the shadows. After all, guns were guns, and they had a clear view of the action from the van. Glick had not argued. Now, across the piazza, men moved in and out of the church. They yelled to each other. Chinita adjusted her camera to follow a team as they searched the surrounding area. All of them, though dressed in civilian clothes, seemed to move with military precision. “Who do you think they are?” she asked.

“Hell if I know.” Glick looked riveted. “You getting all this?”

“Every frame.”

Glick sounded smug. “Still think we should go back to Pope-Watch?”

Chinita wasn’t sure what to say. There was obviously something going on here, but she had been in journalism long enough to know that there was often a very dull explanation for interesting events. “This could be nothing,” she said. “These guys could have gotten the same tip you got and are just checking it out. Could be a false alarm.”

Glick grabbed her arm. “Over there! Focus.” He pointed back to the church. Chinita swung the camera back to the top of the stairs. “Hello there,” she said, training on the man now emerging from the church.

“Who’s the dapper?”

Chinita moved in for a close-up. “Haven’t seen him before.” She tightened in on the man’s face and smiled. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing him again.”

Robert Langdon dashed down the stairs outside the church and into the middle of the piazza. It was getting dark now, the springtime sun setting late in southern Rome. The sun had dropped below the surrounding buildings, and shadows streaked the square.

“Okay, Bernini,” he said aloud to himself. “Where the hell is your angel pointing?”

He turned and examined the orientation of the church from which he had just come. He pictured the Chigi Chapel inside, and the sculpture of the angel inside that. Without hesitation he turned due west, into the glow of the impending sunset. Time was evaporating.

“Southwest,” he said, scowling at the shops and apartments blocking his view. “The next marker is out there.”

Racking his brain, Langdon pictured page after page of Italian art history. Although very familiar with Bernini’s work, Langdon knew the sculptor had been far too prolific for any nonspecialist to know all of it. Still, considering the relative fame of the first marker—
Habakkuk and the Angel
—Langdon hoped the second marker was a work he might know from memory.

Earth, Air, Fire, Water
, he thought.
Earth
they had found—inside the Chapel of the Earth—Habakkuk, the prophet who predicted the earth’s annihilation.

Air
is next. Langdon urged himself to think.
A Bernini sculpture that has something to do with Air!
He was drawing a total blank. Still he felt energized.
I’m on the path of Illumination! It is still intact!

Looking southwest, Langdon strained to see a spire or cathedral tower jutting up over the obstacles. He saw nothing. He needed a map. If they could figure out what churches were southwest of here, maybe one of them would spark Langdon’s memory.
Air
, he pressed.
Air. Bernini. Sculpture. Air. Think!

Langdon turned and headed back up the cathedral stairs. He was met beneath the scaffolding by Vittoria and Olivetti.

“Southwest,” Langdon said, panting. “The next church is southwest of here.”

Olivetti’s whisper was cold. “You sure this time?”

Langdon didn’t bite. “We need a map. One that shows all the churches in Rome.”

The commander studied him a moment, his expression never changing.

Langdon checked his watch. “We only have half an hour.”

Olivetti moved past Langdon down the stairs toward his car, parked directly in front of the cathedral. Langdon hoped he was going for a map.

Vittoria looked excited. “So the angel’s pointing southwest? No idea which churches are southwest?”

“I can’t see past the damn buildings.” Langdon turned and faced the square again. “And I don’t know Rome’s churches well enou—” He stopped.

Vittoria looked startled. “What?”

Langdon looked out at the piazza again. Having ascended the church stairs, he was now higher, and his view was better. He still couldn’t see anything, but he realized he was moving in the right direction. His eyes climbed the tower of rickety scaffolding above him. It rose six stories, almost to the top of the church’s rose window, far higher than the other buildings in the square. He knew in an instant where he was headed.

Across the square, Chinita Macri and Gunther Glick sat glued to the windshield of the BBC van.

“You getting this?” Gunther asked.

Macri tightened her shot on the man now climbing the scaffolding. “He’s a little well dressed to be playing Spiderman if you ask me.”

“And who’s Ms. Spidey?”

Chinita glanced at the attractive woman beneath the scaffolding. “Bet you’d like to find out.”

“Think I should call editorial?”

“Not yet. Let’s watch. Better to have something in the can before we admit we abandoned conclave.”

“You think somebody really killed one of the old farts in there?”

Chinita clucked. “You’re
definitely
going to hell.”

“And I’ll be taking the Pulitzer with me.”

71

T he scaffolding seemed less stable the higher Langdon climbed. His view of Rome, however, got better with every step. He continued upward.

He was breathing harder than he expected when he reached the upper tier. He pulled himself onto the last platform, brushed off the plaster, and stood up. The height did not bother him at all. In fact, it was invigorating.

The view was staggering. Like an ocean on fire, the red-tiled rooftops of Rome spread out before him, glowing in the scarlet sunset. From that spot, for the first time in his life, Langdon saw beyond the pollution and traffic of Rome to its ancient roots—
Città di Dio
—The city of God. Squinting into the sunset, Langdon scanned the rooftops for a church steeple or bell tower. But as he looked farther and farther toward the horizon, he saw nothing.
There are hundreds of churches in Rome
, he thought.
There must be one southwest of here! If the church is even visible
, he reminded himself.
Hell,
if the church is even still standing!

Forcing his eyes to trace the line slowly, he attempted the search again. He knew, of course, that not all churches would have visible spires, especially smaller, out-of-the-way sanctuaries. Not to mention, Rome had changed dramatically since the 1600s when churches were by law the tallest buildings allowed. Now, as Langdon looked out, he saw apartment buildings, high-rises, TV towers. For the second time, Langdon’s eye reached the horizon without seeing anything. Not one single spire. In the distance, on the very edge of Rome, Michelangelo’s massive dome blotted the setting sun. St. Peter’s Basilica. Vatican City. Langdon found himself wondering how the cardinals were faring, and if the Swiss Guards’ search had turned up the antimatter. Something told him it hadn’t . . . and wouldn’t. The poem was rattling through his head again. He considered it, carefully, line by line.
From Santi’s
earthly tomb with demon’s hole
. They had found Santi’s tomb. ‘
Cross Rome the mystic elements unfold
. The mystic elements were Earth, Air, Fire, Water.
The path of light is laid, the sacred test
. The path of Illumination formed by Bernini’s sculptures.
Let angels guide you on your lofty quest
. The angel was pointing southwest . . .

“Front stairs!” Glick exclaimed, pointing wildly through the windshield of the BBC van. “Something’s going on!”

Macri dropped her shot back down to the main entrance. Something was definitely going on. At the bottom of the stairs, the military-looking man had pulled one of the Alpha Romeos close to the stairs and opened the trunk. Now he was scanning the square as if checking for onlookers. For a moment, Macri thought the man had spotted them, but his eyes kept moving. Apparently satisfied, he pulled out a walkietalkie and spoke into it. Almost instantly, it seemed an army emerged from the church. Like an American football team breaking from a huddle, the soldiers formed a straight line across the top of the stairs. Moving like a human wall, they began to descend. Behind them, almost entirely hidden by the wall, four soldiers seemed to be carrying something. Something heavy. Awkward.

Glick leaned forward on the dashboard. “Are they stealing something from the church?”

Chinita tightened her shot even more, using the telephoto to probe the wall of men, looking for an opening.
One split second
, she willed.
A single frame. That’s all I need
. But the men moved as one.
Come
on!
Macri stayed with them, and it paid off. When the soldiers tried to lift the object into the trunk, Macri found her opening. Ironically, it was the older man who faltered. Only for an instant, but long enough. Macri had her frame. Actually, it was more like ten frames.

“Call editorial,” Chinita said. “We’ve got a dead body.”

Far away, at CERN, Maximilian Kohler maneuvered his wheelchair into Leonardo Vetra’s study. With mechanical efficiency, he began sifting through Vetra’s files. Not finding what he was after, Kohler moved to Vetra’s bedroom. The top drawer of his bedside table was locked. Kohler pried it open with a knife from the kitchen.

Inside Kohler found exactly what he was looking for.

72

L angdon swung off the scaffolding and dropped back to the ground. He brushed the plaster dust from his clothes. Vittoria was there to greet him.

“No luck?” she said.

He shook his head.

“They put the cardinal in the trunk.”

Langdon looked over to the parked car where Olivetti and a group of soldiers now had a map spread out on the hood. “Are they looking southwest?”

She nodded. “No churches. From here the first one you hit is St. Peter’s.”

Langdon grunted. At least they were in agreement. He moved toward Olivetti. The soldiers parted to let him through.

Olivetti looked up. “Nothing. But this doesn’t show every last church. Just the big ones. About fifty of them.”

“Where are we?” Langdon asked.

Olivetti pointed to Piazza del Popolo and traced a straight line exactly southwest. The line missed, by a substantial margin, the cluster of black squares indicating Rome’s major churches. Unfortunately, Rome’s major churches were also Rome’s older churches . . . those that would have been around in the 1600s.

“I’ve got some decisions to make,” Olivetti said. “Are you
certain
of the direction?”

Langdon pictured the angel’s outstretched finger, the urgency rising in him again. “Yes, sir. Positive.”

Olivetti shrugged and traced the straight line again. The path intersected the Margherita Bridge, Via Cola di Riezo, and passed through Piazza del Risorgimento, hitting no churches at all until it dead-ended abruptly at the center of St. Peter’s Square.

“What’s wrong with St. Peter’s?” one of the soldiers said. He had a deep scar under his left eye. “It’s a church.”

Langdon shook his head. “Needs to be a public place. Hardly seems public at the moment.”

“But the line goes through St. Peter’s
Square,”
Vittoria added, looking over Langdon’s shoulder. “The square is public.”

Langdon had already considered it. “No statues, though.”

“Isn’t there a monolith in the middle?”

She was right. There was an Egyptian monolith in St. Peter’s Square. Langdon looked out at the monolith in the piazza in front of them.
The lofty pyramid
. An odd coincidence, he thought. He shook it off. “The Vatican’s monolith is not by Bernini. It was brought in by Caligula. And it has nothing to do with
Air.”