e minutes ago in a frenzy to
say they had an urgent call for the director.
"He's not available," Sylvie had said.
Then the CERN operator told her who was calling.
Sylvie half laughed aloud. "You're kidding, right?" She listened, and her face clouded with disbelief.
"And your caller ID confirms-" Sylvie was frowning. "I see. Okay. Can you ask what the-" She
sighed. "No. That's fine. Tell him to hold. I'll locate the director right away. Yes, I understand. I'll
hurry."
But Sylvie had not been able to find the director. She had called his cell line three times and each time
gotten the same message: "The mobile customer you are trying to reach is out of range." Out of range?
How far could he go? So Sylvie had dialed Kohler's beeper. Twice. No response. Most unlike him. She'd
even E-mailed his mobile computer. Nothing. It was like the man had disappeared off the face of the
earth.
So what do I do? she now wondered.
Short of searching CERN's entire complex herself, Sylvie knew there was only one other way to get the
director's attention. He would not be pleased, but the man on the phone was not someone the director
should keep waiting. Nor did it sound like the caller was in any mood to be told the director was
unavailable.
Startled with her own boldness, Sylvie made her decision. She walked into Kohler's office and went to
the metal box on his wall behind his desk. She opened the cover, stared at the controls, and found the
correct button.
Then she took a deep breath and grabbed the microphone.
29
V ittoria did not remember how they had gotten to the main elevator, but they were there. Ascending.
Kohler was behind her, his breathing labored now. Langdon's concerned gaze passed through her like a
ghost. He had taken the fax from her hand and slipped it in his jacket pocket away from her sight, but the
image was still burned into her memory.
As the elevator climbed, Vittoria's world swirled into darkness. Papa! In her mind she reached for him.
For just a moment, in the oasis of her memory, Vittoria was with him. She was nine years old, rolling
down hills of edelweiss flowers, the Swiss sky spinning overhead.
Papa! Papa!
Leonardo Vetra was laughing beside her, beaming. "What is it, angel?"
"Papa!" she giggled, nuzzling close to him. "Ask me what's the matter!"
"But you look happy, sweetie. Why would I ask you what's the matter?"
"Just ask me."
He shrugged. "What's the matter?"
She immediately started laughing. "What's the matter? Everything is the matter! Rocks! Trees! Atoms!
Even anteaters! Everything is the matter!"
He laughed. "Did you make that up?"
"Pretty smart, huh?"
"My little Einstein."
She frowned. "He has stupid hair. I saw his picture."
"He's got a smart head, though. I told you what he proved, right?"
Her eyes widened with dread. "Dad! No! You promised!"
"E=MC2!" He tickled her playfully. "E=MC2!"
"No math! I told you! I hate it!"
"I'm glad you hate it. Because girls aren't even allowed to do math."
Vittoria stopped short. "They aren't?"
"Of course not. Everyone knows that. Girls play with dollies. Boys do math. No math for girls. I'm not
even permitted to talk to little girls about math."
"What! But that's not fair!"
"Rules are rules. Absolutely no math for little girls."
Vittoria looked horrified. "But dolls are boring!"
"I'm sorry," her father said. "I could tell you about math, but if I got caught . . ." He looked nervously
around the deserted hills.
Vittoria followed his gaze. "Okay," she whispered, "just tell me quietly."
The motion of the elevator startled her. Vittoria opened her eyes. He was gone.
Reality rushed in, wrapping a frosty grip around her. She looked to Langdon. The earnest concern in his
gaze felt like the warmth of a guardian angel, especially in the aura of Kohler's chill.
A single sentient thought began pounding at Vittoria with unrelenting force.
Where is the antimatter?
The horrifying answer was only a moment away.
30
M aximilian Kohler. Kindly call your office immediately."
Blazing sunbeams flooded Langdon's eyes as the elevator doors opened into the main atrium. Before the
echo of the announcement on the intercom overhead faded, every electronic device on Kohler's
wheelchair started beeping and buzzing simultaneously. His pager. His phone. His E-mail. Kohler glanced
down at the blinking lights in apparent bewilderment. The director had resurfaced, and he was back in
range.
"Director Kohler. Please call your office."
The sound of his name on the PA seemed to startle Kohler.
He glanced up, looking angered and then almost immediately concerned. Langdon's eyes met his, and
Vittoria's too. The three of them were motionless a moment, as if all the tension between them had been
erased and replaced by a single, unifying foreboding.
Kohler took his cell phone from the armrest. He dialed an extension and fought off another coughing fit.
Vittoria and Langdon waited.
"This is . . . Director Kohler," he said, wheezing. "Yes? I was subterranean, out of range." He listened, his
gray eyes widening. "Who? Yes, patch it through." There was a pause. "Hello? This is Maximilian
Kohler. I am the director of CERN. With whom am I speaking?"
Vittoria and Langdon watched in silence as Kohler listened.
"It would be unwise," Kohler finally said, "to speak of this by phone. I will be there immediately." He
was coughing again. "Meet me . . . at Leonardo da Vinci Airport. Forty minutes." Kohler's breath seemed
to be failing him now. He descended into a fit of coughing and barely managed to choke out the words,
"Locate the canister immediately . . . I am coming." Then he clicked off his phone.
Vittoria ran to Kohler's side, but Kohler could no longer speak. Langdon watched as Vittoria pulled out
her cell phone and paged CERN's infirmary. Langdon felt like a ship on the periphery of a storm . . .
tossed but detached.
Meet me at Leonardo da Vinci Airport. Kohler's words echoed.
The uncertain shadows that had fogged Langdon's mind all morning, in a single instant, solidified into a
vivid image. As he stood there in the swirl of confusion, he felt a door inside him open . . . as if some
mystic threshold had just been breached. The ambigram. The murdered priest/scientist. The antimatter.
And now . . . the target. Leonardo da Vinci Airport could only mean one thing. In a moment of stark
realization, Langdon knew he had just crossed over. He had become a believer.
Five kilotons. Let there be light.
Two paramedics materialized, racing across the atrium in white smocks. They knelt by Kohler, putting an
oxygen mask on his face. Scientists in the hall stopped and stood back.
Kohler took two long pulls, pushed the mask aside, and still gasping for air, looked up at Vittoria and
Langdon. "Rome."
"Rome?" Vittoria demanded. "The antimatter is in Rome? Who called?"
Kohler's face was twisted, his gray eyes watering. "The Swiss . . ." He choked on the words, and the
paramedics put the mask back over his face. As they prepared to take him away, Kohler reached up and
grabbed Langdon's arm.
Langdon nodded. He knew.
"Go . . ." Kohler wheezed beneath his mask. "Go . . . call me . . ." Then the paramedics were rolling him
away.
Vittoria stood riveted to the floor, watching him go. Then she turned to Langdon. "Rome? But . . . what
was that about the Swiss?"
Langdon put a hand on her shoulder, barely whispering the words. "The Swiss Guard," he said. "The
sworn sentinels of Vatican City."
31
T he X-33 space plane roared into the sky and arched south toward Rome. On board, Langdon sat in
silence. The last fifteen minutes had been a blur. Now that he had finished briefing Vittoria on the
Illuminati and their covenant against the Vatican, the scope of this situation was starting to sink in.
What the hell am I doing? Langdon wondered. I should have gone home when I had the chance! Deep
down, though, he knew he'd never had the chance.
Langdon's better judgment had screamed at him to return to Boston. Nonetheless, academic astonishment
had somehow vetoed prudence. Everything he had ever believed about the demise of the Illuminati was
suddenly looking like a brilliant sham. Part of him craved proof. Confirmation. There was also a question
of conscience. With Kohler ailing and Vittoria on her own, Langdon knew that if his knowledge of the
Illuminati could assist in any way, he had a moral obligation to be here.
There was more, though. Although Langdon was ashamed to admit it, his initial horror on hearing about
the antimatter's location was not only the danger to human life in Vatican City, but for something else as
well.
Art.
The world's largest art collection was now sitting on a time bomb. The Vatican Museum housed over
60,000 priceless pieces in 1,407 rooms-Michelangelo, da Vinci, Bernini, Botticelli. Langdon wondered
if all of the art could possibly be evacuated if necessary. He knew it was impossible. Many of the pieces
were sculptures weighing tons. Not to mention, the greatest treasures were architectural-the Sistine
Chapel, St. Peter's Basilica, Michelangelo's famed spiral staircase leading to the Musèo
Vaticano-priceless testaments to man's creative genius. Langdon wondered how much time was left on
the canister.
"Thanks for coming," Vittoria said, her voice quiet.
Langdon emerged from his daydream and looked up. Vittoria was sitting across the aisle. Even in the
stark fluorescent light of the cabin, there was an aura of composure about her-an almost magnetic
radiance of wholeness. Her breathing seemed deeper now, as if a spark of self-preservation had ignited
within her . . . a craving for justice and retribution, fueled by a daughter's love.
Vittoria had not had time to change from her shorts and sleeveless top, and her tawny legs were now
goose-bumped in the cold of the plane. Instinctively Langdon removed his jacket and offered it to her.
"American chivalry?" She accepted, her eyes thanking hi