m silently.
The plane jostled across some turbulence, and Langdon felt a surge of danger. The windowless cabin felt
cramped again, and he tried to imagine himself in an open field. The notion, he realized, was ironic. He
had been in an open field when it had happened. Crushing darkness. He pushed the memory from his
mind. Ancient history.
Vittoria was watching him. "Do you believe in God, Mr. Langdon?"
The question startled him. The earnestness in Vittoria's voice was even more disarming than the inquiry.
Do I believe in God? He had hoped for a lighter topic of conversation to pass the trip.
A spiritual conundrum, Langdon thought. That's what my friends call me. Although he studied religion
for years, Langdon was not a religious man. He respected the power of faith, the benevolence of churches,
the strength religion gave so many people . . . and yet, for him, the intellectual suspension of disbelief that
was imperative if one were truly going to "believe" had always proved too big an obstacle for his
academic mind. "I want to believe," he heard himself say.
Vittoria's reply carried no judgment or challenge. "So why don't you?"
He chuckled. "Well, it's not that easy. Having faith requires leaps of faith, cerebral acceptance of
miracles-immaculate conceptions and divine interventions. And then there are the codes of conduct. The
Bible, the Koran, Buddhist scripture . . . they all carry similar requirements-and similar penalties. They
claim that if I don't live by a specific code I will go to hell. I can't imagine a God who would rule that
way."
"I hope you don't let your students dodge questions that shamelessly."
The comment caught him off guard. "What?"
"Mr. Langdon, I did not ask if you believe what man says about God. I asked if you believed in God.
There is a difference. Holy scripture is stories . . . legends and history of man's quest to understand his
own need for meaning. I am not asking you to pass judgment on literature. I am asking if you believe in
God. When you lie out under the stars, do you sense the divine? Do you feel in your gut that you are
staring up at the work of God's hand?"
Langdon took a long moment to consider it.
"I'm prying," Vittoria apologized.
"No, I just . . ."
"Certainly you must debate issues of faith with your classes."
"Endlessly."
"And you play devil's advocate, I imagine. Always fueling the debate."
Langdon smiled. "You must be a teacher too."
"No, but I learned from a master. My father could argue two sides of a Möbius Strip."
Langdon laughed, picturing the artful crafting of a Möbius Strip-a twisted ring of paper, which
technically possessed only one side. Langdon had first seen the single-sided shape in the artwork of M. C.
Escher. "May I ask you a question, Ms. Vetra?"
"Call me Vittoria. Ms. Vetra makes me feel old."
He sighed inwardly, suddenly sensing his own age. "Vittoria, I'm Robert."
"You had a question."
"Yes. As a scientist and the daughter of a Catholic priest, what do you think of religion?"
Vittoria paused, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. "Religion is like language or dress. We gravitate
toward the practices with which we were raised. In the end, though, we are all proclaiming the same
thing. That life has meaning. That we are grateful for the power that created us."
Langdon was intrigued. "So you're saying that whether you are a Christian or a Muslim simply depends
on where you were born?"
"Isn't it obvious? Look at the diffusion of religion around the globe."
"So faith is random?"
"Hardly. Faith is universal. Our specific methods for understanding it are arbitrary. Some of us pray to
Jesus, some of us go to Mecca, some of us study subatomic particles. In the end we are all just searching
for truth, that which is greater than ourselves."
Langdon wished his students could express themselves so clearly. Hell, he wished he could express
himself so clearly. "And God?" he asked. "Do you believe in God?"
Vittoria was silent for a long time. "Science tells me God must exist. My mind tells me I will never
understand God. And my heart tells me I am not meant to."
How's that for concise, he thought. "So you believe God is fact, but we will never understand Him."
"Her," she said with a smile. "Your Native Americans had it right."
Langdon chuckled. "Mother Earth."
"Gaea. The planet is an organism. All of us are cells with different purposes. And yet we are intertwined.
Serving each other. Serving the whole."
Looking at her, Langdon felt something stir within him that he had not felt in a long time. There was a
bewitching clarity in her eyes . . . a purity in her voice. He felt drawn.
"Mr. Langdon, let me ask you another question."
"Robert," he said. Mr. Langdon makes me feel old. I am old!
"If you don't mind my asking, Robert, how did you get involved with the Illuminati?"
Langdon thought back. "Actually, it was money."
Vittoria looked disappointed. "Money? Consulting, you mean?"
Langdon laughed, realizing how it must have sounded. "No. Money as in currency." He reached in his
pants pocket and pulled out some money. He found a one-dollar bill. "I became fascinated with the cult
when I first learned that U.S. currency is covered with Illuminati symbology."
Vittoria's eyes narrowed, apparently not knowing whether or not to take him seriously.
Langdon handed her the bill. "Look at the back. See the Great Seal on the left?"
Vittoria turned the one-dollar bill over. "You mean the pyramid?"
"The pyramid. Do you know what pyramids have to do with U.S. history?"
Vittoria shrugged.
"Exactly," Langdon said. "Absolutely nothing."
Vittoria frowned. "So why is it the central symbol of your Great Seal?"
"An eerie bit of history," Langdon said. "The pyramid is an occult symbol representing a convergence
upward, toward the ultimate source of Illumination. See what's above it?"
Vittoria studied the bill. "An eye inside a triangle."
"It's called the trinacria. Have you ever seen that eye in a triangle anywhere else?"
Vittoria was silent a moment. "Actually, yes, but I'm not sure . . ."
"It's emblazoned on Masonic lodges around the world."
"The symbol is Masonic?"
"Actually, no. It's Illuminati. They called it their 'shining delta.' A call for enlightened change. The eye
signifies the Illuminati's ability to infiltrate and watch all things. The shining triangle represents
enlightenment. And the triangle is also the Greek letter delta, which is the mathematical symbol for-"
"Change. Transition."
Langdon smiled. "I forgot I was talking to a scientist."
"So you're saying the U.S. Great Seal is a call for enlightened, all-seeing change?"
"Some would call it a New World Order."
Vittoria seemed startled. She glanced down at the bill again. "The writing under the pyramid says Novus .
. . Ordo . . ."
"Novus Ordo Seculorum," Langdon said. "It means New Secular Order."
"Secular as in nonreligious?"
"Nonreligious. The phrase not only clearly states the Illuminati objective, but it also blatantly contradicts
the phrase beside it. In God We Trust."
Vittoria seemed troubled. "But how could all this symbology end up on the most powerful currency in the
world?"
"Most academics believe it was through Vice President Henry Wallace. He was an upper echelon Mason
and certainly had ties to the Illuminati. Whether it was as a member or innocently under their influence,
nobody knows. But it was Wallace who sold the design of the Great Seal to the president."
"How? Why would the president have agreed to-"
"The president was Franklin D. Roosevelt. Wallace simply told him Novus Ordo Seculorum meant New
Deal."
Vittoria seemed skeptical. "And Roosevelt didn't have anyone else look at the symbol before telling the
Treasury to print it?"
"No need. He and Wallace were like brothers."
"Brothers?"
"Check your history books," Langdon said with a smile. "Franklin D. Roosevelt was a well-known
Mason."
32
L angdon held his breath as the X-33 spiraled into Rome's Leonardo da Vinci International Airport.
Vittoria sat across from him, eyes closed as if trying to will the situation into control. The craft touched
down and taxied to a private hangar.
"Sorry for the slow flight," the pilot apologized, emerging from the cockpit. "Had to trim her back. Noise
regulations over populated areas."
Langdon checked his watch. They had been airborne thirty-seven minutes.
The pilot popped the outer door. "Anybody want to tell me what's going on?"
Neither Vittoria nor Langdon responded.
"Fine," he said, stretching. "I'll be in the cockpit with the air-conditioning and my music. Just me and
Garth."
The late-afternoon sun blazed outside the hangar. Langdon carried his tweed jacket over his shoulder.
Vittoria turned her face skyward and inhaled deeply, as if the sun's rays somehow transferred to her some
mystical replenishing energy.
Mediterraneans, Langdon mused, already sweating.
"Little old for cartoons, aren't you?" Vittoria asked, without opening her eyes.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your wristwatch. I saw it on the plane."
Langdon flushed slightly. He was accustomed to having to defend his timepiece. The collector's edition
Mickey Mouse watch had been a childhood gift from his parents. Despite the contorted foolishness of
Mickey's outstretched arms designating the hour, it was the only watch Langdon had ever worn.
Waterproof and glow-in-the-dark, it was perfect for swimming laps or walking unlit college paths at
night. When Langdon's students questioned his fashion sense, he told them he wore Mickey as a daily
reminder to stay young at heart.
"It's six o'clock," he said.
Vittoria nodded, eyes still closed. "I think our ride's here."
Langdon heard the distant whine, looked up, and felt a sinking feeling. Approaching from the north was a
helicopter, slicing low across the runway. Langdon had been on a helicopter once in the Andean Palpa
Valley looking at the Nazca sand drawings and had not enjoyed it one bit. A 