yes 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."
There was another problem as well. "Besides, the poem says the elements are spread across Rome. St.
Peter's Square is in Vatican City. Not Rome."
"Depends who you ask," a guard interjected.
Langdon looked up. "What?"
"Always a bone of contention. Most maps show St. Peter's Square as part of Vatican City, but because
it's outside the walled city, Roman officials for centuries have claimed it as part of Rome."
"You're kidding," Langdon said. He had never known that.
"I only mention it," the guard continued, "because Commander Olivetti and Ms. Vetra were asking about
a sculpture that had to do with Air."
Langdon was wide-eyed. "And you know of one in St. Peter's Square?"
"Not exactly. It's not really a sculpture. Probably not relevant."
"Let's hear it," Olivetti pressed.
The guard shrugged. "The only reason I know about it is because I'm usually on piazza duty. I know
every corner of St. Peter's Square."
"The sculpture," Langdon urged. "What does it look like?" Langdon was starting to wonder if the
Illuminati could really have been gutsy enough to position their second marker right outside St. Peter's
Church.
"I patrol past it every day," the guard said. "It's in the center, directly where that line is pointing. That's
what made me think of it. As I said, it's not really a sculpture. It's more of a . . . block."
Olivetti looked mad. "A block?"
"Yes, sir. A marble block embedded in the square. At the base of the monolith. But the block is not a
rectangle. It's an ellipse. And the block is carved with the image of a billowing gust of wind." He paused.
"Air, I suppose, if you wanted to get scientific about it."
Langdon stared at the young soldier in amazement. "A relief!" he exclaimed suddenly.
Everyone looked at him.
"Relief," Langdon said, "is the other half of sculpture!" Sculpture is the art of shaping figures in the
round and also in relief. He had written the definition on chalkboards for years. Reliefs were essentially
two-dimensional sculptures, like Abraham Lincoln's profile on the penny. Bernini's Chigi Chapel
medallions were another perfect example.
"Bassorelievo?" the guard asked, using the Italian art term.
"Yes! Bas-relief!" Langdon rapped his knuckles on the hood. "I wasn't thinking in those terms! That tile
you're talking about in St. Peter's Square is called the West Ponente-the West Wind. It's also known as
Respiro di Dio."
"Breath of God?"
"Yes! Air! And it was carved and put there by the original architect!"
Vittoria looked confused. "But I thought Michelangelo designed St. Peter's."
"Yes, the basilica!" Langdon exclaimed, triumph in his voice. "But St. Peter's Square was designed by
Bernini!"
As the caravan of Alpha Romeos tore out of Piazza del Popolo, everyone was in too much of a hurry to
notice the BBC van pulling out behind them.
73
G unther Glick floored the BBC van's accelerator and swerved through traffic as he tailed the four
speeding Alpha Romeos across the Tiber River on Ponte Margherita. Normally Glick would have made
an effort to maintain an inconspicuous distance, but today he could barely keep up. These guys were
flying.
Macri sat in her work area in the back of the van finishing a phone call with London. She hung up and
yelled to Glick over the sound of the traffic. "You want the good news or bad news?"
Glick frowned. Nothing was ever simple when dealing with the home office. "Bad news."
"Editorial is burned we abandoned our post."
"Surprise."
"They also think your tipster is a fraud."
"Of course."
"And the boss just warned me that you're a few crumpets short of a proper tea."
Glick scowled. "Great. And the good news?"
"They agreed to look at the footage we just shot."
Glick felt his scowl soften into a grin. I guess we'll see who's short a few crumpets. "So fire it off."
"Can't transmit until we stop and get a fixed cell read."
Glick gunned the van onto Via Cola di Rienzo. "Can't stop now." He tailed the Alpha Romeos through a
hard left swerve around Piazza Risorgimento.
Macri held on to her computer gear in back as everything slid. "Break my transmitter," she warned, "and
we'll have to walk this footage to London."
"Sit tight, love. Something tells me we're almost there."
Macri looked up. "Where?"
Glick gazed out at the familiar dome now looming directly in front of them. He smiled. "Right back
where we started."
The four Alpha Romeos slipped deftly into traffic surrounding St. Peter's Square. They split up and
spread out along the piazza perimeter, quietly unloading men at select points. The debarking guards
moved into the throng of t