ourists and media vans on the edge of the square and instantly became invisible.
Some of the guards entered the forest of pillars encompassing the colonnade. They too seemed to
evaporate into the surroundings. As Langdon watched through the windshield, he sensed a noose
tightening around St. Peter's.
In addition to the men Olivetti had just dispatched, the commander had radioed ahead to the Vatican and
sent additional undercover guards to the center where Bernini's West Ponente was located. As Langdon
looked out at the wide-open spaces of St. Peter's Square, a familiar question nagged. How does the
Illuminati assassin plan to get away with this? How will he get a cardinal through all these people and
kill him in plain view? Langdon checked his Mickey Mouse watch. It was 8:54 P.M. Six minutes.
In the front seat, Olivetti turned and faced Langdon and Vittoria. "I want you two right on top of this
Bernini brick or block or whatever the hell it is. Same drill. You're tourists. Use the phone if you see
anything."
Before Langdon could respond, Vittoria had his hand and was pulling him out of the car.
The springtime sun was setting behind St. Peter's Basilica, and a massive shadow spread, engulfing the
piazza. Langdon felt an ominous chill as he and Vittoria moved into the cool, black umbra. Snaking
through the crowd, Langdon found himself searching every face they passed, wondering if the killer was
among them. Vittoria's hand felt warm.
As they crossed the open expanse of St. Peter's Square, Langdon sensed Bernini's sprawling piazza
having the exact effect the artist had been commissioned to create-that of "humbling all those who
entered." Langdon certainly felt humbled at the moment. Humbled and hungry, he realized, surprised
such a mundane thought could enter his head at a moment like this.
"To the obelisk?" Vittoria asked.
Langdon nodded, arching left across the piazza.
"Time?" Vittoria asked, walking briskly, but casually.
"Five of."
Vittoria said nothing, but Langdon felt her grip tighten. He was still carrying the gun. He hoped Vittoria
would not decide she needed it. He could not imagine her whipping out a weapon in St. Peter's Square
and blowing away the kneecaps of some killer while the global media looked on. Then again, an incident
like that would be nothing compared to the branding and murder of a cardinal out here.
Air, Langdon thought. The second element of science. He tried to picture the brand. The method of
murder. Again he scanned the sprawling expanse of granite beneath his feet-St. Peter's Square-an open
desert surrounded by Swiss Guard. If the Hassassin really dared attempt this, Langdon could not imagine
how he would escape.
In the center of the piazza rose Caligula's 350-ton Egyptian obelisk. It stretched eighty-one feet skyward
to the pyramidal apex onto which was affixed a hollow iron cross. Sufficiently high to catch the last of the
evening sun, the cross shone as if magic . . . purportedly containing relics of the cross on which Christ
was crucified.
Two fountains flanked the obelisk in perfect symmetry. Art historians knew the fountains marked the
exact geometric focal points of Bernini's elliptical piazza, but it was an architectural oddity Langdon had
never really considered until today. It seemed Rome was suddenly filled with ellipses, pyramids, and
startling geometry.
As they neared the obelisk, Vittoria slowed. She exhaled heavily, as if coaxing Langdon to relax along
with her. Langdon made the effort, lowering his shoulders and loosening his clenched jaw.
Somewhere around the obelisk, boldly positioned outside the largest church in the world, was the second
altar of science-Bernini's West Ponente-an elliptical block in St. Peter's Square.
Gunther Glick watched from the shadows of the pillars surrounding St. Peter's Square. On any other day
the man in the tweed jacket and the woman in khaki shorts would not have interested him in the least.
They appeared to be nothing but tourists enjoying the square. But today was not any other day. Today had
been a day of phone tips, corpses, unmarked cars racing through Rome, and men in tweed jackets
climbing scaffolding in search of God only knew what. Glick would stay with them.
He looked out across the square and saw Macri. She was exactly where he had told her to go, on the far
side of the couple, hovering on their flank. Macri carried her video camera casually, but despite her
imitation of a bored member of the press, she stood out more than Glick would have liked. No other
reporters were in this far corner of the square, and the acronym "BBC" stenciled on her camera was
drawing some looks from tourists.
The tape Macri had shot earlier of the naked body dumped in the trunk was playing at this very moment
on the VCR transmitter back in the van. Glick knew the images were sailing over his head right now en
route to London. He wondered what editorial would say.
He wished he and Macri had reached the body sooner, before the army of plainclothed soldiers had
intervened. The same army, he knew, had now fanned out and surrounded this piazza. Something big was
about to happen.
The media is the right arm of anarchy, the killer had said. Glick wondered if he had missed his chance for
a big scoop. He looked out at the other media vans in the distance and watched Macri tailing the
mysterious couple across the piazza. Something told Glick he was still in the game . . .
74
L angdon saw what he was looking for a good ten yards before they reached it. Through the scattered
tourists, the white marble ellipse of Bernini's West Ponente stood out against the gray granite cubes that
made up the rest of the piazza. Vittoria apparently saw it too. Her hand tensed.
"Relax," Langdon whispered. "Do your piranha thing."
Vittoria loosened her grip.
As they drew nearer, everything seemed forbiddingly normal. Tourists wandered, nuns chatted along the
perimeter of the piazza, a girl fed pigeons at the base of the obelisk.
Langdon refrained from checking his watch. He knew it was almost time.
The elliptical stone arrived beneath their feet, and Langdon and Vittoria slowed to a stop-not
overeagerly-just two tourists pausing dutifully at a point of mild interest.
"West Ponente," Vittoria said, reading the inscription on the stone.
Langdon gazed down at the marble relief and felt suddenly naïve. Not in his art books, not in his
numerous trips to Rome, not ever had West Ponente's significance jumped out at him.
Not until now.
The relief was elliptical, about three feet long, and carved with a rudimentary face-a depiction of the
West Wind as an angel-like countenance. Gusting from the angel's mouth, Bernini had drawn a powerful
breath of air blowing outward away from the Vatican . . . the breath of God. This was Bernini's tribute to
the second element . . . Air . . . an ethereal zephyr blown from angel's lips. As Langdon stared, he realized
the significance of the relief went deeper still. Bernini had carved the air in five distinct gusts . . . five!
What was more, flanking the medallion were two shining stars. Langdon thought of Galileo. Two stars,
five gusts, ellipses, symmetry . . . He felt hollow. His head hurt.
Vittoria began walking again almost immediately, leading Langdon away from the relief. "I think
someone's following us," she said.
Langdon looked up. "Where?"
Vittoria moved a good thirty yards before speaking. She pointed up at the Vatican as if showing Langdon
something on the dome. "The same person has been behind us all the way across the square." Casually,
Vittoria glanced over her shoulder. "Still on us. Keep moving."
"You think it's the Hassassin?"
Vittoria shook her head. "Not unless the Illuminati hires women with BBC cameras."
When the bells of St. Peter's began their deafening clamor, both Langdon and Vittoria jumped. It was
time. They had circled away from West Ponente in an attempt to lose the reporter but were now moving
back toward the relief.
Despite the clanging bells, the area seemed perfectly calm. Tourists wandered. A homeless drunk dozed
awkwardly at the base of the obelisk. A little girl fed pigeons. Langdon wondered if the reporter had
scared the killer off. Doubtful, he decided, recalling the killer's promise. I will make your cardinals media
luminaries.
As the echo of the ninth bell faded away, a peaceful silence descended across the square.
Then . . . the little girl began to scream.
75
L angdon was the first to reach the screaming girl.
The terrified youngster stood frozen, pointing at the base of the obelisk where a shabby, decrepit drunk sat
slumped on the stairs. The man was a miserable sight . . . apparently one of Rome's homeless. His gray
hair hung in greasy strands in front of his face, and his entire body was wrapped in some sort of dirty
cloth. The girl kept screaming as she scampered off into the crowd.
Langdon felt an upsurge of dread as he dashed toward the invalid. There was a dark, widening stain
spreading across the man's rags. Fresh, flowing blood.
Then, it was as if everything happened at once.
The old man seemed to crumple in the middle, tottering forward. Langdon lunged, but he was too late.
The man pitched forward, toppled off the stairs, and hit the pavement facedown. Motionless.
Langdon dropped to his knees. Vittoria arrived beside him. A crowd was gathering.
Vittoria put her fingers on the man's throat from behind. "There's a pulse," she declared. "Roll him."
Langdon was already in motion. Grasping the man's shoulders, he rolled the body. As he did, the loose
rags seemed to slough away like dead flesh. The man flopped limp onto his back. Dead center of his
naked chest was a wide area of charred flesh.
Vittoria gasped and pulled back.
Langdon felt paralyzed, pinned somewhere between nausea and awe. The symbol had a terrifying
simplicity to it.
"Air," Vittoria choked. "It's . . . him."
Swiss Guard