d your phone." Langdon was frenzied.
The man shrugged. "No dial tone. Been trying all night. Circuits are packed."
Langdon swore aloud. "Have you seen anyone go in there?" He pointed to the drawbridge.
"Actually, yeah. A black van's been going in and out all night."
Langdon felt a brick hit the bottom of his stomach.
"Lucky bastard," the Aussie said, gazing up at the tower, and then frowning at his obstructed view of the
Vatican. "I bet the view from up there is perfect. I couldn't get through the traffic in St. Peter's, so I'm
shooting from here."
Langdon wasn't listening. He was looking for options.
"What do you say?" the Australian said. "This 11th Hour Samaritan for real?"
Langdon turned. "The what?"
"You didn't hear? The Captain of the Swiss Guard got a call from somebody who claims to have some
primo info. The guy's flying in right now. All I know is if he saves the day . . . there go the ratings!" The
man laughed.
Langdon was suddenly confused. A good Samaritan flying in to help? Did the person somehow know
where the antimatter was? Then why didn't he just tell the Swiss Guard? Why was he coming in person?
Something was odd, but Langdon didn't have time to figure out what.
"Hey," the Aussie said, studying Langdon more closely. "Ain't you that guy I saw on TV? Trying to save
that cardinal in St. Peter's Square?"
Langdon did not answer. His eyes had suddenly locked on a contraption attached to the top of the
truck-a satellite dish on a collapsible appendage. Langdon looked at the castle again. The outer rampart
was fifty feet tall. The inner fortress climbed farther still. A shelled defense. The top was impossibly high
from here, but maybe if he could clear the first wall . . .
Langdon spun to the newsman and pointed to the satellite arm. "How high does that go?"
"Huh?" The man looked confused. "Fifteen meters. Why?"
"Move the truck. Park next to the wall. I need help."
"What are you talking about?"
Langdon explained.
The Aussie's eyes went wide. "Are you insane? That's a twohundred-
thousand-dollar telescoping extension. Not a ladder!"
"You want ratings? I've got information that will make your day." Langdon was desperate.
"Information worth two hundred grand?"
Langdon told him what he would reveal in exchange for the favor.
Ninety seconds later, Robert Langdon was gripping the top of the satellite arm wavering in the breeze
fifty feet off the ground. Leaning out, he grabbed the top of the first bulwark, dragged himself onto the
wall, and dropped onto the castle's lower bastion.
"Now keep your bargain!" the Aussie called up. "Where is he?"
Langdon felt guilt-ridden for revealing this information, but a deal was a deal. Besides, the Hassassin
would probably call the press anyway. "Piazza Navona," Langdon shouted. "He's in the fountain."
The Aussie lowered his satellite dish and peeled out after the scoop of his career.
In a stone chamber high above the city, the Hassassin removed his soaking boots and bandaged his
wounded toe. There was pain, but not so much that he couldn't enjoy himself.
He turned to his prize.
She was in the corner of the room, on her back on a rudimentary divan, hands tied behind her, mouth
gagged. The Hassassin moved toward her. She was awake now. This pleased him. Surprisingly, in her
eyes, he saw fire instead of fear.
The fear will come.
107
R obert Langdon dashed around the outer bulwark of the castle, grateful for the glow of the floodlights.
As he circled the wall, the courtyard beneath him looked like a museum of ancient warfare-catapults,
stacks of marble cannonballs, and an arsenal of fearful contraptions. Parts of the castle were open to
tourists during the day, and the courtyard had been partially restored to its original state.
Langdon's eyes crossed the courtyard to the central core of the fortress. The circular citadel shot skyward
107 feet to the bronze angel above. The balcony at the top still glowed from within. Langdon wanted to
call out but knew better. He would have to find a way in.
He checked his watch.
11:12 P.M.
Dashing down the stone ramp that hugged the inside of the wall, Langdon descended to the courtyard.
Back on ground level, he ran through shadows, clockwise around the fort. He passed three porticos, but
all of them were permanently sealed. How did the Hassassin get in? Langdon pushed on. He passed two
modern entrances, but they were padlocked from the outside. Not here. He kept running.
Langdon had circled almost the entire building when he saw a gravel drive cutting across the courtyard in
front of him. At one end, on the outer wall of the castle, he saw the back of the gated drawbridge leading
back outside. At the other end, the drive disappeared into the fortress. The drive seemed to enter a kind of
tunnel-a gaping entry in the central core. Il traforo! Langdon had read about this castle's traforo, a giant
spiral ramp that circled up inside the fort, used by commanders on horseback to ride from top to bottom
rapidly. The Hassassin drove up! The gate blocking the tunnel was raised, ushering Langdon in. He felt
almost exuberant as he ran toward the tunnel. But as he reached the opening, his excitement disappeared.
The tunnel spiraled down.
The wrong way. This section of the traforo apparently descended to the dungeons, not to the top.
Standing at the mouth of a dark bore that seemed to twist endlessly deeper into the earth, Langdon
hesitated, looking up again at the balcony. He could swear he saw motion up there. Decide! With no other
options, he dashed down into the tunnel.
High overhead, the Hassassin stood over his prey. He ran a hand across her arm. Her skin was like cream.
The anticipation of exploring her bodily treasures was inebriating. How many ways could he violate her?
The Hassassin knew he deserved this woman. He had served Janus well. She was a spoil of war, and
when he was finished with her, he would pull her from the divan and force her to her knees. She would
service him again. The ultimate submission. Then, at the moment of his own climax, he would slit her
throat.
Ghayat assa'adah, they called it. The ultimate pleasure.
Afterward, basking in his glory, he would stand on the balcony and savor the culmination of the
Illuminati triumph . . . a revenge desired by so many for so long.
The tunnel grew darker. Langdon descended.
After one complete turn into the earth, the light was all but gone. The tunnel leveled out, and Langdon
slowed, sensing by the echo of his footfalls that he had just entered a larger chamber. Before him in the
murkiness, he thought he saw glimmers of light . . . fuzzy reflections in the ambient gleam. He moved
forward, reaching out his hand. He found smooth surfaces. Chrome and glass. It was a vehicle. He groped
the surface, found a door, and opened it.
The vehicle's interior dome-light flashed on. He stepped back and recognized the black van immediately.
Feeling a surge of loathing, he stared a moment, then he dove in, rooting around in hopes of finding a
weapon to replace the one he'd lost in the fountain. He found none. He did, however, find Vittoria's cell
phone. It was shattered and useless. The sight of it filled Langdon with fear. He prayed he was not too
late.
He reached up and turned on the van's headlights. The room around him blazed into existence, harsh
shadows in a simple chamber. Langdon guessed the room was once used for horses and ammunition. It
was also a dead end.
No exit. I came the wrong way!
At the end of his rope, Langdon jumped from the van and scanned the walls around him. No doorways.
No gates. He thought of the angel over the tunnel entrance and wondered if it had been a coincidence. No!
He thought of the killer's words at the fountain. She is in the Church of Illumination . . . awaiting my
return. Langdon had come too far to fail now. His heart was pounding. Frustration and hatred were
starting to cripple his senses.
When he saw the blood on the floor, Langdon's first thought was for Vittoria. But as his eyes followed the
stains, he realized they were bloody footprints. The strides were long. The splotches of blood were only
on the left foot. The Hassassin!
Langdon followed the footprints toward the corner of the room, his sprawling shadow growing fainter. He
felt more and more puzzled with every step. The bloody prints looked as though they walked directly into
the corner of the room and then disappeared.
When Langdon arrived in the corner, he could not believe his eyes. The granite block in the floor here
was not a square like the others. He was looking at another signpost. The block was carved into a perfect
pentagram, arranged with the tip pointing into the corner. Ingeniously concealed by overlapping walls, a
narrow slit in the stone served as an exit. Langdon slid through. He was in a passage. In front of him were
the remains of a wooden barrier that had once been blocking this tunnel.
Beyond it there was light.
Langdon was running now. He clambered over the wood and headed for the light. The passage quickly
opened into another, larger chamber. Here a single torch flickered on the wall. Langdon was in a section
of the castle that had no electricity . . . a section no tourists would ever see. The room would have been
frightful in daylight, but the torch made it even more gruesome.
Il prigione.
There were a dozen tiny jail cells, the iron bars on most eroded away. One of the larger cells, however,
remained intact, and on the floor Langdon saw something that almost stopped his heart. Black robes and
red sashes on the floor. This is where he held the cardinals!
Near the cell was an iron doorway in the wall. The door was ajar and beyond it Langdon could see some
sort of passage. He ran toward it. But Langdon stopped before he got there. The trail of blood did not
enter the passage. When Langdon saw the words carved over the archway, he knew why.
Il Passetto.
He was