nward.
My God!
In the chest, the five brands sat in compartments around the outer edge. But in the center, there was
another compartment. This partition was empty, but it clearly was intended to hold another brand . . . a
brand much larger than the others, and perfectly square.
The attack was a blur.
The Hassassin swooped toward him like a bird of prey. Langdon, his concentration having been
masterfully diverted, tried to counter, but the pipe felt like a tree trunk in his hands. His parry was too
slow. The Hassassin dodged. As Langdon tried to retract the bar, the Hassassin's hands shot out and
grabbed it. The man's grip was strong, his injured arm seeming no longer to affect him. Violently, the two
men struggled. Langdon felt the bar ripped away, and a searing pain shot through his palm. An instant
later, Langdon was staring into the splintered point of the weapon. The hunter had become the hunted.
Langdon felt like he'd been hit by a cyclone. The Hassassin circled, smiling now, backing Langdon
against the wall. "What is your American adàgio?" he chided. "Something about curiosity and the cat?"
Langdon could barely focus. He cursed his carelessness as the Hassassin moved in. Nothing was making
sense. A sixth Illuminati brand? In frustration he blurted, "I've never read anything about a sixth
Illuminati brand!"
"I think you probably have." The killer chuckled as he herded Langdon around the oval wall.
Langdon was lost. He most certainly had not. There were five Illuminati brands. He backed up, searching
the room for any weapon at all.
"A perfect union of the ancient elements," the Hassassin said. "The final brand is the most brilliant of all.
I'm afraid you will never see it, though."
Langdon sensed he would not be seeing much of anything in a moment. He kept backing up, searching
the room for an option. "And you've seen this final brand?" Langdon demanded, trying to buy time.
"Someday perhaps they will honor me. As I prove myself." He jabbed at Langdon, as if enjoying a game.
Langdon slid backward again. He had the feeling the Hassassin was directing him around the wall toward
some unseen destination. Where? Langdon could not afford to look behind him. "The brand?" he
demanded. "Where is it?"
"Not here. Janus is apparently the only one who holds it."
"Janus?" Langdon did not recognize the name.
"The Illuminati leader. He is arriving shortly."
"The Illuminati leader is coming here?"
"To perform the final branding."
Langdon shot a frightened glance to Vittoria. She looked strangely calm, her eyes closed to the world
around her, her lungs pulling slowly . . . deeply. Was she the final victim? Was he?
"Such conceit," the Hassassin sneered, watching Langdon's eyes. "The two of you are nothing. You will
die, of course, that is for certain. But the final victim of whom I speak is a truly dangerous enemy."
Langdon tried to make sense of the Hassassin's words. A dangerous enemy? The top cardinals were all
dead. The Pope was dead. The Illuminati had wiped them all out. Langdon found the answer in the
vacuum of the Hassassin's eyes.
The camerlegno.
Camerlegno Ventresca was the one man who had been a beacon of hope for the world through this entire
tribulation. The camerlegno had done more to condemn the Illuminati tonight than decades of conspiracy
theorists. Apparently he would pay the price. He was the Illuminati's final target.
"You'll never get to him," Langdon challenged.
"Not I," the Hassassin replied, forcing Langdon farther back around the wall. "That honor is reserved for
Janus himself."
"The Illuminati leader himself intends to brand the camerlegno?"
"Power has its privileges."
"But no one could possibly get into Vatican City right now!"
The Hassassin looked smug. "Not unless he had an appointment."
Langdon was confused. The only person expected at the Vatican right now was the person the press was
calling the 11th Hour Samaritan-the person Rocher said had information that could save-
Langdon stopped short. Good God!
The Hassassin smirked, clearly enjoying Langdon's sickening cognition. "I too wondered how Janus
would gain entrance. Then in the van I heard the radio-a report about an 11th hour Samaritan." He
smiled. "The Vatican will welcome Janus with open arms."
Langdon almost stumbled backward. Janus is the Samaritan! It was an unthinkable deception. The
Illuminati leader would get a royal escort directly to the camerlegno's chambers. But how did Janus fool
Rocher? Or was Rocher somehow involved? Langdon felt a chill. Ever since he had almost suffocated in
the secret archives, Langdon had not entirely trusted Rocher.
The Hassassin jabbed suddenly, nicking Langdon in the side.
Langdon jumped back, his temper flaring. "Janus will never get out alive!"
The Hassassin shrugged. "Some causes are worth dying for."
Langdon sensed the killer was serious. Janus coming to Vatican City on a suicide mission? A question of
honor? For an instant, Langdon's mind took in the entire terrifying cycle. The Illuminati plot had come
full circle. The priest whom the Illuminati had inadvertently brought to power by killing the Pope had
emerged as a worthy adversary. In a final act of defiance, the Illuminati leader would destroy him.
Suddenly, Langdon felt the wall behind him disappear. There was a rush of cool air, and he staggered
backward into the night. The balcony! He now realized what the Hassassin had in mind.
Langdon immediately sensed the precipice behind him-a hundred-foot drop to the courtyard below. He
had seen it on his way in. The Hassassin wasted no time. With a violent surge, he lunged. The spear sliced
toward Langdon's midsection. Langdon skidded back, and the point came up short, catching only his
shirt. Again the point came at him. Langdon slid farther back, feeling the banister right behind him.
Certain the next jab would kill him, Langdon attempted the absurd. Spinning to one side, he reached out
and grabbed the shaft, sending a jolt of pain through his palm. Langdon held on.
The Hassassin seemed unfazed. They strained for a moment against one another, face to face, the
Hassassin's breath fetid in Langdon's nostrils. The bar began to slip. The Hassassin was too strong. In a
final act of desperation, Langdon stretched out his leg, dangerously off balance as he tried to ram his foot
down on the Hassassin's injured toe. But the man was a professional and adjusted to protect his weakness.
Langdon had just played his final card. And he knew he had lost the hand.
The Hassassin's arms exploded upward, driving Langdon back against the railing. Langdon sensed
nothing but empty space behind him as the railing hit just beneath his buttocks. The Hassassin held the
bar crosswise and drove it into Langdon's chest. Langdon's back arched over the chasm.
"Ma'assalamah," the Hassassin sneered. "Good-bye."
With a merciless glare, the Hassassin gave a final shove. Langdon's center of gravity shifted, and his feet
swung up off the floor. With only one hope of survival, Langdon grabbed on to the railing as he went
over. His left hand slipped, but his right hand held on. He ended up hanging upside down by his legs and
one hand . . . straining to hold on.
Looming over him, the Hassassin raised the bar overhead, preparing to bring it crashing down. As the bar
began to accelerate, Langdon saw a vision. Perhaps it was the imminence of death or simply blind fear,
but in that moment, he sensed a sudden aura surrounding the Hassassin. A glowing effulgence seemed to
swell out of nothing behind him . . . like an incoming fireball.
Halfway through his swing, the Hassassin dropped the bar and screamed in agony.
The iron bar clattered past Langdon out into the night. The Hassassin spun away from him, and Langdon
saw a blistering torch burn on the killer's back. Langdon pulled himself up to see Vittoria, eyes flaring,
now facing the Hassassin.
Vittoria waved a torch in front of her, the vengeance in her face resplendent in the flames. How she had
escaped, Langdon did not know or care. He began scrambling back up over the banister.
The battle would be short. The Hassassin was a deadly match. Screaming with rage, the killer lunged for
her. She tried to dodge, but the man was on her, holding the torch and about to wrestle it away. Langdon
did not wait. Leaping off the banister, Langdon jabbed his clenched fist into the blistered burn on the
Hassassin's back.
The scream seemed to echo all the way to the Vatican.
The Hassassin froze a moment, his back arched in anguish. He let go of the torch, and Vittoria thrust it
hard into his face. There was a hiss of flesh as his left eye sizzled. He screamed again, raising his hands to
his face.
"Eye for an eye," Vittoria hissed. This time she swung the torch like a bat, and when it connected, the
Hassassin stumbled back against the railing. Langdon and Vittoria went for him at the same instant, both
heaving and pushing. The Hassassin's body sailed backward over the banister into the night. There was
no scream. The only sound was the crack of his spine as he landed spread-eagle on a pile of cannonballs
far below.
Langdon turned and stared at Vittoria in bewilderment. Slackened ropes hung off her midsection and
shoulders. Her eyes blazed like an inferno.
"Houdini knew yoga."
109
M eanwhile, in St. Peter's Square, the wall of Swiss Guards yelled orders and fanned outward, trying
to push the crowds back to a safer distance. It was no use. The crowd was too dense and seemed far more
interested in the Vatican's impending doom than in their own safety. The towering media screens in the
square were now transmitting a live countdown of the antimatter canister-a direct feed from the Swiss
Guard security monitor-compliments of the camerlegno. Unfortunately, the image of the canister
counting down was doing nothing to repel the crowds. The people in the square apparently looked at the
tiny droplet of