h, a ghost appeared . . . a diaphanous, glowing outline. The
pale shape was that of the half-naked camerlegno. The specter seemed transparent, radiating light.
Chartrand staggered to a stop, feeling a knot tighten in his chest. The camerlegno is glowing! The body
seemed to shine brighter now. Then, it began to sink . . . deeper and deeper, until it disappeared as if by
magic into the blackness of the floor.
Langdon had seen the phantom also. For a moment, he too thought he had witnessed a magical vision.
But as he passed the stunned Chartrand and ran toward the spot where the camerlegno had disappeared,
he realized what had just happened. The camerlegno had arrived at the Niche of the Palliums-the sunken
chamber lit by ninety-nine oil lamps. The lamps in the niche shone up from beneath, illuminating him like
a ghost. Then, as the camerlegno descended the stairs into the light, he had seemed to disappear beneath
the floor.
Langdon arrived breathless at the rim overlooking the sunken room. He peered down the stairs. At the
bottom, lit by the golden glow of oil lamps, the camerlegno dashed across the marble chamber toward the
set of glass doors that led to the room holding the famous golden box.
What is he doing? Langdon wondered. Certainly he can't think the golden box-
The camerlegno yanked open the doors and ran inside. Oddly though, he totally ignored the golden box,
rushing right past it. Five feet beyond the box, he dropped to his knees and began struggling to lift an iron
grate embedded in the floor.
Langdon watched in horror, now realizing where the camerlegno was headed. Good God, no! He dashed
down the stairs after him. "Father! Don't!"
As Langdon opened the glass doors and ran toward the camerlegno, he saw the camerlegno heave on the
grate. The hinged, iron bulkhead fell open with a deafening crash, revealing a narrow shaft and a steep
stairway that dropped into nothingness. As the camerlegno moved toward the hole, Langdon grabbed his
bare shoulders and pulled him back. The man's skin was slippery with sweat, but Langdon held on.
The camerlegno wheeled, obviously startled. "What are you doing!"
Langdon was surprised when their eyes met. The camerlegno no longer had the glazed look of a man in a
trance. His eyes were keen, glistening with a lucid determination. The brand on his chest looked
excruciating.
"Father," Langdon urged, as calmly as possible, "you can't go down there. We need to evacuate."
"My son," the camerlegno said, his voice eerily sane. "I have just had a message. I know-"
"Camerlegno!" It was Chartrand and the others. They came dashing down the stairs into the room, lit by
Macri's camera.
When Chartrand saw the open grate in the floor, his eyes filled with dread. He crossed himself and shot
Langdon a thankful look for having stopped the camerlegno. Langdon understood; had read enough about
Vatican architecture to know what lay beneath that grate. It was the most sacred place in all of
Christendom. Terra Santa. Holy Ground. Some called it the Necropolis. Some called it the Catacombs.
According to accounts from the select few clergy who had descended over the years, the Necropolis was a
dark maze of subterranean crypts that could swallow a visitor whole if he lost his way. It was not the kind
of place through which they wanted to be chasing the camerlegno.
"Signore," Chartrand pleaded. "You're in shock. We need to leave this place. You cannot go down there.
It's suicide."
The camerlegno seemed suddenly stoic. He reached out and put a quiet hand on Chartrand's shoulder.
"Thank you for your concern and service. I cannot tell you how. I cannot tell you I understand. But I have
had a revelation. I know where the antimatter is."
Everyone stared.
The camerlegno turned to the group. "Upon this rock I will build my church. That was the message. The
meaning is clear."
Langdon was still unable to comprehend the camerlegno's conviction that he had spoken to God, much
less that he had deciphered the message. Upon this rock I will build my church? They were the words
spoken by Jesus when he chose Peter as his first apostle. What did they have to do with anything?
Macri moved in for a closer shot. Glick was mute, as if shell-shocked.
The camerlegno spoke quickly now. "The Illuminati have placed their tool of destruction on the very
cornerstone of this church. At the foundation." He motioned down the stairs. "On the very rock upon
which this church was built. And I know where that rock is."
Langdon was certain the time had come to overpower the camerlegno and carry him off. As lucid as he
seemed, the priest was talking nonsense. A rock? The cornerstone in the foundation? The stairway before
them didn't lead to the foundation, it led to the necropolis! "The quote is a metaphor, Father! There is no
actual rock!"
The camerlegno looked strangely sad. "There is a rock, my son." He pointed into the hole. "Pietro è la
pietra."
Langdon froze. In an instant it all came clear.
The austere simplicity of it gave him chills. As Langdon stood there with the others, staring down the
long staircase, he realized that there was indeed a rock buried in the darkness beneath this church.
Pietro è la pietra. Peter is the rock.
Peter's faith in God was so steadfast that Jesus called Peter "the rock"-the unwavering disciple on
whose shoulders Jesus would build his church. On this very location, Langdon realized-Vatican
Hill-Peter had been crucified and buried. The early Christians built a small shrine over his tomb. As
Christianity spread, the shrine got bigger, layer upon layer, culminating in this colossal basilica. The
entire Catholic faith had been built, quite literally, upon St. Peter. The rock.
"The antimatter is on St. Peter's tomb," the camerlegno said, his voice crystalline.
Despite the seemingly supernatural origin of the information, Langdon sensed a stark logic in it. Placing
the antimatter on St. Peter's tomb seemed painfully obvious now. The Illuminati, in an act of symbolic
defiance, had located the antimatter at the core of Christendom, both literally and figuratively. The
ultimate infiltration.
"And if you all need worldly proof," the camerlegno said, sounding impatient now, "I just found that
grate unlocked." He pointed to the open bulkhead in the floor. "It is never unlocked. Someone has been
down there . . . recently."
Everyone stared into the hole.
An instant later, with deceptive agility, the camerlegno spun, grabbed an oil lamp, and headed for the
opening.
119
T he stone steps declined steeply into the earth.
I'm going to die down here, Vittoria thought, gripping the heavy rope banister as she bounded down the
cramped passageway behind the others. Although Langdon had made a move to stop the camerlegno from
entering the shaft, Chartrand had intervened, grabbing Langdon and holding on. Apparently, the young
guard was now convinced the camerlegno knew what he was doing.
After a brief scuffle, Langdon had freed himself and pursued the camerlegno with Chartrand close on his
heels. Instinctively, Vittoria had dashed after them.
Now she was racing headlong down a precipitous grade where any misplaced step could mean a deadly
fall. Far below, she could see the golden glow of the camerlegno's oil lamp. Behind her, Vittoria could
hear the BBC reporters hurrying to keep up. The camera spotlight threw gnarled shadows beyond her
down the shaft, illuminating Chartrand and Langdon. Vittoria could scarcely believe the world was
bearing witness to this insanity. Turn off the damn camera! Then again, she knew the light was the only
reason any of them could see where they were going.
As the bizarre chase continued, Vittoria's thoughts whipped like a tempest. What could the camerlegno
possibly do down here? Even if he found the antimatter? There was no time!
Vittoria was surprised to find her intuition now telling her the camerlegno was probably right. Placing the
antimatter three stories beneath the earth seemed an almost noble and merciful choice. Deep
underground-much as in Z-lab-an antimatter annihilation would be partially contained. There would be
no heat blast, no flying shrapnel to injure onlookers, just a biblical opening of the earth and a towering
basilica crumbling into a crater.
Was this Kohler's one act of decency? Sparing lives? Vittoria still could not fathom the director's
involvement. She could accept his hatred of religion . . . but this awesome conspiracy seemed beyond
him. Was Kohler's loathing really this profound? Destruction of the Vatican? Hiring an assassin? The
murders of her father, the Pope, and four cardinals? It seemed unthinkable. And how had Kohler managed
all this treachery within the Vatican walls? Rocher was Kohler's inside man, Vittoria told herself. Rocher
was an Illuminatus. No doubt Captain Rocher had keys to everything-the Pope's chambers, Il Passetto,
the Necropolis, St. Peter's tomb, all of it. He could have placed the antimatter on St. Peter's tomb-a
highly restricted locale-and then commanded his guards not to waste time searching the Vatican's
restricted areas. Rocher knew nobody would ever find the canister.
But Rocher never counted on the camerlegno's message from above.
The message. This was the leap of faith Vittoria was still struggling to accept. Had God actually
communicated with the camerlegno? Vittoria's gut said no, and yet hers was the science of entanglement
physics-the study of interconnectedness. She witnessed miraculous communications every day-twin
sea-turtle eggs separated and placed in labs thousands of miles apart hatching at the same instant . . . acres
of jellyfish pulsating in perfect rhythm as if of a single mind. There are invisible lines of communication
everywhere, she thought.
But between God and man?
Vittoria wished her father were there to give her faith. He had once explained divine communication to
her in scientific terms, and he