Angels & Demons

Vittoria nodded. "Literally, yes."

The docent smiled faintly. "Now there’s a term I have not heard in a while. If I’m not mistaken, a buco diаvolo refers to an undercroft."

"An undercroft?" Langdon asked. "As in a crypt?"

"Yes, but a specific kind of crypt. I believe a demon’s hole is an ancient term for a massive burial cavity located in a chapel… underneath another tomb."

"An ossuary annex?" Langdon demanded, immediately recognizing what the man was describing.

The docent looked impressed. "Yes! That is the term I was looking for!"

Langdon considered it. Ossuary annexes were a cheap ecclesiastic fix to an awkward dilemma. When churches honored their most distinguished members with ornate tombs inside the sanctuary, surviving family members often demanded the family be buried together… thus ensuring they too would have a coveted burial spot inside the church. However, if the church did not have space or funds to create tombs for an entire family, they sometimes dug an ossuary annex – a hole in the floor near the tomb where they buried the less worthy family members. The hole was then covered with the Renaissance equivalent of a manhole cover. Although convenient, the ossuary annex went out of style quickly because of the stench that often wafted up into the cathedral. Demon’s hole, Langdon thought. He had never heard the term. It seemed eerily fitting.

Langdon’s heart was now pounding fiercely. From Santi’s earthly tomb with demon’s hole. There seemed to be only one question left to ask. "Did Raphael design any tombs that had one of these demon’s holes?"

The docent scratched his head. "Actually. I’m sorry… I can only think of one."

Only one? Langdon could not have dreamed of a better response.

"Where!" Vittoria almost shouted.

The docent eyed them strangely. "It’s called the Chigi Chapel. Tomb of Agostino Chigi and his brother, wealthy patrons of the arts and sciences."

"Sciences?" Langdon said, exchanging looks with Vittoria.

"Where?" Vittoria asked again.

The docent ignored the question, seeming enthusiastic again to be of service. "As for whether or not the tomb is earthly, I don’t know, but certainly it is… shall we say differente."

"Different?" Langdon said. "How?"

"Incoherent with the architecture. Raphael was only the architect. Some other sculptor did the interior adornments. I can’t remember who."

Langdon was now all ears. The anonymous Illuminati master, perhaps?

"Whoever did the interior monuments lacked taste," the docent said. "Dio mio! Atrocitаs! Who would want to be buried beneath piramides?"

Langdon could scarcely believe his ears. "Pyramids? The chapel contains pyramids?"

"I know," the docent scoffed. "Terrible, isn’t it?"

Vittoria grabbed the docent’s arm. "Signore, where is this Chigi Chapel?"

"About a mile north. In the church of Santa Maria del Popolo."

Vittoria exhaled. "Thank you. Let’s – "

"Hey," the docent said, "I just thought of something. What a fool I am."

Vittoria stopped short. "Please don’t tell me you made a mistake."

He shook his head. "No, but it should have dawned on me earlier. The Chigi Chapel was not always known as the Chigi. It used to be called Capella della Terra."

"Chapel of the Land?" Langdon asked.

"No," Vittoria said, heading for the door. "Chapel of the Earth."

Vittoria Vetra whipped out her cell phone as she dashed into Piazza della Rotunda. "Commander Olivetti," she said. "This is the wrong place!"

Olivetti sounded bewildered. "Wrong? What do you mean?"

"The first altar of science is at the Chigi Chapel!"

"Where?" Now Olivetti sounded angry. "But Mr. Langdon said – "

"Santa Maria del Popolo! One mile north. Get your men over there now! We’ve got four minutes!"

"But my men are in position here! I can’t possibly – "

"Move!" Vittoria snapped the phone shut.

Behind her, Langdon emerged from the Pantheon, dazed.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the queue of seemingly driverless taxis waiting by the curb. She pounded on the hood of the first car in line. The sleeping driver bolted upright with a startled yelp. Vittoria yanked open the rear door and pushed Langdon inside. Then she jumped in behind him.

"Santa Maria del Popolo," she ordered. "Presto!"

Looking delirious and half terrified, the driver hit the accelerator, peeling out down the street.

Gunther Glick had assumed control of the computer from Chinita Macri, who now stood hunched in the back of the cramped BBC van staring in confusion over Glick’s shoulder.

"I told you," Glick said, typing some more keys. "The British Tattler isn’t the only paper that runs stories on these guys."

Macri peered closer. Glick was right. The BBC database showed their distinguished network as having picked up and run six stories in the past ten years on the brotherhood called the Illuminati. Well, paint me purple, she thought. "Who are the journalists who ran the stories," Macri asked. "Schlock jocks?"

"BBC doesn’t hire schlock jocks."

"They hired you."

Glick scowled. "I don’t know why you’re such a skeptic. The Illuminati are well documented throughout history."

"So are witches, UFOs, and the Loch Ness Monster."

Glick read the list of stories. "You ever heard of a guy called Winston Churchill?"

"Rings a bell."

"BBC did a historical a while back on Churchill’s life. Staunch Catholic by the way. Did you know that in 1920 Churchill published a statement condemning the Illuminati and warning Brits of a worldwide conspiracy against morality?"

Macri was dubious. "Where did it run? In the British Tattler?"

Glick smiled. "London Herald. February 8, 1920."

"No way."

"Feast your eyes."

Macri looked closer at the clip. London Herald. Feb. 8, 1920. I had no idea. "Well, Churchill was a paranoid."

"He wasn’t alone," Glick said, reading further. "Looks like Woodrow Wilson gave three radio broadcasts in 1921 warning of growing Illuminati control over the U.S. banking system. You want a direct quote from the radio transcript?"

"Not really."

Glick gave her one anyway. "He said, ‘There is a power so organized, so subtle, so complete, so pervasive, that none had better speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of it.’ "

"I’ve never heard anything about this."

"Maybe because in 1921 you were just a kid."

"Charming." Macri took the jab in stride. She knew her years were showing. At forty-three, her bushy black curls were streaked with gray. She was too proud for dye. Her mom, a Southern Baptist, had taught Chinita contentedness and self-respect. When you’re a black woman, her mother said, ain’t no hiding what you are. Day you try, is the day you die. Stand tall, smile bright, and let ’em wonder what secret’s making you laugh.

"Ever heard of Cecil Rhodes?" Glick asked.

Macri looked up. "The British financier?"

"Yeah. Founded the Rhodes Scholarships."

"Don’t tell me – "

"Illuminatus."

"BS."

"BBC, actually. November 16, 1984."

"We wrote that Cecil Rhodes was Illuminati?"