Angels & Demons

Across the lot a large media truck was parked. Langdon ran toward it. A paunchy man in headphones sat in the cabin adjusting levers. Langdon rapped on the side of the truck. The man jumped, saw Langdon’s dripping clothes, and yanked off his headset.

"What’s the worry, mate?" His accent was Australian.

"I need 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 two-

hundred-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

Robert 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.