by Dan Brown
Next, he repeated the entire procedure. He chose a ballot from the chalice, read it aloud, threaded it onto the line, and made note in his log. Almost immediately, Mortati sensed this first vote would be failed. No consensus. After only seven ballots, already seven different cardinals had been named. As was normal, the handwriting on each ballot was disguised by block printing or flamboyant script. The concealment was ironic in this case because the cardinals were obviously submitting votes for themselves. This apparent conceit, Mortati knew, had nothing to do with self-centered ambition. It was a holding pattern. A defensive maneuver. A stall tactic to ensure no cardinal received enough votes to win… and another vote would be forced.
The cardinals were waiting for their preferiti…
When the last of the ballots had been tallied, Mortati declared the vote “failed.”
He took the thread carrying all the ballots and tied the ends together to create a ring. Then he lay the ring of ballots on a silver tray. He added the proper chemicals and carried the tray to a small chimney behind him. Here he lit the ballots. As the ballots burned, the chemicals he’d added created black smoke. The smoke flowed up a pipe to a hole in the roof where it rose above the chapel for all to see. Cardinal Mortati had just sent his first communication to the outside world.
One balloting. No Pope.
69
Nearly asphyxiated by fumes, Langdon struggled up the ladder toward the light at the top of the pit. Above him he heard voices, but nothing was making sense. His head was spinning with images of the branded cardinal.
Earth… Earth…
As he pushed upward, his vision narrowed and he feared consciousness would slip away. Two rungs from the top, his balance faltered. He lunged upward trying to find the lip, but it was too far. He lost his grip on the ladder and almost tumbled backward into the dark. There was a sharp pain under his arms, and suddenly Langdon was airborne, legs swinging wildly out over the chasm.
The strong hands of two Swiss Guards hooked him under the armpits and dragged him skyward. A moment later Langdon’s head emerged from the Demon’s hole, choking and gasping for air. The guards dragged him over the lip of the opening, across the floor, and lay him down, back against the cold marble floor.
For a moment, Langdon was unsure where he was. Overhead he saw stars… orbiting planets. Hazy figures raced past him. People were shouting. He tried to sit up. He was lying at the base of a stone pyramid. The familiar bite of an angry tongue echoed inside the chapel, and then Langdon knew.
Olivetti was screaming at Vittoria. “Why the hell didn’t you figure that out in the first place!”
Vittoria was trying to explain the situation.
Olivetti cut her off midsentence and turned to bark orders to his men. “Get that body out of there! Search the rest of the building!”
Langdon tried to sit up. The Chigi Chapel was packed with Swiss Guards. The plastic curtain over the chapel opening had been torn off the entryway, and fresh air filled Langdon’s lungs. As his senses slowly returned, Langdon saw Vittoria coming toward him. She knelt down, her face like an angel.
“You okay?” Vittoria took his arm and felt his pulse. Her hands were tender on his skin.
“Thanks.” Langdon sat up fully. “Olivetti’s mad.”
Vittoria nodded. “He has a right to be. We blew it.”
“You mean I blew it.”
“So redeem yourself. Get him next time.”
Next time? Langdon thought it was a cruel comment. There is no next time! We missed our shot!
Vittoria checked Langdon’s watch. “Mickey says we’ve got forty minutes. Get your head together and help me find the next marker.”
“I told you, Vittoria, the sculptures are gone. The Path of Illumination is—” Langdon halted.
Vittoria smiled softly.
Suddenly Langdon was staggering to his feet. He turned dizzying circles, staring at the artwork around him. Pyramids, stars, planets, ellipses. Suddenly everything came back. This is the first altar of science! Not the Pantheon! It dawned on him now how perfectly Illuminati the chapel was, far more subtle and selective than the world famous Pantheon. The Chigi was an out of the way alcove, a literal hole-in-the-wall, a tribute to a great patron of science, decorated with earthly symbology. Perfect.
Langdon steadied himself against the wall and gazed up at the enormous pyramid sculptures. Vittoria was dead right. If this chapel was the first altar of science, it might still contain the Illuminati sculpture that served as the first marker. Langdon felt an electrifying rush of hope to realize there was still a chance. If the marker were indeed here, and they could follow it to the next altar of science, they might have another chance to catch the killer.
Vittoria moved closer. “I found out who the unknown Illuminati sculptor was.”
Langdon’s head whipped around. “You what?”
“Now we just need to figure out which sculpture in here is the—”
“Wait a minute! You know who the Illuminati sculptor was?” He had spent years trying to find that information.
Vittoria smiled. “It was Bernini.” She paused. “The Bernini.”
Langdon immediately knew she was mistaken. Bernini was an impossibility. Gianlorenzo Bernini was the second most famous sculptor of all time, his fame eclipsed only by Michelangelo himself. During the 1600s Bernini created more sculptures than any other artist. Unfortunately, the man they were looking for was supposedly an unknown, a nobody.
Vittoria frowned. “You don’t look excited.”
“Bernini is impossible.”
“Why? Bernini was a contemporary of Galileo. He was a brilliant sculptor.”
“He was a very famous man and a Catholic.”
“Yes,” Vittoria said. “Exactly like Galileo.”
“No,” Langdon argued. “Nothing like Galileo. Galileo was a thorn in the Vatican’s side. Bernini was the Vatican’s wonder boy. The church loved Bernini. He was elected the Vatican’s overall artistic authority. He practically lived inside Vatican City his entire life!”
“A perfect cover. Illuminati infiltration.”
Langdon felt flustered. “Vittoria, the Illuminati members referred to their secret artist as il maestro ignoto–the unknown master.”
“Yes, unknown to them. Think of the secrecy of the Masons—only the upper-echelon members knew the whole truth. Galileo could have kept Bernini’s true identity secret from most members… for Bernini’s own safety. That way, the Vatican would never find out.”
Langdon was unconvinced but had to admit Vittoria’s logic made strange sense. The Illuminati were famous for keeping secret information compartmentalized, only revealing the truth to upper-level members. It was the cornerstone of their ability to stay secret… very few knew the whole story.
“And Bernini’s affiliation with the Illuminati,” Vittoria added with a smile, “explains why he designed those two pyramids.”
Langdon turned to the huge sculpted pyramids and shook his head. “Bernini was a religious sculptor. There’s no way he carved those pyramids.”
Vittoria shrugged. “Tell that to the sign behind you.”
Langdon turned to the plaque:
ART OF THE CHIGI CHAPEL
While the architecture is Raphael’s, all interior adornments are those of Gianlorenzo Bernini.
Langdon read the plaque twice, and still he was not convinced. Gianlorenzo Bernini was celebrated for his intricate, holy sculptures of the Virgin Mary, angels, prophets, Popes. What was he doing carving pyramids?
Langdon looked up at the towering monuments and felt totally disoriented. Two pyramids, each with a shining, elliptical medallion. They were about as un-Christian as sculpture could get. The pyramids, the stars above, the signs of the Zodiac. All interior adornments are those of Gianlorenzo Bernini. If that were true, Langdon realized, it meant Vittoria had to be right. By default, Bernini was the Illuminati’s unknown master; nobody else had contributed artwork to this chapel! The implications came almost
too fast for Langdon to process.
Bernini was an Illuminatus.
Bernini designed the Illuminati ambigrams.
Bernini laid out the path of Illumination.
Langdon could barely speak. Could it be that here in this tiny Chigi Chapel, the world-renowned Bernini had placed a sculpture that pointed across Rome toward the next altar of science?
“Bernini,” he said. “I never would have guessed.”
“Who other than a famous Vatican artist would have had the clout to put his artwork in specific Catholic chapels around Rome and create the Path of Illumination? Certainly not an unknown.”
Langdon considered it. He looked at the pyramids, wondering if one of them could somehow be the marker. Maybe both of them? “The pyramids face opposite directions,” Langdon said, not sure what to make of them. “They are also identical, so I don’t know which…”
“I don’t think the pyramids are what we’re looking for.”
“But they’re the only sculptures here.”
Vittoria cut him off by pointing toward Olivetti and some of his guards who were gathered near the demon’s hole.
Langdon followed the line of her hand to the far wall. At first he saw nothing. Then someone moved and he caught a glimpse. White marble. An arm. A torso. And then a sculpted face. Partially hidden in its niche. Two life-size human figures intertwined. Langdon’s pulse accelerated. He had been so taken with the pyramids and demon’s hole, he had not even seen this sculpture. He moved across the room, through the crowd. As he drew near, Langdon recognized the work was pure Bernini—the intensity of the artistic composition, the intricate faces and flowing clothing, all from the purest white marble Vatican money could buy. It was not until he was almost directly in front of it that Langdon recognized the sculpture itself. He stared up at the two faces and gasped.
“Who are they?” Vittoria urged, arriving behind him.
Langdon stood astonished. “Habakkuk and the Angel,” he said, his voice almost inaudible. The piece was a fairly well-known Bernini work that was included in some art history texts. Langdon had forgotten it was here.
“Habakkuk?”
“Yes. The prophet who predicted the annihilation of the earth.”
Vittoria looked uneasy. “You think this is the marker?”
Langdon nodded in amazement. Never in his life had he been so sure of anything. This was the first Illuminati marker. No doubt. Although Langdon had fully expected the sculpture to somehow “point” to the next altar of science, he did not expect it to be literal. Both the angel and Habakkuk had their arms outstretched and were pointing into the distance.
Langdon found himself suddenly smiling. “Not too subtle, is it?”
Vittoria looked excited but confused. “I see them pointing, but they are contradicting each other. The angel is pointing one way, and the prophet the other.”
Langdon chuckled. It was true. Although both figures were pointing into the distance, they were pointing in totally opposite directions. Langdon, however, had already solved that problem. With a burst of energy he headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Vittoria called.
“Outside the building!” Langdon’s legs felt light again as he ran toward the door. “I need to see what direction that sculpture is pointing!”
“Wait! How do you know which finger to follow?”
“The poem,” he called over his shoulder. “The last line!”
“ ‘Let angels guide you on your lofty quest?’ ” She gazed upward at the outstretched finger of the angel. Her eyes misted unexpectedly. “Well I’ll be damned!”
70
Gunther Glick and Chinita Macri sat parked in the BBC van in the shadows at the far end of Piazza del Popolo. They had arrived shortly after the four Alpha Romeos, just in time to witness an inconceivable chain of events. Chinita still had no idea what it all meant, but she’d made sure the camera was rolling.
As soon as they’d arrived, Chinita and Glick had seen a veritable army of young men pour out of the Alpha Romeos and surround the church. Some had weapons drawn. One of them, a stiff older man, led a team up the front steps of the church. The soldiers drew guns and blew the locks off the front doors. Macri heard nothing and figured they must have had silencers. Then the soldiers entered.
Chinita had recommended they sit tight and film from the shadows. After all, guns were guns, and they had a clear view of the action from the van. Glick had not argued. Now, across the piazza, men moved in and out of the church. They yelled to each other. Chinita adjusted her camera to follow a team as they searched the surrounding area. All of them, though dressed in civilian clothes, seemed to move with military precision. “Who do you think they are?” she asked.
“Hell if I know.” Glick looked riveted. “You getting all this?”
“Every frame.”
Glick sounded smug. “Still think we should go back to Pope-Watch?”
Chinita wasn’t sure what to say. There was obviously something going on here, but she had been in journalism long enough to know that there was often a very dull explanation for interesting events. “This could be nothing,” she said. “These guys could have gotten the same tip you got and are just checking it out. Could be a false alarm.”
Glick grabbed her arm. “Over there! Focus.” He pointed back to the church.
Chinita swung the camera back to the top of the stairs. “Hello there,” she said, training on the man now emerging from the church.
“Who’s the dapper?”
Chinita moved in for a close-up. “Haven’t seen him before.” She tightened in on the man’s face and smiled. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing him again.”
Robert Langdon dashed down the stairs outside the church and into the middle of the piazza. It was getting dark now, the springtime sun setting late in southern Rome. The sun had dropped below the surrounding buildings, and shadows streaked the square.
“Okay, Bernini,” he said aloud to himself. “Where the hell is your angel pointing?”
He turned and examined the orientation of the church from which he had just come. He pictured the Chigi Chapel inside, and the sculpture of the angel inside that. Without hesitation he turned due west, into the glow of the impending sunset. Time was evaporating.
“Southwest,” he said, scowling at the shops and apartments blocking his view. “The next marker is out there.”
Racking his brain, Langdon pictured page after page of Italian art history. Although very familiar with Bernini’s work, Langdon knew the sculptor had been far too prolific for any nonspecialist to know all of it. Still, considering the relative fame of the first marker—Habakkuk and the Angel–Langdon hoped the second marker was a work he might know from memory.
Earth, Air, Fire, Water, he thought. Earth they had found—inside the Chapel of the Earth—Habakkuk, the prophet who predicted the earth’s annihilation.
Air is next. Langdon urged himself to think. A Bernini sculpture that has something to do with Air! He was drawing a total blank. Still he felt energized. I’m on the path of Illumination! It is still intact!
Looking southwest, Langdon strained to see a spire or cathedral tower jutting up over the obstacles. He saw nothing. He needed a map. If they could figure out what churches were southwest of here, maybe one of them would spark Langdon’s memory. Air, he pressed. Air. Bernini. Sculpture. Air. Think!
Langdon turned and headed back up the cathedral stairs. He was met beneath the scaffolding by Vittoria and Olivetti.
“Southwest,” Langdon said, panting. “The next church is southwest of here.”
Olivetti’s whisper was cold. “You sure this time?”
Langdon didn’t bite. “We need a map. One that shows all the churches in Rome.”
The commander studied him a moment, his expression never changing.
Langdon checked his watch. “We only have half an hour.”
Olivetti moved past Langdon down the stairs toward his car, parked directly in front of the c
athedral. Langdon hoped he was going for a map.
Vittoria looked excited. “So the angel’s pointing southwest? No idea which churches are southwest?”
“I can’t see past the damn buildings.” Langdon turned and faced the square again. “And I don’t know Rome’s churches well enou—” He stopped.
Vittoria looked startled. “What?”
Langdon looked out at the piazza again. Having ascended the church stairs, he was now higher, and his view was better. He still couldn’t see anything, but he realized he was moving in the right direction. His eyes climbed the tower of rickety scaffolding above him. It rose six stories, almost to the top of the church’s rose window, far higher than the other buildings in the square. He knew in an instant where he was headed.
Across the square, Chinita Macri and Gunther Glick sat glued to the windshield of the BBC van.
“You getting this?” Gunther asked.
Macri tightened her shot on the man now climbing the scaffolding. “He’s a little well dressed to be playing Spiderman if you ask me.”
“And who’s Ms. Spidey?”
Chinita glanced at the attractive woman beneath the scaffolding. “Bet you’d like to find out.”
“Think I should call editorial?”
“Not yet. Let’s watch. Better to have something in the can before we admit we abandoned conclave.”
“You think somebody really killed one of the old farts in there?”
Chinita clucked. “You’re definitely going to hell.”
“And I’ll be taking the Pulitzer with me.”
71
The scaffolding seemed less stable the higher Langdon climbed. His view of Rome, however, got better with every step. He continued upward.
