Angels and Demons

by Dan Brown

  ‘The antimatter is on St Peter’s tomb,’ the camerlengo 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 camerlengo 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 camerlengo spun, grabbed an oil lamp, and headed for the opening.

  119

  The 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 camerlengo from entering the shaft, Chartrand had intervened, grabbing Langdon and holding on. Apparently, the young guard was now convinced the camerlengo knew what he was doing.

  After a brief scuffle, Langdon had freed himself and pursued the camerlengo 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 camerlengo’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 camerlengo 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 camerlengo 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 camerlengo’s message from above.

  The message. This was the leap of faith Vittoria was still struggling to accept. Had God actually communicated with the camerlengo? 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 had made her believe. She still remembered the day she had seen him praying and asked him, ‘Father, why do you bother to pray? God cannot answer you.’

  Leonardo Vetra had looked up from his meditations with a paternal smile. ‘My daughter the skeptic. So you don’t believe God speaks to man? Let me put it in your language.’ He took a model of the human brain down from a shelf and set it in front of her. ‘As you probably know, Vittoria, human beings normally use a very small percentage of their brain power. However, if you put them in emotionally charged situations – like physical trauma, extreme joy or fear, deep meditation – all of a sudden their neurons start firing like crazy, resulting in massively enhanced mental clarity.’

  ‘So what?’ Vittoria said. ‘Just because you think clearly doesn’t mean you talk to God.’

  ‘Aha!’ Vetra exclaimed. ‘And yet remarkable solutions to seemingly impossible problems often occur in these moments of clarity. It’s what gurus call higher consciousness. Biologists call it altered states. Psychologists call it super-sentience.’ He paused. ‘And Christians call it answered prayer.’ Smiling broadly, he added, ‘Sometimes, divine revelation simply means adjusting your brain to hear what your heart already knows.’

  Now, as she dashed down, headlong into the dark, Vittoria sensed perhaps her father was right. Was it so hard to believe that the camerlengo’s trauma had put his mind in a state where he had simply ‘realized’ the antimatter’s location?

  Each of us is a God, Buddha had said. Each of us knows all. We need only open our minds to hear our own wisdom.

  It was in that moment of clarity, as Vittoria plunged deeper into the earth, that she felt her own mind open . . . her own wisdom surface. She sensed now without a doubt what the camerlengo’s intentions were. Her awareness brought with it a fear like nothing she had ever known.

  ‘Camerlengo, no!’ she shouted down the passage. ‘You don’t understand!’ Vittoria pictured the multitudes of people surrounding Vatican City, and her blood ran cold. ‘If you bring the antimatter up . . . everyone will die!’

  Langdon was leaping three steps at a time now, gaining ground. The passage was cramped, but he felt no claustrophobia. His once debilitating fear was overshadowed by a far deeper dread.

  ‘Camerlengo!’ Langdon felt himself closing the gap on the lantern’s glow. ‘You must leave the antimatter where it is! There’s no other choice!’

  Even as Langdon spoke the words, he could not believe them. Not only had he accepted the camerlengo’s divine revelation of the antimatter’s location, but he was lobbying for the destruction of St Peter’s Basilica – one of the greatest architectural feats on earth . . . as well as all of the art inside.

  But the people outside . . . it’s the only way.

  It seemed a cruel irony that the only way to save the people now was to destroy the church. Langdon figured the Illuminati were amused by the symbolism.

  The air coming up from the bottom of the tunnel was cool and dank. Somewhere down here was the sacred Necropolis . . . burial place of St Peter and countless other early Christians. Langdon felt a chill, hoping this was not a suicide mission.

  Suddenly, the camerlengo’s lantern seemed to halt. Langdon closed on him fast.

  The end of the stairs loomed abruptly from out of the shadows. A wrought-iron gate with three embossed skulls blocked the bottom of the stairs. The camerlengo was there, pulling the gate open. Langdon leapt, pushing the gate shut, blocking the camerlengo’s way. The others came thundering down the stairs, everyone ghostly white in the BBC spotlight . . . especially Glick, who was looking more pasty with every step.

  Chartrand grabbed Langdon. ‘Let the camerlengo pass!’

  ‘No!’ Vittoria said from above, breathless. ‘We must evacuate right now! You cannot take the antimatter out of here! If you bring it up, everyone outside will die!’

  The camerlengo’s voice was remarkably calm. ‘All of you . . . we
must trust. We have little time.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Vittoria said. ‘An explosion at ground level will be much worse than one down here!’

  The camerlengo looked at her, his green eyes resplendently sane. ‘Who said anything about an explosion at ground level?’

  Vittoria stared. ‘You’re leaving it down here?’

  The camerlengo’s certitude was hypnotic. ‘There will be no more death tonight.’

  ‘Father, but—’

  ‘Please . . . some faith.’ The camerlengo’s voice plunged to a compelling hush. ‘I am not asking anyone to join me. You are all free to go. All I am asking is that you not interfere with His bidding. Let me do what I have been called to do.’ The camerlengo’s stare intensified. ‘I am to save this church. And I can. I swear on my life.’

  The silence that followed might as well have been thunder.

  120

  Eleven fifty-one p.m.

  Necropolis literally means City of the Dead.

  Nothing Robert Langdon had ever read about this place prepared him for the sight of it. The colossal subterranean hollow was filled with crumbling mausoleums, like small houses on the floor of a cave. The air smelled lifeless. An awkward grid of narrow walkways wound between the decaying memorials, most of which were fractured brick with marble platings. Like columns of dust, countless pillars of unexcavated earth rose up, supporting a dirt sky, which hung low over the penumbral hamlet.

  City of the dead, Langdon thought, feeling trapped between academic wonder and raw fear. He and the others dashed deeper down the winding passages. Did I make the wrong choice?

  Chartrand had been the first to fall under the camerlengo’s spell, yanking open the gate and declaring his faith in the camerlengo. Glick and Macri, at the camerlengo’s suggestion, had nobly agreed to provide light to the quest, although considering what accolades awaited them if they got out of here alive, their motivations were certainly suspect. Vittoria had been the least eager of all, and Langdon had seen in her eyes a wariness that looked, unsettlingly, a lot like female intuition.

  It’s too late now, he thought, he and Vittoria dashing after the others. We’re committed.

  Vittoria was silent, but Langdon knew they were thinking the same thing. Nine minutes is not enough time to get the hell out of Vatican City if the camerlengo is wrong.

  As they ran on through the mausoleums, Langdon felt his legs tiring, noting to his surprise that the group was ascending a steady incline. The explanation, when it dawned on him, sent shivers to his core. The topography beneath his feet was that of Christ’s time. He was running up the original Vatican Hill! Langdon had heard Vatican scholars claim that St Peter’s tomb was near the top of Vatican Hill, and he had always wondered how they knew. Now he understood. The damn hill is still here!

  Langdon felt like he was running through the pages of history. Somewhere ahead was St Peter’s tomb – the Christian relic. It was hard to imagine that the original grave had been marked only with a modest shrine. Not any more. As Peter’s eminence spread, new shrines were built on top of the old, and now, the homage stretched 440 feet overhead to the top of Michelangelo’s dome, the apex positioned directly over the original tomb within a fraction of an inch.

  They continued ascending the sinuous passages. Langdon checked his watch. Eight minutes. He was beginning to wonder if he and Vittoria would be joining the deceased here permanently.

  ‘Look out!’ Glick yelled from behind them. ‘Snake holes!’

  Langdon saw it in time. A series of small holes riddled the path before them. He leapt, just clearing them.

  Vittoria jumped too, barely avoiding the narrow hollows. She looked uneasy as they ran on. ‘Snake holes?’

  ‘Snack holes, actually,’ Langdon corrected. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’ The holes, he had just realized, were libation tubes. The early Christians had believed in the resurrection of the flesh, and they’d used the holes to literally ‘feed the dead’ by pouring milk and honey into crypts beneath the floor.

  The camerlengo felt weak.

  He dashed onward, his legs finding strength in his duty to God and man. Almost there. He was in incredible pain. The mind can bring so much more pain than the body. Still he felt tired. He knew he had precious little time.

  ‘I will save your church, Father. I swear it.’

  Despite the BBC lights behind him, for which he was grateful, the camerlengo carried his oil lamp high. I am a beacon in the darkness. I am the light. The lamp sloshed as he ran, and for an instant he feared the flammable oil might spill and burn him. He had experienced enough burned flesh for one evening.

  As he approached the top of the hill, he was drenched in sweat, barely able to breathe. But when he emerged over the crest, he felt reborn. He staggered onto the flat piece of earth where he had stood many times. Here the path ended. The Necropolis came to an abrupt halt at a wall of earth. A tiny marker read: Mausoleum S.

  La tomba di San Pietro.

  Before him, at waist level, was an opening in the wall. There was no gilded plaque here. No fanfare. Just a simple hole in the wall, beyond which lay a small grotto and a meager, crumbling sarcophagus. The camerlengo gazed into the hole and smiled in exhaustion. He could hear the others coming up the hill behind him. He set down his oil lamp and knelt to pray.

  Thank you, God. It is almost over.

  Outside in the square, surrounded by astounded cardinals, Cardinal Mortati stared up at the media screen and watched the drama unfold in the crypt below. He no longer knew what to believe. Had the entire world just witnessed what he had seen? Had God truly spoken to the camerlengo? Was the antimatter really going to appear on St Peter’s—

  ‘Look!’ A gasp went up from the throngs.

  ‘There!’ Everyone was suddenly pointing at the screen. ‘It’s a miracle!’

  Mortati looked up. The camera angle was unsteady, but it was clear enough. The image was unforgettable.

  Filmed from behind, the camerlengo was kneeling in prayer on the earthen floor. In front of him was a rough-hewn hole in the wall. Inside the hollow, among the rubble of ancient stone, was a terracotta casket. Although Mortati had seen the coffin only once in his life, he knew beyond a doubt what it contained.

  San Pietro.

  Mortati was not naïve enough to think that the shouts of joy and amazement now thundering through the crowd were exaltations from bearing witness to one of Christianity’s most sacred relics. St Peter’s tomb was not what had people falling to their knees in spontaneous prayer and thanksgiving. It was the object on top of his tomb.

  The antimatter canister. It was there . . . where it had been all day . . . hiding in the darkness of the Necropolis. Sleek. Relentless. Deadly. The camerlengo’s revelation was correct.

  Mortati stared in wonder at the transparent cylinder. The globule of liquid still hovered at its core. The grotto around the canister blinked red as the LED counted down into its final five minutes of life.

  Also sitting on the tomb, inches away from the canister, was the wireless Swiss Guard security camera that had been pointed at the canister and transmitting all along.

  Mortati crossed himself, certain this was the most frightful image he had seen in his entire life. He realized, a moment later, however, that it was about to get worse.

  The camerlengo stood suddenly. He grabbed the antimatter in his hands and wheeled toward the others. His face showing total focus. He pushed past the others and began descending the Necropolis the way he had come, running down the hill.

  The camera caught Vittoria Vetra, frozen in terror. ‘Where are you going! Camerlengo! I thought you said—’

  ‘Have faith!’ he exclaimed as he ran off.

  Vittoria spun toward Langdon. ‘What do we do?’

  Robert Langdon tried to stop the camerlengo, but Chartrand was running interference now, apparently trusting the camerlengo’s conviction.

  The picture coming from the BBC camera was like a roller coaster ride now, wi
nding, twisting. Fleeting freeze-frames of confusion and terror as the chaotic cortège stumbled through the shadows back toward the Necropolis entrance.

  Out in the square, Mortati let out a fearful gasp. ‘Is he bringing that up here?’

  On televisions all over the world, larger than life, the camerlengo raced upward out of the Necropolis with the antimatter before him. ‘There will be no more death tonight!’

  But the camerlengo was wrong.

  121

  The camerlengo erupted through the doors of St Peter’s Basilica at exactly 11.56 p.m. He staggered into the dazzling glare of the world spotlight, carrying the antimatter before him like some sort of numinous offering. Through burning eyes he could see his own form, half-naked and wounded, towering like a giant on the media screens around the square. The roar that went up from the crowd in St Peter’s Square was like none the camerlengo had ever heard – crying, screaming, chanting, praying . . . a mix of veneration and terror.

  Deliver us from evil, he whispered.

  He felt totally depleted from his race out of the Necropolis. It had almost ended in disaster. Robert Langdon and Vittoria Vetra had wanted to intercept him, to throw the canister back into its subterranean hiding place, to run outside for cover. Blind fools!

  The camerlengo realized now, with fearful clarity, that on any other night, he would never have won the race. Tonight, however, God again had been with him. Robert Langdon, on the verge of overtaking the camerlengo, had been grabbed by Chartrand, ever trusting and dutiful to the camerlengo’s demands for faith. The reporters, of course, were spellbound and lugging too much equipment to interfere.