None.
Chartrand’s mind was on overload. "What if we don’t find it in time?" he asked, immediately wishing he had not.
The grizzly bear gazed out at him from beneath his red beret. Then he dismissed the group with a somber salute. "Godspeed, men."
60
Two blocks from the Pantheon, Langdon and Vittoria approached on foot past a line of taxis, their drivers sleeping in the front seats. Nap time was eternal in the Eternal City—the ubiquitous public dozing a perfected extension of the afternoon siestas born of ancient Spain.
Langdon fought to focus his thoughts, but the situation was too bizarre to grasp rationally. Six hours ago he had been sound asleep in Cambridge. Now he was in Europe, caught up in a surreal battle of ancient titans, packing a semiautomatic in his Harris tweed, and holding hands with a woman he had only just met.
He looked at Vittoria. She was focused straight ahead. There was a strength in her grasp—that of an independent and determined woman. Her fingers wrapped around his with the comfort of innate acceptance. No hesitation. Langdon felt a growing attraction.
Vittoria seemed to sense his uneasiness. "Relax," she said, without turning her head. "We’re supposed to look like newlyweds."
"I’m relaxed."
"You’re crushing my hand."
Langdon flushed and loosened up.
"Breathe through your eyes," she said.
"I’m sorry?"
"It relaxes the muscles. It’s called
"Piranha?"
"Not the fish.
As they rounded the corner into Piazza della Rotunda, the Pantheon rose before them. Langdon admired it, as always, with awe.
Langdon translated it, as always, with amusement.
"Looks pretty quiet," Vittoria said.
Langdon nodded, but he felt troubled. Now that he was standing here in person, the whole scenario seemed surreal. Despite Vittoria’s apparent faith that he was right, Langdon realized he had put everyone on the line here. The Illuminati poem lingered.
"What time is it?" Vittoria asked.
Langdon checked his watch. "Seven-fifty. Ten minutes till show time."
"Hope these guys are good," Vittoria said, eyeing the scattered tourists entering the Pantheon. "If anything happens inside that dome, we’ll all be in the crossfire."
Langdon exhaled heavily as they moved toward the entrance. The gun felt heavy in his pocket. He wondered what would happen if the policemen frisked him and found the weapon, but the officers did not give them a second look. Apparently the disguise was convincing.
Langdon whispered to Vittoria. "Ever fire anything other than a tranquilizer gun?"
"Don’t you trust me?"
"Trust you? I barely know you."
Vittoria frowned. "And here I thought we were newlyweds."
61
The air inside the Pantheon was cool and damp, heavy with history. The sprawling ceiling hovered overhead as though weightless—the 141-foot unsupported span larger even than the cupola at St. Peter’s. As always, Langdon felt a chill as he entered the cavernous room. It was a remarkable fusion of engineering and art. Above them the famous circular hole in the roof glowed with a narrow shaft of evening sun.
They had arrived.
Langdon’s eyes traced the arch of the ceiling sloping outward to the columned walls and finally down to the polished marble floor beneath their feet. The faint echo of footfalls and tourist murmurs reverberated around the dome. Langdon scanned the dozen or so tourists wandering aimlessly in the shadows.
"Looks pretty quiet," Vittoria said, still holding his hand.
Langdon nodded.
"Where’s Raphael’s tomb?"
Langdon thought for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He surveyed the circumference of the room. Tombs. Altars. Pillars. Niches. He motioned to a particularly ornate funerary across the dome and to the left. "I think that’s Raphael’s over there."
Vittoria scanned the rest of the room. "I don’t see anyone who looks like an assassin about to kill a cardinal. Shall we look around?"
Langdon nodded. "There’s only one spot in here where anyone could be hiding. We better check the
"The recesses?"
"Yes." Langdon pointed. "The recesses in the wall."
Around the perimeter, interspersed with the tombs, a series of semicircular niches were hewn in the wall. The niches, although not enormous, were big enough to hide someone in the shadows. Sadly, Langdon knew they once contained statues of the Olympian gods, but the pagan sculptures had been destroyed when the Vatican converted the Pantheon to a Christian church. He felt a pang of frustration to know he was standing at the first altar of science, and the marker was gone. He wondered which statue it had been, and where it had pointed. Langdon could imagine no greater thrill than finding an Illuminati marker—a statue that surreptitiously pointed the way down the Path of Illumination. Again he wondered
"I’ll take the left arc," Vittoria said, indicating the left half of the circumference. "You go right. See you in a hundred and eighty degrees."
Langdon smiled grimly.
As Vittoria moved off, Langdon felt the eerie horror of the situation seeping back into his mind. As he turned and made his way to the right, the killer’s voice seemed to whisper in the dead space around him.
As Langdon moved toward the first recess, he passed the tomb of one of Italy’s Catholic kings. The sarcophagus, like many in Rome, was askew with the wall, positioned awkwardly. A group of visitors seemed confused by this. Langdon did not stop to explain. Formal Christian tombs were often misaligned with the architecture so they could lie facing
"That’s totally incongruous!" a female student in the front had blurted when Langdon explained the
