Angels & Demons

The Hassassin turned the blade over and ran the back of it across her belly. The icy metal gave her chills. With a contemptuous stare, he slipped the blade below the waistline of her shorts. She inhaled. He moved back and forth, slowly, dangerously… lower. Then he leaned forward, his hot breath whispering in her ear.

"This blade cut out your father’s eye."

Vittoria knew in that instant that she was capable of killing.

The Hassassin turned the blade again and began sawing upward through the fabric of her khaki shorts. Suddenly, he stopped, looking up. Someone was in the room.

"Get away from her," a deep voice growled from the doorway.

Vittoria could not see who had spoken, but she recognized the voice. Robert! He’s alive!

The Hassassin looked as if he had seen a ghost. "Mr. Langdon, you must have a guardian angel."

108

In the split second it took Langdon to take in his surroundings, he realized he was in a sacred place. The embellishments in the oblong room, though old and faded, were replete with familiar symbology. Pentagram tiles. Planet frescoes. Doves. Pyramids.

The Church of Illumination. Simple and pure. He had arrived.

Directly in front of him, framed in the opening of the balcony, stood the Hassassin. He was bare chested, standing over Vittoria, who lay bound but very much alive. Langdon felt a wave of relief to see her. For an instant, their eyes met, and a torrent of emotions flowed—gratitude, desperation, and regret.

"So we meet yet again," the Hassassin said. He looked at the bar in Langdon’s hand and laughed out loud. "And this time you come for me with that?"

"Untie her."

The Hassassin put the knife to Vittoria’s throat. "I will kill her."

Langdon had no doubt the Hassassin was capable of such an act. He forced a calm into his voice. "I imagine she would welcome it… considering the alternative."

The Hassassin smiled at the insult. "You’re right. She has much to offer. It would be a waste."

Langdon stepped forward, grasping the rusted bar, and aimed the splintered end directly at the Hassassin. The cut on his hand bit sharply. "Let her go."

The Hassassin seemed for a moment to be considering it. Exhaling, he dropped his shoulders. It was a clear motion of surrender, and yet at that exact instant the Hassassin’s arm seemed to accelerate unexpectedly. There was a blur of dark muscle, and a blade suddenly came tearing through the air toward Langdon’s chest.

Whether it was instinct or exhaustion that buckled Langdon’s knees at that moment, he didn’t know, but the knife sailed past his left ear and clattered to the floor behind him. The Hassassin seemed unfazed. He smiled at Langdon, who was kneeling now, holding the metal bar. The killer stepped away from Vittoria and moved toward Langdon like a stalking lion.

As Langdon scrambled to his feet, lifting the bar again, his wet turtleneck and pants felt suddenly more restrictive. The Hassassin, half-clothed, seemed to move much faster, the wound on his foot apparently not slowing him at all. Langdon sensed this was a man accustomed to pain. For the first time in his life, Langdon wished he were holding a very big gun.

The Hassassin circled slowly, as if enjoying himself, always just out of reach, moving toward the knife on the floor. Langdon cut him off. Then the killer moved back toward Vittoria. Again Langdon cut him off.

"There’s still time," Langdon ventured. "Tell me where the canister is. The Vatican will pay more than the Illuminati ever could."

"You are naive."

Langdon jabbed with the bar. The Hassassin dodged. He navigated around a bench, holding the weapon in front of him, trying to corner the Hassassin in the oval room. This damn room has no corners! Oddly, the Hassassin did not seem interested in attacking or fleeing. He was simply playing Langdon’s game. Coolly waiting.

Waiting for what? The killer kept circling, a master at positioning himself. It was like an endless game of chess. The weapon in Langdon’s hand was getting heavy, and he suddenly sensed he knew what the Hassassin was waiting for. He’s tiring me out. It was working, too. Langdon was hit by a surge of weariness, the adrenaline alone no longer enough to keep him alert. He knew he had to make a move.

The Hassassin seemed to read Langdon’s mind, shifting again, as if intentionally leading Langdon toward a table in the middle of the room. Langdon could tell there was something on the table. Something glinted in the torchlight. A weapon? Langdon kept his eyes focused on the Hassassin and maneuvered himself closer to the table. When the Hassassin cast a long, guileless glance at the table, Langdon tried to fight the obvious bait. But instinct overruled. He stole a glance. The damage was done.

It was not a weapon at all. The sight momentarily riveted him.

On the table lay a rudimentary copper chest, crusted with ancient patina. The chest was a pentagon. The lid lay open. Arranged inside in five padded compartments were five brands. The brands were forged of iron—large embossing tools with stout handles of wood. Langdon had no doubt what they said.

Illuminati, Earth, Air, Fire, Water.

Langdon snapped his head back up, fearing the Hassassin would lunge. He did not. The killer was waiting, almost as if he were refreshed by the game. Langdon fought to recover his focus, locking eyes again with his quarry, thrusting with the pipe. But the image of the box hung in his mind. Although the brands themselves were mesmerizing—artifacts few Illuminati scholars even believed existed—Langdon suddenly realized there had been something else about the box that had ignited a wave of foreboding within. As the Hassassin maneuvered again, Langdon stole another glance downward.

My God!

In the chest, the five brands sat in compartments around the outer edge. But in the center, there was another compartment. This partition was empty, but it clearly was intended to hold another brand… a brand much larger than the others, and perfectly square.

The attack was a blur.

The Hassassin swooped toward him like a bird of prey. Langdon, his concentration having been masterfully diverted, tried to counter, but the pipe felt like a tree trunk in his hands. His parry was too slow. The Hassassin dodged. As Langdon tried to retract the bar, the Hassassin’s hands shot out and grabbed it. The man’s grip was strong, his injured arm seeming no longer to affect him. Violently, the two men struggled. Langdon felt the bar ripped away, and a searing pain shot through his palm. An instant later, Langdon was staring into the splintered point of the weapon. The hunter had become the hunted.

Langdon felt like he’d been hit by a cyclone. The Hassassin circled, smiling now, backing Langdon against the wall. "What is your American adбgio?" he chided. "Something about curiosity and the cat?"

Langdon could barely focus. He cursed his carelessness as the Hassassin moved in. Nothing was making sense. A sixth Illuminati brand? In frustration he blurted, "I’ve never read anything about a sixth Illuminati brand!"

"I think you probably have." The killer chuckled as he herded Langdon around the oval wall.

Langdon was lost. He most certainly had not. There were five Illuminati brands. He backed up, searching the room for any weapon at all.

"A perfect union of the ancient elements," the Hassassin said. "The final brand is the most brilliant of all. I’m afraid you will never see it, though."

Langdon sensed he would not be seeing much of anything in a moment. He kept backing up, searching the room for an option. "And you’ve seen this final brand?" Langdon demanded, trying to buy time.

"Someday perhaps they will honor me. As I prove myself." He jabbed at Langdon, as if enjoying a game.

Langdon slid backward again. He had the feeling the Hassassin was directing him around the wall toward some unseen destination. Where? Langdon could not afford to look behind him.