Brown, Dan - Angels and Demons

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Dan Brown - Angels and Demons.txt

Also by Dan Brown

Digital Fortress

A N G E L S

D E M O N S

D A N B R O W N

POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

products of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or

locales or persons, living or dead,

is entirely coincidental.

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas,

New York, NY

10020

Visit us on the World Wide Web:

<http://www.SimonSays.com>

thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY

10020

ISBN: 0-7434-1239-7

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

For Blythe . . .

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A debt of gratitude to Emily Bestler, Jason Kaufman, Ben Kaplan, and everyone at

Pocket Books for

their belief in this project.

To my friend and agent, Jake Elwell, for his enthusiasm and unflagging effort.

To the legendary George Wieser, for convincing me to write novels.

To my dear friend Irv Sittler, for facilitating my audience with the Pope,

secreting me into parts of Vatican

City few ever see, and making my time in Rome unforgettable.

To one of the most ingenious and gifted artists alive, John Langdon, who rose

brilliantly to my impossible

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challenge and created the ambigrams for this novel.

To Stan Planton, head librarian, Ohio University-Chillicothe, for being my

number one source of

information on countless topics.

To Sylvia Cavazzini, for her gracious tour through the secret Passetto.

And to the best parents a kid could hope for, Dick and Connie Brown . . . for

everything.

Thanks also to CERN, Henry Beckett, Brett Trotter, the Pontifical Academy of

Science, Brookhaven

Institute, FermiLab Library, Olga Wieser, Don Ulsch of the National Security

Institute, Caroline H.

Thompson at University of Wales, Kathryn Gerhard and Omar Al Kindi, John Pike

and the Federation of

American Scientists, Heimlich Viserholder, Corinna and Davis Hammond, Aizaz Ali,

the Galileo Project of

Rice University, Julie Lynn and Charlie Ryan at Mockingbird Pictures, Gary

Goldstein, Dave (Vilas)

Arnold and Andra Crawford, the GlobalFraternal Network, the Phillips Exeter

Academy Library, Jim

Barrington, John Maier, the exceptionally keen eye of Margie Wachtel,

alt.masonic.members, Alan

Wooley, the Library of Congress Vatican Codices Exhibit, Lisa Callamaro and the

Callamaro Agency, Jon

A. Stowell, Musei Vaticani, Aldo Baggia, Noah Alireza, Harriet Walker, Charles

Terry, Micron

Electronics, Mindy Homan, Nancy andDick Curtin, Thomas D. Nadeau, NuvoMedia

andRocket E-books,

Frank and Sylvia Kennedy, Rome Board of Tourism, Maestro GregoryBrown, Val

Brown, Werner

Brandes, Paul Krupin at Direct Contact, Paul Stark, Tom King at Computalk

Network, Sandy and Jerry

Nolan, Web guru Linda George, the National Academy of Art in Rome, physicist and

fellow scribe Steve

Howe, Robert Weston, the Water Street Bookstore in Exeter, New Hampshire, and

the Vatican

Observatory.

FACT

T he world's largest scientific research facility-Switzerland's Conseil Européen

pour la Recherche

Nucléaire (CERN)-recently succeeded in producing the first particles of

antimatter. Antimatter is identical

to physical matter except that it is composed of particles whose electric

charges are opposite to those found

in normal matter.

Antimatter is the most powerful energy source known to man. It releases energy

with 100 percent

efficiency (nuclear fission is 1.5 percent efficient). Antimatter creates no

pollution or radiation, and a

droplet could power New York City for a full day.

There is, however, one catch . . .

Antimatter is highly unstable. It ignites when it comes in contact with

absolutely anything . . . even air. A

single gram of antimatter contains the energy of a 20-kiloton nuclear bomb-the

size of the bomb dropped

on Hiroshima.

Until recently antimatter has been created only in very small amounts (a few

atoms at a time). But CERN

has now broken ground on its new Antiproton Decelerator-an advanced antimatter

production facility that

promises to create antimatter in much larger quantities.

One question looms: Will this highly volatile substance save the world, or will

it be used to create the most

deadly weapon ever made?

AUTHOR'S NOTE

R eferences to all works of art, tombs, tunnels, and architecture in Rome are

entirely factual (as are their

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exact locations). They can still be seen today.

The brotherhood of the Illuminati is also factual.

PROLOGUE

P hysicist Leonardo Vetra smelled burning flesh, and he knew it was his own. He

stared up in terror at

the dark figure looming over him. "What do you want!"

"La chiave," the raspy voice replied. "The password."

"But . . . I don't-"

The intruder pressed down again, grinding the white hot object deeper into

Vetra's chest. There was the

hiss of broiling flesh.

Vetra cried out in agony. "There is no password!" He felt himself drifting

toward unconsciousness.

The figure glared. "Ne avevo paura. I was afraid of that."

Vetra fought to keep his senses, but the darkness was closing in. His only

solace was in knowing his

attacker would never obtain what he had come for. A moment later, however, the

figure produced a blade

and brought it to Vetra's face. The blade hovered. Carefully. Surgically.

"For the love of God!" Vetra screamed. But it was too late.

H igh atop the steps of the Pyramid of Giza a young woman laughed and called

down to him. "Robert,

hurry up! I knew I should have married a younger man!" Her smile was magic.

He struggled to keep up, but his legs felt like stone. "Wait," he begged.

"Please . . ."

As he climbed, his vision began to blur. There was a thundering in his ears. I

must reach her! But when he

looked up again, the woman had disappeared. In her place stood an old man with

rotting teeth. The man

stared down, curling his lips into a lonely grimace. Then he let out a scream of

anguish that resounded

across the desert.

Robert Langdon awoke with a start from his nightmare. The phone beside his bed

was ringing. Dazed, he

picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"I'm looking for Robert Langdon," a man's voice said.

Langdon sat up in his empty bed and tried to clear his mind. "This . . . is

Robert Langdon." He squinted at

his digital clock. It was 5:18 A.M.

"I must see you immediately."

"Who is this?"

"My name is Maximilian Kohler. I'm a discrete particle physicist."

"A what?" Langdon could barely focus. "Are you sure you've got the right

Langdon?"

"You're a professor of religious iconology at Harvard University. You've written

three books on

symbology and-"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"I apologize. I have something you need to see. I can't discuss it on the

phone."

A knowing groan escaped Langdon's lips. This had happened before. One of the

perils of writing books

about religious symbology was the calls from religious zealots who wanted him to

confirm their latest sign

from God. Last month a stripper from Oklahoma had promised Langdon the best sex

of his life if he would

fly down and verify the authenticity of a cruciform that had magically appeared

on her bed sheets. The

Shroud of Tulsa, Langdon had called it.

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"How did you get my number?" Langdon tried to be polite, despite the hour.

"On the Worldwide Web. The site for your book."

Langdon frowned. He was damn sure his book's site did not include his home phone

number. The man was

obviously lying.

"I need to see you," the caller insisted. "I'll pay you well."

Now Langdon was getting mad. "I'm sorry, but I really-"

"If you leave immediately, you can be here by-"

"I'm not going anywhere! It's five o'clock in the morning!" Langdon hung up and

collapsed back in bed.

He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep. It was no use. The dream was

emblazoned in his mind.

Reluctantly, he put on his robe and went downstairs.

Robert Langdon wandered barefoot through his deserted Massachusetts Victorian

home and nursed his

ritual insomnia remedy-a mug of steaming Nestlé's Quik. The April moon filtered

through the bay

windows and played on the oriental carpets. Langdon's colleagues often joked

that his place looked more

like an anthropology museum than a home. His shelves were packed with religious

artifacts from around

the world-an ekuaba from Ghana, a gold cross from Spain, a cycladic idol from

the Aegean, and even a rare

woven boccus from Borneo, a young warrior's symbol of perpetual youth.

As Langdon sat on his brass Maharishi's chest and savored the warmth of the

chocolate, the bay window

caught his reflection. The image was distorted and pale . . . like a ghost. An

aging ghost, he thought, cruelly

reminded that his youthful spirit was living in a mortal shell.

Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the forty-five-year-old

Langdon had what his female

colleagues referred to as an "erudite" appeal-wisps of gray in his thick brown

hair, probing blue eyes, an

arrestingly deep voice, and the strong, carefree smile of a collegiate athlete.

A varsity diver in prep school

and college, Langdon still had the body of a swimmer, a toned, six-foot physique

that he vigilantly

maintained with fifty laps a day in the university pool.

Langdon's friends had always viewed him as a bit of an enigma-a man caught

between centuries. On

weekends he could be seen lounging on the quad in blue jeans, discussing

computer graphics or religious

history with students; other times he could be spotted in his Harris tweed and

paisley vest, photographed in

the pages of upscale art magazines at museum openings where he had been asked to

lecture.

Although a tough teacher and strict disciplinarian, Langdon was the first to

embrace what he hailed as the

"lost art of good clean fun." He relished recreation with an infectious

fanaticism that had earned him a

fraternal acceptance among his students. His campus nickname-"The Dolphin"-was a

reference both to his

affable nature and his legendary ability to dive into a pool and outmaneuver the

entire opposing squad in a

water polo match.

As Langdon sat alone, absently gazing into the darkness, the silence of his home

was shattered again, this

time by the ring of his fax machine. Too exhausted to be annoyed, Langdon forced

a tired chuckle.

God's people, he thought. Two thousand years of waiting for their Messiah, and

they're still persistent as

hell.

Wearily, he returned his empty mug to the kitchen and walked slowly to his

oak-paneled study. The

incoming fax lay in the tray. Sighing, he scooped up the paper and looked at it.

Instantly, a wave of nausea hit him.

The image on the page was that of a human corpse. The body had been stripped

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naked, and its head had

been twisted, facing completely backward. On the victim's chest was a terrible

burn. The man had been

branded . . . imprinted with a single word. It was a word Langdon knew well.

Very well. He stared at the

ornate lettering in disbelief.

"Illuminati," he stammered, his heart pounding. It can't be . . .

In slow motion, afraid of what he was about to witness, Langdon rotated the fax

180 degrees. He looked at

the word upside down.

Instantly, the breath went out of him. It was like he had been hit by a truck.

Barely able to believe his eyes,

he rotated the fax again, reading the brand right-side up and then upside down.

"Illuminati," he whispered.

Stunned, Langdon collapsed in a chair. He sat a moment in utter bewilderment.

Gradually, his eyes were

drawn to the blinking red light on his fax machine. Whoever had sent this fax

was still on the line . . .

waiting to talk. Langdon gazed at the blinking light a long time.

Then, trembling, he picked up the receiver.

D o I have your attention now?" the man's voice said when Langdon finally

answered the line.

"Yes, sir, you damn well do. You want to explain yourself?"

"I tried to tell you before." The voice was rigid, mechanical. "I'm a physicist.

I run a research facility.

We've had a murder. You saw the body."

"How did you find me?" Langdon could barely focus. His mind was racing from the

image on the fax.

"I already told you. The Worldwide Web. The site for your book, The Art of the

Illuminati."

Langdon tried to gather his thoughts. His book was virtually unknown in

mainstream literary circles, but it

had developed quite a following on-line. Nonetheless, the caller's claim still

made no sense. "That page has

no contact information," Langdon challenged. "I'm certain of it."

"I have people here at the lab very adept at extracting user information from

the Web."

Langdon was skeptical. "Sounds like your lab knows a lot about the Web."

"We should," the man fired back. "We invented it."

Something in the man's voice told Langdon he was not joking.

"I must see you," the caller insisted. "This is not a matter we can discuss on

the phone. My lab is only an

hour's flight from Boston."

Langdon stood in the dim light of his study and analyzed the fax in his hand.

The image was overpowering,

possibly representing the epigraphical find of the century, a decade of his

research confirmed in a single

symbol.

"It's urgent," the voice pressured.

Langdon's eyes were locked on the brand. Illuminati, he read over and over. His

work had always been

based on the symbolic equivalent of fossils-ancient documents and historical

hearsay-but this image before

him was today. Present tense. He felt like a paleontologist coming face to face

with a living dinosaur.

"I've taken the liberty of sending a plane for you," the voice said. "It will be

in Boston in twenty minutes."

Langdon felt his mouth go dry. An hour's flight . . .

"Please forgive my presumption," the voice said. "I need you here."

Langdon looked again at the fax-an ancient myth confirmed in black and white.

The implications were

frightening. He gazed absently through the bay window. The first hint of dawn

was sifting through the

birch trees in his backyard, but the view looked somehow different this morning.

As an odd combination of

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fear and exhilaration settled over him, Langdon knew he had no choice.

"You win," he said. "Tell me where to meet the plane."

T housands of miles away, two men were meeting. The chamber was dark. Medieval.

Stone.

"Benvenuto," the man in charge said. He was seated in the shadows, out of sight.

"Were you successful?"

"Si," the dark figure replied. "Perfectamente." His words were as hard as the

rock walls.

"And there will be no doubt who is responsible?"

"None."

"Superb. Do you have what I asked for?"

The killer's eyes glistened, black like oil. He produced a heavy electronic

device and set it on the table.

The man in the shadows seemed pleased. "You have done well."

"Serving the brotherhood is an honor," the killer said.

"Phase two begins shortly. Get some rest. Tonight we change the world."

R obert Langdon's Saab 900S tore out of the Callahan Tunnel and emerged on the

east side of Boston

Harbor near the entrance to Logan Airport. Checking his directions Langdon found

Aviation Road and

turned left past the old Eastern Airlines Building. Three hundred yards down the

access road a hangar

loomed in the darkness. A large number "4"was painted on it. He pulled into the

parking lot and got out of

his car.

A round-faced man in a blue flight suit emerged from behind the building.

"Robert Langdon?" he called.

The man's voice was friendly. He had an accent Langdon couldn't place.

"That's me," Langdon said, locking his car.

"Perfect timing," the man said. "I've just landed. Follow me, please."

As they circled the building, Langdon felt tense. He was not accustomed to

cryptic phone calls and secret

rendezvous with strangers. Not knowing what to expect he had donned his usual

classroom attire-a pair of

chinos, a turtleneck, and a Harris tweed suit jacket. As they walked, he thought

about the fax in his jacket

pocket, still unable to believe the image it depicted.

The pilot seemed to sense Langdon's anxiety. "Flying's not a problem for you, is

it, sir?"

"Not at all," Langdon replied. Branded corpses are a problem for me. Flying I

can handle.

The man led Langdon the length of the hangar. They rounded the corner onto the

runway.

Langdon stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at the aircraft parked on the

tarmac. "We're riding in that?"

The man grinned. "Like it?"

Langdon stared a long moment. "Like it? What the hell is it?"

The craft before them was enormous. It was vaguely reminiscent of the space

shuttle except that the top had

been shaved off, leaving it perfectly flat. Parked there on the runway, it

resembled a colossal wedge.

Langdon's first impression was that he must be dreaming. The vehicle looked as

airworthy as a Buick. The

wings were practically nonexistent-just two stubby fins on the rear of the

fuselage. A pair of dorsal guiders

rose out of the aft section. The rest of the plane was hull-about 200 feet from

front to back-no windows,

nothing but hull.

"Two hundred fifty thousand kilos fully fueled," the pilot offered, like a

father bragging about his newborn.

"Runs on slush hydrogen. The shell's a titanium matrix with silicon carbide

fibers. She packs a 20:1

thrust/weight ratio; most jets run at 7:1. The director must be in one helluva a

hurry to see you. He doesn't

usually send the big boy."

"This thing flies?" Langdon said.

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The pilot smiled. "Oh yeah." He led Langdon across the tarmac toward the plane.

"Looks kind of startling,

I know, but you better get used to it. In five years, all you'll see are these

babies-HSCT's-High Speed Civil

Transports. Our lab's one of the first to own one."

Must be one hell of a lab, Langdon thought.

"This one's a prototype of the Boeing X-33," the pilot continued, "but there are

dozens of others-the

National Aero Space Plane, the Russians have Scramjet, the Brits have HOTOL. The

future's here, it's just

taking some time to get to the public sector. You can kiss conventional jets

good-bye."

Langdon looked up warily at the craft. "I think I'd prefer a conventional jet."

The pilot motioned up the gangplank. "This way, please, Mr. Langdon. Watch your

step."

Minutes later, Langdon was seated inside the empty cabin. The pilot buckled him

into the front row and

disappeared toward the front of the aircraft.

The cabin itself looked surprisingly like a wide-body commercial airliner. The

only exception was that it

had no windows, which made Langdon uneasy. He had been haunted his whole life by

a mild case of

claustrophobia-the vestige of a childhood incident he had never quite overcome.

Langdon's aversion to closed spaces was by no means debilitating, but it had

always frustrated him. It

manifested itself in subtle ways. He avoided enclosed sports like racquetball or

squash, and he had gladly

paid a small fortune for his airy, high-ceilinged Victorian home even though

economical faculty housing

was readily available. Langdon had often suspected his attraction to the art

world as a young boy sprang

from his love of museums' wide open spaces.

The engines roared to life beneath him, sending a deep shudder through the hull.

Langdon swallowed hard

and waited. He felt the plane start taxiing. Piped-in country music began

playing quietly overhead.

A phone on the wall beside him beeped twice. Langdon lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Comfortable, Mr. Langdon?"

"Not at all."

"Just relax. We'll be there in an hour."

"And where exactly is there?" Langdon asked, realizing he had no idea where he

was headed.

"Geneva," the pilot replied, revving the engines. "The lab's in Geneva."

"Geneva," Langdon repeated, feeling a little better. "Upstate New York. I've

actually got family near

Seneca Lake. I wasn't aware Geneva had a physics lab."

The pilot laughed. "Not Geneva, New York, Mr. Langdon. Geneva, Switzerland."

The word took a long moment to register. "Switzerland?" Langdon felt his pulse

surge. "I thought you said

the lab was only an hour away!"

"It is, Mr. Langdon." The pilot chuckled. "This plane goes Mach fifteen."

O n a busy European street, the killer serpentined through a crowd. He was a

powerful man. Dark and

potent. Deceptively agile. His muscles still felt hard from the thrill of his

meeting.

It went well, he told himself. Although his employer had never revealed his

face, the killer felt honored to

be in his presence. Had it really been only fifteen days since his employer had

first made contact? The

killer still remembered every word of that call . . .

"My name is Janus," the caller had said. "We are kinsmen of a sort. We share an

enemy. I hear your skills

are for hire."

"It depends whom you represent," the killer replied.

The caller told him.

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

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"You have heard our name, I see," the caller replied.

"Of course. The brotherhood is legendary."

"And yet you find yourself doubting I am genuine."

"Everyone knows the brothers have faded to dust."

"A devious ploy. The most dangerous enemy is that which no one fears."

The killer was skeptical. "The brotherhood endures?"

"Deeper underground than ever before. Our roots infiltrate everything you see .

. . even the sacred fortress

of our most sworn enemy."

"Impossible. They are invulnerable."

"Our reach is far."

"No one's reach is that far."

"Very soon, you will believe. An irrefutable demonstration of the brotherhood's

power has already

transpired. A single act of treachery and proof."

"What have you done?"

The caller told him.

The killer's eyes went wide. "An impossible task."

The next day, newspapers around the globe carried the same headline. The killer

became a believer.

Now, fifteen days later, the killer's faith had solidified beyond the shadow of

a doubt. The brotherhood

endures, he thought. Tonight they will surface to reveal their power.

As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes gleamed with foreboding.

One of the most covert

and feared fraternities ever to walk the earth had called on him for service.

They have chosen wisely, he

thought. His reputation for secrecy was exceeded only by that of his deadliness.

So far, he had served them nobly. He had made his kill and delivered the item to

Janus as requested. Now,

it was up to Janus to use his power to ensure the item's placement.

The placement . . .

The killer wondered how Janus could possibly handle such a staggering task. The

man obviously had

connections on the inside. The brotherhood's dominion seemed limitless.

Janus, the killer thought. A code name, obviously. Was it a reference, he

wondered, to the Roman two-

faced god . . . or to the moon of Saturn? Not that it made any difference. Janus

wielded unfathomable

power. He had proven that beyond a doubt.

As the killer walked, he imagined his ancestors smiling down on him. Today he

was fighting their battle, he

was fighting the same enemy they had fought for ages, as far back as the

eleventh century . . . when the

enemy's crusading armies had first pillaged his land, raping and killing his

people, declaring them unclean,

defiling their temples and gods.

His ancestors had formed a small but deadly army to defend themselves. The army

became famous across

the land as protectors-skilled executioners who wandered the countryside

slaughtering any of the enemy

they could find. They were renowned not only for their brutal killings, but also

for celebrating their

slayings by plunging themselves into drug-induced stupors. Their drug of choice

was a potent intoxicant

they called hashish.

As their notoriety spread, these lethal men became known by a single

word-Hassassin-literally "the

followers of hashish." The name Hassassin became synonymous with death in almost

every language on

earth. The word was still used today, even in modern English . . . but like the

craft of killing, the word had

evolved.

It was now pronounced assassin.

S ixty-four minutes had passed when an incredulous and slightly air-sick Robert

Langdon stepped down

the gangplank onto the sun-drenched runway. A crisp breeze rustled the lapels of

his tweed jacket. The

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open space felt wonderful. He squinted out at the lush green valley rising to

snowcapped peaks all around

them.

I'm dreaming, he told himself. Any minute now I'll be waking up.

"Welcome to Switzerland," the pilot said, yelling over the roar of the X-33's

misted-fuel HEDM engines

winding down behind them.

Langdon checked his watch. It read 7:07 A.M.

"You just crossed six time zones," the pilot offered. "It's a little past 1 P.M.

here."

Langdon reset his watch.

"How do you feel?"

He rubbed his stomach. "Like I've been eating Styrofoam."

The pilot nodded. "Altitude sickness. We were at sixty thousand feet. You're

thirty percent lighter up there.

Lucky we only did a puddle jump. If we'd gone to Tokyo I'd have taken her all

the way up-a hundred

miles. Now that'll get your insides rolling."

Langdon gave a wan nod and counted himself lucky. All things considered, the

flight had been remarkably

ordinary. Aside from a bone-crushing acceleration during take off, the plane's

motion had been fairly

typical-occasional minor turbulence, a few pressure changes as they'd climbed,

but nothing at all to suggest

they had been hurtling through space at the mind-numbing speed of 11,000 miles

per hour.

A handful of technicians scurried onto the runway to tend to the X-33. The pilot

escorted Langdon to a

black Peugeot sedan in a parking area beside the control tower. Moments later

they were speeding down a

paved road that stretched out across the valley floor. A faint cluster of

buildings rose in the distance.

Outside, the grassy plains tore by in a blur.

Langdon watched in disbelief as the pilot pushed the speedometer up around 170

kilometers an hour-over

100 miles per hour. What is it with this guy and speed? he wondered.

"Five kilometers to the lab," the pilot said. "I'll have you there in two

minutes."

Langdon searched in vain for a seat belt. Why not make it three and get us there

alive?

The car raced on.

"Do you like Reba?" the pilot asked, jamming a cassette into the tape deck.

A woman started singing. "It's just the fear of being alone . . . "

No fear here, Langdon thought absently. His female colleagues often ribbed him

that his collection of

museum-quality artifacts was nothing more than a transparent attempt to fill an

empty home, a home they

insisted would benefit greatly from the presence of a woman. Langdon always

laughed it off, reminding

them he already had three loves in his life-symbology, water polo, and

bachelorhood-the latter being a

freedom that enabled him to travel the world, sleep as late as he wanted, and

enjoy quiet nights at home

with a brandy and a good book.

"We're like a small city," the pilot said, pulling Langdon from his daydream.

"Not just labs. We've got

supermarkets, a hospital, even a cinema."

Langdon nodded blankly and looked out at the sprawling expanse of buildings

rising before them.

"In fact," the pilot added, "we possess the largest machine on earth."

"Really?" Langdon scanned the countryside.

"You won't see it out there, sir." The pilot smiled. "It's buried six stories

below the earth."

Langdon didn't have time to ask. Without warning the pilot jammed on the brakes.

The car skidded to a

stop outside a reinforced sentry booth.

Langdon read the sign before them. SECURITE. ARRETEZ. He suddenly felt a wave of

panic, realizing

where he was. "My God! I didn't bring my passport!"

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"Passports are unnecessary," the driver assured. "We have a standing arrangement

with the Swiss

government."

Langdon watched dumbfounded as his driver gave the guard an ID. The sentry ran

it through an electronic

authentication device. The machine flashed green.

"Passenger name?"

"Robert Langdon," the driver replied.

"Guest of?"

"The director."

The sentry arched his eyebrows. He turned and checked a computer printout,

verifying it against the data on

his computer screen. Then he returned to the window. "Enjoy your stay, Mr.

Langdon."

The car shot off again, accelerating another 200 yards around a sweeping rotary

that led to the facility's

main entrance. Looming before them was a rectangular, ultramodern structure of

glass and steel. Langdon

was amazed by the building's striking transparent design. He had always had a

fond love of architecture.

"The Glass Cathedral," the escort offered.

"A church?"

"Hell, no. A church is the one thing we don't have. Physics is the religion

around here. Use the Lord's

name in vain all you like," he laughed, "just don't slander any quarks or

mesons."

Langdon sat bewildered as the driver swung the car around and brought it to a

stop in front of the glass

building. Quarks and mesons? No border control? Mach 15 jets? Who the hell ARE

these guys? The

engraved granite slab in front of the building bore the answer:

(CERN)

Conseil Européen pour la

Recherche Nucléaire

"Nuclear Research?" Langdon asked, fairly certain his translation was correct.

The driver did not answer. He was leaning forward, busily adjusting the car's

cassette player. "This is your

stop. The director will meet you at this entrance."

Langdon noted a man in a wheelchair exiting the building. He looked to be in his

early sixties. Gaunt and

totally bald with a sternly set jaw, he wore a white lab coat and dress shoes

propped firmly on the

wheelchair's footrest. Even at a distance his eyes looked lifeless-like two gray

stones.

"Is that him?" Langdon asked.

The driver looked up. "Well, I'll be." He turned and gave Langdon an ominous

smile. "Speak of the devil."

Uncertain what to expect, Langdon stepped from the vehicle.

The man in the wheelchair accelerated toward Langdon and offered a clammy hand.

"Mr. Langdon? We

spoke on the phone. My name is Maximilian Kohler."

M aximilian Kohler, director general of CERN, was known behind his back as

König-King. It was a

title more of fear than reverence for the figure who ruled over his dominion

from a wheelchair throne.

Although few knew him personally, the horrific story of how he had been crippled

was lore at CERN, and

there were few there who blamed him for his bitterness . . . nor for his sworn

dedication to pure science.

Langdon had only been in Kohler's presence a few moments and already sensed the

director was a man

who kept his distance. Langdon found himself practically jogging to keep up with

Kohler's electric

wheelchair as it sped silently toward the main entrance. The wheelchair was like

none Langdon had ever

seen-equipped with a bank of electronics including a multiline phone, a paging

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