"My job," Olivetti said, turning in his seat, his voice like stone. "Mr. Langdon, when you told me you would explain the situation en route, I assumed I would be approaching the Pantheon with a clear idea of why my men are here. That is not the case. Because I am abandoning critical duties by being here, and because I have found very little that makes sense in this theory of yours about virgin sacrifices and ancient poetry, I cannot in good conscience continue. I am recalling this mission immediately." He pulled out his walkie-talkie and clicked it on.

Vittoria reached across the seat and grabbed his arm. "You can’t!"

Olivetti slammed down the walkie-talkie and fixed her with a red-hot stare. "Have you been to the Pantheon, Ms. Vetra?"

"No, but I—"

"Let me tell you something about it. The Pantheon is a single room. A circular cell made of stone and cement. It has one entrance. No windows. One narrow entrance. That entrance is flanked at all times by no less than four armed Roman policemen who protect this shrine from art defacers, anti-Christian terrorists, and gypsy tourist scams."

"Your point?" she said coolly.

"My point?" Olivetti’s knuckles gripped the seat. "My point is that what you have just told me is going to happen is utterly impossible! Can you give me one plausible scenario of how someone could kill a cardinal inside the Pantheon? How does one even get a hostage past the guards into the Pantheon in the first place? Much less actually kill him and get away?" Olivetti leaned over the seat, his coffee breath now in Langdon’s face. "How, Mr. Langdon? One plausible scenario."

Langdon felt the tiny car shrink around him. I have no idea! I’m not an assassin! I don’t know how he will do it! I only know—

"One scenario?" Vittoria quipped, her voice unruffled. "How about this? The killer flies over in a helicopter and drops a screaming, branded cardinal down through the hole in the roof. The cardinal hits the marble floor and dies."

Everyone in the car turned and stared at Vittoria. Langdon didn’t know what to think. You’ve got one sick imagination, lady, but you are quick.

Olivetti frowned. "Possible, I admit… but hardly—"

"Or the killer drugs the cardinal," Vittoria said, "brings him to the Pantheon in a wheelchair like some old tourist. He wheels him inside, quietly slits his throat, and then walks out."

This seemed to wake up Olivetti a bit.

Not bad! Langdon thought.

"Or," she said, "the killer could—"

"I heard you," Olivetti said. "Enough." He took a deep breath and blew it out. Someone rapped sharply on the window, and everyone jumped. It was a soldier from one of the other cars. Olivetti rolled down the window.

"Everything all right, commander?" The soldier was dressed in street clothes. He pulled back the sleeve of his denim shirt to reveal a black chronograph military watch. "Seven-forty, commander. We’ll need time to get in position."

Olivetti nodded vaguely but said nothing for many moments. He ran a finger back and forth across the dash, making a line in the dust. He studied Langdon in the side-view mirror, and Langdon felt himself being measured and weighed. Finally Olivetti turned back to the guard. There was reluctance in his voice. "I’ll want separate approaches. Cars to Piazza della Rotunda, Via delgi Orfani, Piazza Sant’Ignacio, and Sant’Eustachio. No closer than two blocks. Once you’re parked, gear up and await my orders. Three minutes."

"Very good, sir." The soldier returned to his car.

Langdon gave Vittoria an impressed nod. She smiled back, and for an instant Langdon felt an unexpected connection… a thread of magnetism between them.

The commander turned in his seat and locked eyes with Langdon. "Mr. Langdon, this had better not blow up in our faces."

Langdon smiled uneasily. How could it?

57

The director of CERN, Maximilian Kohler, opened his eyes to the cool rush of cromolyn and leukotriene in his body, dilating his bronchial tubes and pulmonary capillaries. He was breathing normally again. He found himself lying in a private room in the CERN infirmary, his wheelchair beside the bed.

He took stock, examining the paper robe they had put him in. His clothing was folded on the chair beside the bed. Outside he could hear a nurse making the rounds. He lay there a long minute listening. Then, as quietly as possible, he pulled himself to the edge of the bed and retrieved his clothing. Struggling with his dead legs, he dressed himself. Then he dragged his body onto his wheelchair.

Muffling a cough, he wheeled himself to the door. He moved manually, careful not to engage the motor. When he arrived at the door he peered out. The hall was empty.

Silently, Maximilian Kohler slipped out of the infirmary.

58

"Seven-forty-six and thirty… mark." Even speaking into his walkie-talkie, Olivetti’s voice never seemed to rise above a whisper.