Angels & Demons (8 page)

“They say you ask a lot of questions,” the young man said.

Vittoria scowled. “Are questions bad?”

He laughed. “Guess they were right.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Same thing you’re doing . . . wondering why raindrops fall.”

“I’m not wondering why they fall! I already know!”

The priest gave her an astonished look. “You
do?
”

“Sister Francisca says raindrops are angels’ tears coming down to wash away our sins.”

“Wow!” he said, sounding amazed. “So
that
explains it.”

“No it doesn’t!” the girl fired back. “Raindrops fall because
everything
falls!
Everything
falls! Not just rain!”

The priest scratched his head, looking perplexed. “You know, young lady, you’re right. Everything
does
fall. It must be gravity.”

“It must be
what?
”

He gave her an astonished look. “You haven’t heard of
gravity?
”

“No.”

The priest shrugged sadly. “Too bad. Gravity answers a
lot
of questions.”

Vittoria sat up. “What’s gravity?” she demanded. “Tell me!”

The priest gave her a wink. “What do you say I tell you over dinner.”

The young priest was Leonardo Vetra. Although he had been an award-winning physics student while in university, he’d heard another call and gone into the seminary. Leonardo and Vittoria became unlikely best friends in the lonely world of nuns and regulations. Vittoria made Leonardo laugh, and he took her under his wing, teaching her that beautiful things like rainbows and the rivers had many explanations. He told her about light, planets, stars, and all of nature through the eyes of both God and science. Vittoria’s innate intellect and curiosity made her a captivating student. Leonardo protected her like a daughter. Vittoria was happy too. She had never known the joy of having a father. When every other adult answered her questions with a slap on the wrist, Leonardo spent hours showing her books. He even asked what
her
ideas were. Vittoria prayed Leonardo would stay with her forever. Then one day, her worst nightmare came true. Father Leonardo told her he was leaving the orphanage.

“I’m moving to Switzerland,” Leonardo said. “I have a grant to study physics at the University of Geneva.”

“Physics?” Vittoria cried. “I thought you loved
God!
”

“I do, very much. Which is why I want to study his divine rules. The laws of physics are the canvas God laid down on which to paint his masterpiece.”

Vittoria was devastated. But Father Leonardo had some other news. He told Vittoria he had spoken to his superiors, and they said it was okay if Father Leonardo adopted her.

“Would you
like
me to adopt you?” Leonardo asked.

“What’s
adopt
mean?” Vittoria said.

Father Leonardo told her.

Vittoria hugged him for five minutes, crying tears of joy. “Oh yes! Yes!”

Leonardo told her he had to leave for a while and get their new home settled in Switzerland, but he promised to send for her in six months. It was the longest wait of Vittoria’s life, but Leonardo kept his word. Five days before her ninth birthday, Vittoria moved to Geneva. She attended Geneva International School during the day and learned from her father at night.

Three years later Leonardo Vetra was hired by CERN. Vittoria and Leonardo relocated to a wonderland the likes of which the young Vittoria had never imagined.

Vittoria Vetra’s body felt numb as she strode down the LHC tunnel. She saw her muted reflection in the LHC and sensed her father’s absence. Normally she existed in a state of deep calm, in harmony with the world around her. But now, very suddenly, nothing made sense. The last three hours had been a blur. It had been 10 A.M. in the Balearic Islands when Kohler’s call came through.
Your father has been
murdered. Come home immediately.
Despite the sweltering heat on the deck of the dive boat, the words had chilled her to the bone, Kohler’s emotionless tone hurting as much as the news. Now she had returned home.
But home to what?
CERN, her world since she was twelve, seemed suddenly foreign. Her father, the man who had made it magical, was gone.

Deep breaths,
she told herself, but she couldn’t calm her mind. The questions circled faster and faster. Who killed her father? And why? Who was this American “specialist”? Why was Kohler insisting on seeing the lab?

Kohler had said there was evidence that her father’s murder was related to the current project.
What
evidence? Nobody knew what we were working on! And even if someone found out, why would they kill
him?

As she moved down the LHC tunnel toward her father’s lab, Vittoria realized she was about to unveil her father’s greatest achievement without him there. She had pictured this moment much differently. She had imagined her father calling CERN’s top scientists to his lab, showing them his discovery, watching their awestruck faces. Then he would beam with fatherly pride as he explained to them how it had been one of
Vittoria’s
ideas that had helped him make the project a reality . . . that his
daughter
had been integral in his breakthrough. Vittoria felt a lump in her throat.
My father and I were supposed to share this moment
together.
But here she was alone. No colleagues. No happy faces. Just an American stranger and Maximilian Kohler.

Maximilian Kohler. Der König.

Even as a child, Vittoria had disliked the man. Although she eventually came to respect his potent intellect, his icy demeanor always seemed inhuman, the exact antithesis of her father’s warmth. Kohler pursued science for its immaculate logic . . . her father for its spiritual wonder. And yet oddly there had always seemed to be an unspoken respect between the two men.
Genius
, someone had once explained to her,
accepts genius unconditionally.

Genius
, she thought.
My father . . . Dad. Dead.

The entry to Leonardo Vetra’s lab was a long sterile hallway paved entirely in white tile. Langdon felt like he was entering some kind of underground insane asylum. Lining the corridor were dozens of framed, black-and-white images. Although Langdon had made a career of studying images, these were entirely alien to him. They looked like chaotic negatives of random streaks and spirals.
Modern art?
he mused.
Jackson Pollock on amphetamines?

“Scatter plots,” Vittoria said, apparently noting Langdon’s interest. “Computer representations of particle collisions. That’s the Z-particle,” she said, pointing to a faint track that was almost invisible in the confusion. “My father discovered it five years ago. Pure energy—no mass at all. It may well be the smallest building block in nature. Matter is nothing but trapped energy.”

Matter is energy?
Langdon cocked his head.
Sounds pretty Zen
. He gazed at the tiny streak in the photograph and wondered what his buddies in the Harvard physics department would say when he told them he’d spent the weekend hanging out in a Large Hadron Collider admiring Z-particles.

“Vittoria,” Kohler said, as they approached the lab’s imposing steel door, “I should mention that I came down here this morning looking for your father.”

Vittoria flushed slightly. “You did?”

“Yes. And imagine my surprise when I discovered he had replaced CERN’s standard keypad security with something else.” Kohler motioned to an intricate electronic device mounted beside the door.

“I apologize,” she said. “You know how he was about privacy. He didn’t want anyone but the two of us to have access.”

Kohler said, “Fine. Open the door.”

Vittoria stood a long moment. Then, pulling a deep breath, she walked to the mechanism on the wall. Langdon was in no way prepared for what happened next.

Vittoria stepped up to the device and carefully aligned her right eye with a protruding lens that looked like a telescope. Then she pressed a button. Inside the machine, something clicked. A shaft of light oscillated back and forth, scanning her eyeball like a copy machine.

“It’s a retina scan,” she said. “Infallible security. Authorized for two retina patterns only. Mine and my father’s.”

Robert Langdon stood in horrified revelation. The image of Leonardo Vetra came back in grisly detail—the bloody face, the solitary hazel eye staring back, and the empty eye socket. He tried to reject the obvious truth, but then he saw it . . . beneath the scanner on the white tile floor . . . faint droplets of crimson. Dried blood.

Vittoria, thankfully, did not notice.

The steel door slid open and she walked through.

Kohler fixed Langdon with an adamant stare. His message was clear:
As I told you . . . the missing eye
serves a higher purpose.

18

T he woman’s hands were tied, her wrists now purple and swollen from chafing. The mahoganyskinned Hassassin lay beside her, spent, admiring his naked prize. He wondered if her current slumber was just a deception, a pathetic attempt to avoid further service to him. He did not care. He had reaped sufficient reward. Sated, he sat up in bed. In
his
country women were possessions. Weak. Tools of pleasure. Chattel to be traded like livestock. And they understood their place. But
here,
in Europe, women feigned a strength and independence that both amused and excited him. Forcing them into physical submission was a gratification he always enjoyed. Now, despite the contentment in his loins, the Hassassin sensed another appetite growing within him. He had killed last night, killed and mutilated, and for him killing was like heroin . . . each encounter satisfying only temporarily before increasing his longing for more. The exhilaration had worn off. The craving had returned.

He studied the sleeping woman beside him. Running his palm across her neck, he felt aroused with the knowledge that he could end her life in an instant. What would it matter? She was subhuman, a vehicle only of pleasure and service. His strong fingers encircled her throat, savoring her delicate pulse. Then, fighting desire, he removed his hand. There was work to do. Service to a higher cause than his own desire. As he got out of bed, he reveled in the honor of the job before him. He still could not fathom the influence of this man named Janus and the ancient brotherhood he commanded. Wondrously, the brotherhood had chosen
him
. Somehow they had learned of his loathing . . . and of his skills. How, he would never know.
Their roots reach wide
.

Now they had bestowed on him the ultimate honor. He would be their hands and their voice. Their assassin and their messenger. The one his people knew as
Malak al-haq
—the Angel of Truth.
19

V etra’s lab was wildly futuristic.

Stark white and bounded on all sides by computers and specialized electronic equipment, it looked like some sort of operating room. Langdon wondered what secrets this place could possibly hold to justify cutting out someone’s eye to gain entrance.

Kohler looked uneasy as they entered, his eyes seeming to dart about for signs of an intruder. But the lab was deserted. Vittoria moved slowly too . . . as if the lab felt unknown without her father there. Langdon’s gaze landed immediately in the center of the room, where a series of short pillars rose from the floor. Like a miniature Stonehenge, a dozen or so columns of polished steel stood in a circle in the middle of the room. The pillars were about three feet tall, reminding Langdon of museum displays for valuable gems. These pillars, however, were clearly not for precious stones. Each supported a thick, transparent canister about the size of a tennis ball can. They appeared empty.

Kohler eyed the canisters, looking puzzled. He apparently decided to ignore them for the time being. He turned to Vittoria. “Has anything been stolen?”

“Stolen?
How?
” she argued. “The retina scan only allows entry to us.”

“Just look around.”

Vittoria sighed and surveyed the room for a few moments. She shrugged. “Everything looks as my father always leaves it. Ordered chaos.”

Langdon sensed Kohler weighing his options, as if wondering how far to push Vittoria . . . how much to tell her. Apparently he decided to leave it for the moment. Moving his wheelchair toward the center of the room, he surveyed the mysterious cluster of seemingly empty canisters.

“Secrets,” Kohler finally said, “are a luxury we can no longer afford.”

Vittoria nodded in acquiescence, looking suddenly emotional, as if being here brought with it a torrent of memories.

Give her a minute,
Langdon thought.

As though preparing for what she was about to reveal, Vittoria closed her eyes and breathed. Then she breathed again. And again. And again . . .

Langdon watched her, suddenly concerned.
Is she okay?
He glanced at Kohler, who appeared unfazed, apparently having seen this ritual before. Ten seconds passed before Vittoria opened her eyes. Langdon could not believe the metamorphosis. Vittoria Vetra had been transformed. Her full lips were lax, her shoulders down, and her eyes soft and assenting. It was as though she had realigned every muscle in her body to accept the situation. The resentful fire and personal anguish had been quelled somehow beneath a deeper, watery cool.

“Where to begin . . .” she said, her accent unruffled.

“At the beginning,” Kohler said. “Tell us about your father’s experiment.”

“Rectifying science with religion has been my father’s life dream,” Vittoria said. “He hoped to prove that science and religion are two totally compatible fields—two different approaches to finding the same truth.” She paused as if unable to believe what she was about to say. “And recently . . . he conceived of a way to do that.”

Kohler said nothing.

“He devised an experiment, one he hoped would settle one of the most bitter conflicts in the history of science and religion.”

Langdon wondered which conflict she could mean. There were so many.

“Creationism,” Vittoria declared. “The battle over how the universe came to be.”