"I’ve never heard anything about this."
"Maybe because in 1921 you were just a kid."
"Charming." Macri took the jab in stride. She knew her years were showing. At forty-three, her bushy black curls were streaked with gray. She was too proud for dye. Her mom, a Southern Baptist, had taught Chinita contentedness and self-respect. When you’re a black woman, her mother said, ain’t no hiding what you are. Day you try, is the day you die. Stand tall, smile bright, and let ’em wonder what secret’s making you laugh.
"Ever heard of Cecil Rhodes?" Glick asked.
Macri looked up. "The British financier?"
"Yeah. Founded the Rhodes Scholarships."
"Don’t tell me—"
"Illuminatus."
"BS."
"BBC, actually. November 16, 1984."
"We wrote that Cecil Rhodes was Illuminati?"
"Sure did. And according to our network, the Rhodes Scholarships were funds set up centuries ago to recruit the world’s brightest young minds into the Illuminati."
"That’s ridiculous! My uncle was a Rhodes Scholar!"
Glick winked. "So was Bill Clinton."
Macri was getting mad now. She had never had tolerance for shoddy, alarmist reporting. Still, she knew enough about the BBC to know that every story they ran was carefully researched and confirmed.
"Here’s one you’ll remember," Glick said. "BBC, March 5, 1998. Parliament Committee Chair, Chris Mullin, required all members of British Parliament who were Masons to declare their affiliation."
Macri remembered it. The decree had eventually extended to include policemen and judges as well. "Why was it again?"
Glick read. "… concern that secret factions within the Masons exerted considerable control over political and financial systems."
"That’s right."
"Caused quite a bustle. The Masons in parliament were furious. Had a right to be. The vast majority turned out to be innocent men who joined the Masons for networking and charity work. They had no clue about the brotherhood’s past affiliations."
"Alleged affiliations."
"Whatever." Glick scanned the articles. "Look at this stuff. Accounts tracing the Illuminati back to Galileo, the Guerenets of France, the Alumbrados of Spain. Even Karl Marx and the Russian Revolution."
"History has a way of rewriting itself."
"Fine, you want something current? Have a look at this. Here’s an Illuminati reference from a recent Wall Street Journal."
This caught Macri’s ear. "The Journal?"
"Guess what the most popular Internet computer game in America is right now?"
"Pin the tail on Pamela Anderson."
"Close. It’s called, Illuminati: New World Order."
Macri looked over his shoulder at the blurb. "Steve Jackson Games has a runaway hit… a quasi-historical adventure in which an ancient satanic brotherhood from Bavaria sets out to take over the world. You can find them on-line at…" Macri looked up, feeling ill. "What do these Illuminati guys have against Christianity?"
"Not just Christianity," Glick said. "Religion in general." Glick cocked his head and grinned. "Although from the phone call we just got, it appears they do have a special spot in their hearts for the Vatican."
"Oh, come on. You don’t really think that guy who called is who he claims to be, do you?"
"A messenger of the Illuminati? Preparing to kill four cardinals?" Glick smiled. "I sure hope so."
64
Langdon and Vittoria’s taxi completed the one-mile sprint up the wide Via della Scrofa in just over a minute. They skidded to a stop on the south side of the Piazza del Popolo just before eight. Not having any lire, Langdon overpaid the driver in U.S. dollars. He and Vittoria jumped out. The piazza was quiet except for the laughter of a handful of locals seated outside the popular Rosati Café—a hot spot of the Italian literati. The breeze smelled of espresso and pastry.
Langdon was still in shock over his mistake at the Pantheon. With a cursory glance at this square, however, his sixth sense was already tingling. The piazza seemed subtly filled with Illuminati significance. Not only was it laid out in a perfectly elliptical shape, but dead center stood a towering Egyptian obelisk—a square pillar of stone with a distinctively pyramidal tip. Spoils of Rome’s imperial plundering, obelisks were scattered across Rome and referred to by symbologists as "Lofty Pyramids"—skyward extensions of the sacred pyramidal form.
As Langdon’s eyes moved up the monolith, though, his sight was suddenly drawn to something else in the background. Something even more remarkable.
"We’re in the right place," he said quietly, feeling a sudden exposed wariness. "Have a look at that." Langdon pointed to the imposing Porta del Popolo—the high stone archway at the far end of the piazza. The vaulted structure had been overlooking the piazza for centuries. Dead center of the archway’s highest point was a symbolic engraving. "Look familiar?"
Vittoria looked up at the huge carving. "A shining star over a triangular pile of stones?"
Langdon shook his head. "A source of Illumination over a pyramid."
Vittoria turned, her eyes suddenly wide. "Like… the Great Seal of the United States?"
"Exactly. The Masonic symbol on the one-dollar bill."
Vittoria took a deep breath and scanned the piazza. "So where’s this damn church?"
The Church of Santa Maria del Popolo stood out like a misplaced battleship, askew at the base of a hill on the southeast corner of the piazza. The eleventh-century stone aerie was made even more clumsy by the tower of scaffolding covering the façade.
Langdon’s thoughts were a blur as they raced toward the edifice. He stared up at the church in wonder. Could a murder really be about to take place inside? He wished Olivetti would hurry. The gun felt awkward in his pocket.
The church’s front stairs were ventaglio—a welcoming, curved fan—ironic in this case because they were blocked with scaffolding, construction equipment, and a sign warning:
Langdon realized that a church closed for renovation meant total privacy for a killer. Not like the Pantheon. No fancy tricks needed here. Only to find a way in.
Vittoria slipped without hesitation between the sawhorses and headed up the staircase.
"Vittoria," Langdon cautioned. "If he’s still in there…"
Vittoria did not seem to hear. She ascended the main portico to the church’s sole wooden door. Langdon hurried up the stairs behind her. Before he could say a word she had grasped the handle and pulled. Langdon held his breath. The door did not budge.
"There must be another entrance," Vittoria said.
"Probably," Langdon said, exhaling, "but Olivetti will be here in a minute. It’s too dangerous to go in. We should cover the church from out here until—"
Vittoria turned, her eyes blazing. "If there’s another way in, there’s another way out. If this guy disappears, we’re fungito."
Langdon knew enough Italian to know she was right.
The alley on the right side of the church was pinched and dark, with high walls on both sides. It smelled of urine—a common aroma in a city where bars outnumbered public rest rooms twenty to one.
Langdon and Vittoria hurried into the fetid dimness. They had gone about fifteen yards down when Vittoria tugged Langdon’s arm and pointed.
Langdon saw it too. Up ahead was an unassuming wooden door with heavy hinges. Langdon recognized it as the standard porta sacra—a private entrance for clergy. Most of these entrances had gone out of use years ago as encroaching buildings and limited real estate relegated side entrances to inconvenient alleyways.