"Always a bone of contention. Most maps show St. Peter’s Square as part of Vatican City, but because it’s outside the walled city, Roman officials for centuries have claimed it as part of Rome."
"You’re kidding," Langdon said. He had never known that.
"I only mention it," the guard continued, "because Commander Olivetti and Ms. Vetra were asking about a sculpture that had to do with Air."
Langdon was wide-eyed. "And you know of one in St. Peter’s Square?"
"Not exactly. It’s not really a sculpture. Probably not relevant."
"Let’s hear it," Olivetti pressed.
The guard shrugged. "The only reason I know about it is because I’m usually on piazza duty. I know every corner of St. Peter’s Square."
"The sculpture," Langdon urged. "What does it look like?" Langdon was starting to wonder if the Illuminati could really have been gutsy enough to position their second marker right outside St. Peter’s Church.
"I patrol past it every day," the guard said. "It’s in the center, directly where that line is pointing. That’s what made me think of it. As I said, it’s not really a sculpture. It’s more of a… block."
Olivetti looked mad. "A block?"
"Yes, sir. A marble block embedded in the square. At the base of the monolith. But the block is not a rectangle. It’s an ellipse. And the block is carved with the image of a billowing gust of wind." He paused. "Air, I suppose, if you wanted to get scientific about it."
Langdon stared at the young soldier in amazement. "A relief!" he exclaimed suddenly.
Everyone looked at him.
"Relief," Langdon said, "is the other half of sculpture!" Sculpture is the art of shaping figures in the round and also in relief. He had written the definition on chalkboards for years. Reliefs were essentially two-dimensional sculptures, like Abraham Lincoln’s profile on the penny. Bernini’s Chigi Chapel medallions were another perfect example.
"Bassorelievo?" the guard asked, using the Italian art term.
"Yes! Bas-relief!" Langdon rapped his knuckles on the hood. "I wasn’t thinking in those terms! That tile you’re talking about in St. Peter’s Square is called the West Ponente—the West Wind. It’s also known as Respiro di Dio."
"Breath of God?"
"Yes! Air! And it was carved and put there by the original architect!"
Vittoria looked confused. "But I thought Michelangelo designed St. Peter’s."
"Yes, the basilica!" Langdon exclaimed, triumph in his voice. "But St. Peter’s Square was designed by Bernini!"
As the caravan of Alpha Romeos tore out of Piazza del Popolo, everyone was in too much of a hurry to notice the BBC van pulling out behind them.
73
Gunther Glick floored the BBC van’s accelerator and swerved through traffic as he tailed the four speeding Alpha Romeos across the Tiber River on Ponte Margherita. Normally Glick would have made an effort to maintain an inconspicuous distance, but today he could barely keep up. These guys were flying.
Macri sat in her work area in the back of the van finishing a phone call with London. She hung up and yelled to Glick over the sound of the traffic. "You want the good news or bad news?"
Glick frowned. Nothing was ever simple when dealing with the home office. "Bad news."
"Editorial is burned we abandoned our post."
"Surprise."
"They also think your tipster is a fraud."
"Of course."
"And the boss just warned me that you’re a few crumpets short of a proper tea."
Glick scowled. "Great. And the good news?"
"They agreed to look at the footage we just shot."
Glick felt his scowl soften into a grin. I guess we’ll see who’s short a few crumpets. "So fire it off."
"Can’t transmit until we stop and get a fixed cell read."
Glick gunned the van onto Via Cola di Rienzo. "Can’t stop now." He tailed the Alpha Romeos through a hard left swerve around Piazza Risorgimento.
Macri held on to her computer gear in back as everything slid. "Break my transmitter," she warned, "and we’ll have to walk this footage to London."
"Sit tight, love. Something tells me we’re almost there."
Macri looked up. "Where?"
Glick gazed out at the familiar dome now looming directly in front of them. He smiled. "Right back where we started."
The four Alpha Romeos slipped deftly into traffic surrounding St. Peter’s Square. They split up and spread out along the piazza perimeter, quietly unloading men at select points. The debarking guards moved into the throng of tourists and media vans on the edge of the square and instantly became invisible. Some of the guards entered the forest of pillars encompassing the colonnade. They too seemed to evaporate into the surroundings. As Langdon watched through the windshield, he sensed a noose tightening around St. Peter’s.
In addition to the men Olivetti had just dispatched, the commander had radioed ahead to the Vatican and sent additional undercover guards to the center where Bernini’s West Ponente was located. As Langdon looked out at the wide-open spaces of St. Peter’s Square, a familiar question nagged. How does the Illuminati assassin plan to get away with this? How will he get a cardinal through all these people and kill him in plain view? Langdon checked his Mickey Mouse watch. It was 8:54 P.M. Six minutes.
In the front seat, Olivetti turned and faced Langdon and Vittoria. "I want you two right on top of this Bernini brick or block or whatever the hell it is. Same drill. You’re tourists. Use the phone if you see anything."
Before Langdon could respond, Vittoria had his hand and was pulling him out of the car.
The springtime sun was setting behind St. Peter’s Basilica, and a massive shadow spread, engulfing the piazza. Langdon felt an ominous chill as he and Vittoria moved into the cool, black umbra. Snaking through the crowd, Langdon found himself searching every face they passed, wondering if the killer was among them. Vittoria’s hand felt warm.
As they crossed the open expanse of St. Peter’s Square, Langdon sensed Bernini’s sprawling piazza having the exact effect the artist had been commissioned to create—that of "humbling all those who entered." Langdon certainly felt humbled at the moment. Humbled and hungry, he realized, surprised such a mundane thought could enter his head at a moment like this.
"To the obelisk?" Vittoria asked.
Langdon nodded, arching left across the piazza.
"Time?" Vittoria asked, walking briskly, but casually.
"Five of."
Vittoria said nothing, but Langdon felt her grip tighten. He was still carrying the gun. He hoped Vittoria would not decide she needed it. He could not imagine her whipping out a weapon in St. Peter’s Square and blowing away the kneecaps of some killer while the global media looked on. Then again, an incident like that would be nothing compared to the branding and murder of a cardinal out here.
Air, Langdon thought. The second element of science. He tried to picture the brand. The method of murder. Again he scanned the sprawling expanse of granite beneath his feet—St. Peter’s Square—an open desert surrounded by Swiss Guard. If the Hassassin really dared attempt this, Langdon could not imagine how he would escape.
In the center of the piazza rose Caligula’s 350-ton Egyptian obelisk. It stretched eighty-one feet skyward to the pyramidal apex onto which was affixed a hollow iron cross. Sufficiently high to catch the last of the evening sun, the cross shone as if magic… purportedly containing relics of the cross on which Christ was crucified.