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feeling they were too late as they watched the mammoth machine slow to a stop over St. Peter's Square. Kicking up a cloud of dust, the chopper dropped onto the open portion of the square between the crowd and the basilica, touching down at the bottom of the basilica's staircase.

"Talk about an entrance," Vittoria said. Against the white marble, she could see a tiny speck of a person emerge from the Vatican and move toward the chopper. She would never have recognized the figure except for the bright red beret on his head. "Red carpet greeting. That's Rocher."

Langdon pounded his fist on the banister. "Somebody's got to warn them!" He turned to go.

Vittoria caught his arm. "Wait!" She had just seen something else, something her eyes refused to believe. Fingers trembling, she pointed toward the chopper. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking. Descending the gangplank was another figure... a figure who moved so uniquely that it could only be one man. Although the figure was seated, he accelerated across the open square with effortless control and startling speed.

A king on an electric throne.

It was Maximilian Kohler.

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Kohler was sickened by the opulence of the Hallway of the Belvedere. The gold leaf in the ceiling alone probably could have funded a year's worth of cancer research. Rocher led Kohler up a handicapped ramp on a circuitous route into the Apostolic Palace.

"No elevator?" Kohler demanded.

"No power." Rocher motioned to the candles burning around them in the darkened building. "Part of our search tactic."

"Tactics which no doubt failed."

Rocher nodded.

Kohler broke into another coughing fit and knew it might be one of his last. It was not an entirely unwelcome thought.

When they reached the top floor and started down the hallway toward the Pope's office, four Swiss Guards ran toward them, looking troubled. "Captain, what are you doing up here? I thought this man had information that - "

"He will only speak to the camerlegno."

The guards recoiled, looking suspicious.

"Tell the camerlegno," Rocher said forcefully, "that the director of CERN, Maximilian Kohler, is here to see him. Immediately."

"Yes, sir!" One of the guards ran off in the direction of the camerlegno's office. The others stood their ground. They studied Rocher, looking uneasy. "Just one moment, captain. We will announce your guest."

Kohler, however, did not stop. He turned sharply and maneuvered his chair around the sentinels.

The guards spun and broke into a jog beside him. "Fermati! Sir! Stop!"

Kohler felt repugnance for them. Not even the most elite security force in the world was immune to the pity everyone felt for cripples. Had Kohler been a healthy man, the guards would have tackled him. Cripples are powerless, Kohler thought. Or so the world believes.

Kohler knew he had very little time to accomplish what he had come for. He also knew he might die here tonight. He was surprised how little he cared. Death was a price he was ready to pay. He had endured too much in his life to have his work destroyed by someone like Camerlegno Ventresca.

"Signore!" the guards shouted, running ahead and forming a line across the hallway. "You must stop!" One of them pulled a sidearm and aimed it at Kohler.

Kohler stopped.

Rocher stepped in, looking contrite. "Mr. Kohler, please. It will only be a moment. No one enters the Office of the Pope unannounced."

Kohler could see in Rocher's eyes that he had no choice but to wait. Fine, Kohler thought. We wait.

The guards, cruelly it seemed, had stopped Kohler next to a full-length gilded mirror. The sight of his own twisted form repulsed Kohler. The ancient rage brimmed yet again to the surface. It empowered him. He was among the enemy now. These were the people who had robbed him of his dignity. These were the people. Because of them he had never felt the touch of a woman... had never stood tall to accept an award. What truth do these people possess? What proof, damn it! A book of ancient fables? Promises of miracles to come? Science creates miracles every day!

Kohler stared a moment into his own stony eyes. Tonight I may die at the hands of religion, he thought. But it will not be the first time.

For a moment, he was eleven years old again, lying in his bed in his parents' Frankfurt mansion. The sheets beneath him were Europe's finest linen, but they were soaked with sweat. Young Max felt like he was on fire, the pain wracking his body unimaginable. Kneeling beside his bed, where they had been