Neither Vittoria nor Langdon responded.
"Fine," he said, stretching. "I’ll be in the cockpit with the air-conditioning and my music. Just me and Garth."
The late-afternoon sun blazed outside the hangar. Langdon carried his tweed jacket over his shoulder. Vittoria turned her face skyward and inhaled deeply, as if the sun’s rays somehow transferred to her some mystical replenishing energy.
"Little old for cartoons, aren’t you?" Vittoria asked, without opening her eyes.
"I’m sorry?"
"Your wristwatch. I saw it on the plane."
Langdon flushed slightly. He was accustomed to having to defend his timepiece. The collector’s edition Mickey Mouse watch had been a childhood gift from his parents. Despite the contorted foolishness of Mickey’s outstretched arms designating the hour, it was the only watch Langdon had ever worn. Waterproof and glow-in-the-dark, it was perfect for swimming laps or walking unlit college paths at night. When Langdon’s students questioned his fashion sense, he told them he wore Mickey as a daily reminder to stay young at heart.
"It’s six o’clock," he said.
Vittoria nodded, eyes still closed. "I think our ride’s here."
Langdon heard the distant whine, looked up, and felt a sinking feeling. Approaching from the north was a helicopter, slicing low across the runway. Langdon had been on a helicopter once in the Andean Palpa Valley looking at the
Apparently not.
The chopper slowed overhead, hovered a moment, and dropped toward the runway in front of them. The craft was white and carried a coat of arms emblazoned on the side—two skeleton keys crossing a shield and papal crown. He knew the symbol well. It was the traditional seal of the Vatican—the sacred symbol of the
The pilot jumped from the cockpit and strode toward them across the tarmac.
Now it was Vittoria who looked uneasy. "
Langdon shared her concern. "To fly, or not to fly. That is the question."
The pilot looked like he was festooned for a Shakespearean melodrama. His puffy tunic was vertically striped in brilliant blue and gold. He wore matching pantaloons and spats. On his feet were black flats that looked like slippers. On top of it all, he wore a black felt beret.
"Traditional Swiss Guard uniforms," Langdon explained. "Designed by Michelangelo himself." As the man drew closer, Langdon winced. "I admit,
Despite the man’s garish attire, Langdon could tell the pilot meant business. He moved toward them with all the rigidity and dignity of a U.S. Marine. Langdon had read many times about the rigorous requirements for becoming one of the elite Swiss Guard. Recruited from one of Switzerland’s four Catholic cantons, applicants had to be Swiss males between nineteen and thirty years old, at least 5 feet 6 inches, trained by the Swiss Army, and unmarried. This imperial corps was envied by world governments as the most allegiant and deadly security force in the world.
"You are from CERN?" the guard asked, arriving before them. His voice was steely.
"Yes, sir," Langdon replied.
"You made remarkable time," he said, giving the X-33 a mystified stare. He turned to Vittoria. "Ma’am, do you have any other clothing?"
"I beg your pardon?"
He motioned to her legs. "Short pants are not permitted inside Vatican City."
Langdon glanced down at Vittoria’s legs and frowned. He had forgotten. Vatican City had a strict ban on visible legs above the knee—both male and female. The regulation was a way of showing respect for the sanctity of God’s city.
"This is all I have," she said. "We came in a hurry."
The guard nodded, clearly displeased. He turned next to Langdon. "Are you carrying any weapons?"
The officer crouched at Langdon’s feet and began patting him down, starting at his socks.
Vittoria glared. "Don’t even think about it."
The guard fixed Vittoria with a gaze clearly intended to intimidate. Vittoria did not flinch.
