danbrown.angels&demons-第68部分

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ost　seamless　and　resilient　Carrara　marble。　
　Precision　can　be　suffocating。
　〃Lift　the　damn　thing；〃　he　said　aloud；　pressing　harder　through　the　tangle　of　bones。　The　box　shifted　slightly。　Setting　his　jaw；　he　heaved　again。　The　box　felt　like　a　boulder；　but　this　time　it　raised　a　quarter　of　an　inch。　A　fleeting　glimmer　of　light　surrounded　him；　and　then　the　casket　thudded　back　down。　Langdon　lay　panting　in　the　dark。　He　tried　to　use　his　legs　to　lift　as　he　had　before；　but　now　that　the　sarcophagus　had　fallen　flat；　there　was　no　room　even　to　straighten　his　knees。
　As　the　claustrophobic　panic　closed　in；　Langdon　was　overe　by　images　of　the　sarcophagus　shrinking　around　him。　Squeezed　by　delirium；　he　fought　the　illusion　with　every　logical　shred　of　intellect　he　had。
　〃Sarcophagus；〃　he　stated　aloud；　with　as　much　academic　sterility　as　he　could　muster。　But　even　erudition　seemed　to　be　his　enemy　today。　Sarcophagus　is　from　the　Greek　〃sarx〃meaning　〃flesh；〃　and　〃phagein〃　meaning　〃to　eat。〃　I'm　trapped　in　a　box　literally　designed　to　〃eat　flesh。〃　
　Images　of　flesh　eaten　from　bone　only　served　as　a　grim　reminder　that　Langdon　lay　covered　in　human　remains。　The　notion　brought　nausea　and　chills。　But　it　also　brought　an　idea。
　Fumbling　blindly　around　the　coffin；　Langdon　found　a　shard　of　bone。　A　rib　maybe？　He　didn't　care。　All　he　wanted　was　a　wedge。　If　he　could　lift　the　box；　even　a　crack；　and　slide　the　bone　fragment　beneath　the　rim；　then　maybe　enough　air　could　。　。　。　
　Reaching　across　his　body　and　wedging　the　tapered　end　of　the　bone　into　the　crack　between　the　floor　and　the　coffin；　Langdon　reached　up　with　his　other　hand　and　heaved　skyward。　The　box　did　not　move。　Not　even　slightly。　He　tried　again。　For　a　moment；　it　seemed　to　tremble　slightly；　but　that　was　all。
　With　the　fetid　stench　and　lack　of　oxygen　choking　the　strength　from　his　body；　Langdon　realized　he　only　had　time　for　one　more　effort。　He　also　knew　he　would　need　both　arms。
　Regrouping；　he　placed　the　tapered　edge　of　the　bone　against　the　crack；　and　shifting　his　body；　he　wedged　the　bone　against　his　shoulder；　pinning　it　in　place。　Careful　not　to　dislodge　it；　he　raised　both　hands　above　him。　As　the　stifling　confine　began　to　smother　him；　he　felt　a　welling　of　intensified　panic。　It　was　the　second　time　today　he　had　been　trapped　with　no　air。　Hollering　aloud；　Langdon　thrust　upward　in　one　explosive　motion。　The　casket　jostled　off　the　floor　for　an　instant。　But　long　enough。　The　bone　shard　he　had　braced　against　his　shoulder　slipped　outward　into　the　widening　crack。　When　the　casket　fell　again；　the　bone　shattered。　But　this　time　Langdon　could　see　the　casket　was　propped　up。　A　tiny　slit　of　light　showed　beneath　the　rim。
　Exhausted；　Langdon　collapsed。　Hoping　the　strangling　sensation　in　his　throat　would　pass；　he　waited。　But　it　only　worsened　as　the　seconds　passed。　Whatever　air　was　ing　through　the　slit　seemed　imperceptible。　Langdon　wondered　if　it　would　be　enough　to　keep　him　alive。　And　if　so；　for　how　long？　If　he　passed　out；　who　would　know　he　was　even　in　there？　
　With　arms　like　lead；　Langdon　raised　his　watch　again：　10：12　P。M。　Fighting　trembling　fingers；　he　fumbled　with　the　watch　and　made　his　final　play。　He　twisted　one　of　the　tiny　dials　and　pressed　a　button。
　As　consciousness　faded；　and　the　walls　squeezed　closer；　Langdon　felt　the　old　fears　sweep　over　him。　He　tried　to　imagine；　as　he　had　so　many　times；　that　he　was　in　an　open　field。　The　image　he　conjured；　however；　was　no　help。　The　nightmare　that　had　haunted　him　since　his　youth　came　crashing　back　。　。　。　
　
　The　flowers　here　are　like　paintings；　the　child　thought；　laughing　as　he　ran　across　the　meadow。　He　wished　his　parents　had　e　along。　But　his　parents　were　busy　pitching　camp。　
　〃Don't　explore　too　far；〃　his　mother　had　said。　
　He　had　pretended　not　to　hear　as　he　bounded　off　into　the　woods。　
　Now；　traversing　this　glorious　field；　the　boy　came　across　a　pile　of　fieldstones。　He　figured　it　must　be　the　foundation　of　an　old　homestead。　He　would　not　go　near　it。　He　knew　better。　Besides；　his　eyes　had　been　drawn　to　something　else…a　brilliant　lady's　slipper…the　rarest　and　most　beautiful　flower　in　New　Hampshire。　He　had　only　ever　seen　them　in　books。　
　Excited；　the　boy　moved　toward　the　flower。　He　knelt　down。　The　ground　beneath　him　felt　mulchy　and　hollow。　He　realized　his　flower　had　found　an　extra…fertile　spot。　It　was　growing　from　a　patch　of　rotting　wood。　
　Thrilled　by　the　thought　of　taking　home　his　prize；　the　boy　reached　out　。　。　。　fingers　extending　toward　the　stem。　
　He　never　reached　it。　
　With　a　sickening　crack；　the　earth　gave　way。　
　In　the　three　seconds　of　dizzying　terror　as　he　fell；　the　boy　knew　he　would　die。　Plummeting　downward；　he　braced　for　the　bone…crushing　collision。　When　it　came；　there　was　no　pain。　Only　softness。　
　And　cold。　
　He　hit　the　deep　liquid　face　first；　plunging　into　a　narrow　blackness。　Spinning　disoriented　somersaults；　he　groped　the　sheer　walls　that　enclosed　him　on　all　sides。　Somehow；　as　if　by　instinct；　he　sputtered　to　the　surface。　
　Light。　
　Faint。　Above　him。　Miles　above　him；　it　seemed。　
　His　arms　clawed　at　the　water；　searching　the　walls　of　the　hollow　for　something　to　grab　onto。　Only　smooth　stone。　He　had　fallen　through　an　abandoned　well　covering。　He　screamed　for　help；　but　his　cries　reverberated　in　the　tight　shaft。　He　called　out　again　and　again。　Above　him；　the　tattered　hole　grew　dim。　
　Night　fell。　
　Time　seemed　to　contort　in　the　darkness。　Numbness　set　in　as　he　treaded　water　in　the　depths　of　the　chasm；　calling；　crying　out。　He　was　tormented　by　visions　of　the　walls　collapsing　in；　burying　him　alive。　His　arms　ached　with　fatigue。　A　few　times　he　thought　he　heard　voices。　He　shouted　out；　but　his　own　voice　was　muted　。　。　。　like　a　dream。　
　As　the　night　wore　on；　the　shaft　deepened。　The　walls　inched　quietly　inward。　The　boy　pressed　out　against　the　enclosure；　pushing　it　away。　Exhausted；　he　wanted　to　give　up。　And　yet　he　felt　the　water　buoy　him；　cooling　his　burning　fears　until　he　was　numb。　
　When　the　rescue　team　arrived；　they　found　the　boy　barely　conscious。　He　had　been　treading　water　for　five　hours。　Two　days　later；　the　Boston　Globe　ran　a　front…page　story　called　〃The　Little　Swimmer　That　Could。〃　
　
　97

　The　Hassassin　smiled　as　he　pulled　his　van　into　the　mammoth　stone　structure　overlooking　the　Tiber　River。　He　carried　his　prize　up　and　up　。　。　。　spiraling　higher　in　the　stone　tunnel；　grateful　his　load　was　slender。　
　He　arrived　at　the　door。　
　The　Church　of　Illumination；　he　gloated。　The　ancient　Illuminati　meeting　room。　Who　would　have　imagined　it　to　be　here？　
　Inside；　he　lay　her　on　a　plush　divan。　Then　he　expertly　bound　her　arms　behind　her　back　and　tied　her　feet。　He　knew　that　what　he　longed　for　would　have　to　wait　until　his　final　task　was　finished。　Water。　
　Still；　he　thought；　he　had　a　moment　for　indulgence。　Kneeling　beside　her；　he　ran　his　hand　along　her　thigh。　It　was　smooth。　Higher。　His　dark　fingers　snaked　beneath　the　cuff　of　her　shorts。　Higher。
　He　stopped。　Patience；　he　told　himself；　feeling　aroused。　There　is　work　to　be　done。　
　He　walked　for　a　moment　out　onto　the　chamber's　high　stone　balcony。　The　evening　breeze　slowly　cooled　his　ardor。　Far　below　the　Tiber　raged。　He　raised　his　eyes　to　the　dome　of　St。　Peter's；　three　quarters　of　a　mile　away；　naked　under　the　glare　of　hundreds　of　press　lights。　
　〃Your　final　hour；〃　he　said　aloud；　picturing　the　thousands　of　Muslims　slaughtered　during　the　Crusades。　〃At　midnight　you　will　meet　your　God。〃
　Behind　him；　the　woman　stirred。　The　Hassassin　turned。　He　considered　letting　her　wake　up。　Seeing　terror　in　a　woman's　eyes　was　his　ultimate　aphrodisiac。　
　He　opted　for　prudence。　It　would　be　better　if　she　remained　unconscious　while　he　was　gone。　Although　she　was　tied　and　would　never　escape；　the　Hassassin　did　not　want　to　return　and　find　her　exhausted　from　struggling。　I　want　your　strength　preserved　。　。　。　for　me。　
　Lifting　her　head　slightly；　he　placed　his　palm　beneath　her　neck　and　found　the　hollow　directly　beneath　her　skull。　The　crown/meridian　pressure　point　was　one　he　had　used　countless　times。　With　crushing　force；　he　drove　his　thumb　into　the　soft　cartilage　and　felt　it　depress。　The　woman　slumped　instantly。Twenty　minutes；　he　thought。　She　would　be　a　tantalizing　end　to　a　perfect　day。　After　she　had　served　him　and　died　doing　it；　he　would　stand　on　the　balcony　and　watch　the　midnight　Vatican　fireworks。　
　Leaving　his　prize　unconscious　on　the　couch；　the　Hassassin　went　downstairs　into　a　torchlit　dungeon。　The　final　task。　He　walked　to　the　table　and　revered　the　sacred；　metal　forms　that　had　been　left　there　for　him。　
　Water。　It　was　his　last。　
　Removing　a　torch　from　the　wall　as　he　had　done　three　times　already；　he　began　heating　the　end。　When　the　end　of　the　object　was　white　hot；　he　carried　it　to　the　cell。　
　Inside；　a　single　man　stood　in　silence。　Old　and　alone。　
　〃Cardinal　Baggia；〃　the　killer　hissed。　〃Have　you　prayed　yet？〃
　The　Italian's　eyes　were　fearless。　〃Only　for　your　soul。〃
　
　98

　The　six　pompieri　firemen　who　responded　to　the　fire　at　the　Church　of　Santa　Maria　Della　Vittoria　extinguished　the　bonfire　with　blasts　of　Halon　gas。　Water　was　cheaper；　but　the　steam　it　created　would　have　ruined　the　frescoes　in　the　chapel；　and　the　Vatican　paid　Roman　pompieri　a　healthy　stipend　for　swift　and　prudent　service　in　all　Vatican…owned　buildings。
　Pompieri；　b