Chapter 110

           

           Eleven-twenty-threeP.M.

           VittoriastoodtremblingonthebalconyofCastleSt.Angelo,staringoutacrossRome,hereyesmoistwithtears.ShewantedbadlytoembraceRobertLangdon,butshecouldnot.Herbodyfeltanesthetized.Readjusting.Takingstock.Themanwhohadkilledherfatherlayfarbelow,dead,andshehadalmostbeenavictimaswell.

           WhenLangdon’shandtouchedhershoulder,theinfusionofwarmthseemedtomagicallyshattertheice.Herbodyshudderedbacktolife.Thefoglifted,andsheturned.Robertlookedlikehell—wetandmatted—hehadobviouslybeenthroughpurgatorytocomerescueher.

           "Thankyou…"shewhispered.

           Langdongaveanexhaustedsmileandremindedherthatitwasshewhodeservedthanks—herabilitytopracticallydislocatehershouldershadjustsavedthemboth.Vittoriawipedhereyes.Shecouldhavestoodthereforeverwithhim,butthereprievewasshort-lived.

           "Weneedtogetoutofhere,"Langdonsaid.

           Vittoria’smindwaselsewhere.ShewasstaringouttowardtheVatican.Theworld’ssmallestcountrylookedunsettlinglyclose,glowingwhiteunderabarrageofmedialights.Tohershock,muchofSt.Peter’sSquarewasstillpackedwithpeople!TheSwissGuardhadapparentlybeenabletoclearonlyaboutahundredandfiftyfeetback—theareadirectlyinfrontofthebasilica—lessthanone-thirdofthesquare.Theshellofcongestionencompassingthesquarewascompactednow,thoseatthesaferdistancespressingforacloserlook,trappingtheothersinside.Theyaretooclose!Vittoriathought.Muchtooclose!

           "I’mgoingbackin,"Langdonsaidflatly.

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