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gratification. He took pride in his body—a welltuned, lethal machine, which, despite his heritage, he refused to pollute with narcotics. He had developed a more nourishing addiction than drugs . . . a far more healthy and satisfying reward. Feeling a familiar anticipation swelling within him, the Hassassin moved faster down the alley. He arrived at the nondescript door and rang the bell. A view slit in the door opened, and two soft brown eyes studied him appraisingly. Then the door swung open.
    “Welcome,” the well-dressed woman said. She ushered him into an impeccably furnished sitting room where the lights were low. The air was laced with expensive perfume and musk. “Whenever you are ready.” She handed him a book of photographs. “Ring me when you have made your choice.” Then she disappeared.
    The Hassassin smiled.
    As he sat on the plush divan and positioned the photo album on his lap, he felt a carnal hunger stir. Although his people did not celebrate Christmas, he imagined that this is what it must feel like to be a Christian child, sitting before a stack of Christmas presents, about to discover the miracles inside. He opened the album and examined the photos. A lifetime of sexual fantasies stared back at him. Marisa . An Italian goddess. Fiery. A young Sophia Loren.
    Sachiko . A Japanese geisha. Lithe. No doubt skilled.
    Kanara . A stunning black vision. Muscular. Exotic.
    He examined the entire album twice and made his choice. He pressed a button on the table beside him. A minute later the woman who had greeted him reappeared. He indicated his selection. She smiled. “Follow me.”
    After handling the financial arrangements, the woman made a hushed phone call. She waited a few minutes and then led him up a winding marble staircase to a luxurious hallway. “It’s the gold door on the end,” she said. “You have expensive taste.”
    I should , he thought. I am a connoisseur .
    The Hassassin padded the length of the hallway like a panther anticipating a long overdue meal. When he reached the doorway he smiled to himself. It was already ajar . . . welcoming him in. He pushed, and the door swung noiselessly open.
    When he saw his selection, he knew he had chosen well. She was exactly as he had requested . . . nude, lying on her back, her arms tied to the bedposts with thick velvet cords. He crossed the room and ran a dark finger across her ivory abdomen. I killed last night, he thought. You are my reward.
    11
    S atanic?” Kohler wiped his mouth and shifted uncomfortably. “This is the symbol of a satanic cult?”
    Langdon paced the frozen room to keep warm. “The Illuminati were satanic. But not in the modern sense.”
    Langdon quickly explained how most people pictured satanic cults as devil-worshiping fiends, and yet Satanists historically were educated men who stood as adversaries to the church. Shaitan . The rumors of satanic black-magic animal sacrifices and the pentagram ritual were nothing but lies spread by the church as a smear campaign against their adversaries. Over time, opponents of the church, wanting to emulate the Illuminati, began believing the lies and acting them out. Thus, modern Satanism was born. Kohler grunted abruptly. “This is all ancient history. I want to know how this symbol got here .”
    Langdon took a deep breath. “The symbol itself was created by an anonymous sixteenth-century Illuminati artist as a tribute to Galileo’s love of symmetry—a kind of sacred Illuminati logo. The brotherhood kept the design secret, allegedly planning to reveal it only when they had amassed enough power to resurface and carry out their final goal.”
    Kohler looked unsettled. “So this symbol means the Illuminati brotherhood is resurfacing?”
    Langdon frowned. “That would be impossible. There is one chapter of Illuminati history that I have not yet explained.”
    Kohler’s voice intensified. “Enlighten me.”
    Langdon rubbed his palms together, mentally sorting through the hundreds