by Dan Brown
Vittoria ignored him. ‘Yes,’ she was saying into the phone. ‘And I must warn—’
Olivetti ripped the receiver from her hand, and raised it to his ear. ‘Who the hell is this?’
For the tiniest of an instant, Olivetti’s inelastic posture slumped. ‘Yes, camerlengo . . .’ he said. ‘Correct, signore . . . but questions of security demand . . . of course not . . . I am holding her here for . . . certainly, but . . .’ He listened. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said finally. ‘I will bring them up immediately.’
39
The Apostolic Palace is a conglomeration of buildings located near the Sistine Chapel in the northeast part of Vatican City. With a commanding view of St Peter’s Square, the palace houses both the Papal Apartments and the Office of the Pope.
Vittoria and Langdon followed in silence as Commander Olivetti led them down a long rococo corridor, the muscles in his neck pulsing with rage. After climbing three sets of stairs, they entered a wide, dimly lit hallway.
Langdon could not believe the artwork on the walls – mint-condition busts, tapestries, friezes – works worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Two-thirds of the way down the hall they passed an alabaster fountain. Olivetti turned left into an alcove and strode to one of the largest doors Langdon had ever seen.
‘Ufficio del Papa,’ the commander declared, giving Vittoria an acrimonious scowl. Vittoria didn’t flinch. She reached over Olivetti and knocked loudly on the door.
Office of the Pope, Langdon thought, having difficulty fathoming that he was standing outside one of the most sacred rooms in all of world religion.
‘Avanti!’ someone called from within.
When the door opened, Langdon had to shield his eyes. The sunlight was blinding. Slowly, the image before him came into focus.
The Office of the Pope seemed more of a ballroom than an office. Red marble floors sprawled out in all directions to walls adorned with vivid frescoes. A colossal chandelier hung overhead, beyond which a bank of arched windows offered a stunning panorama of the sun-drenched St Peter’s Square.
My God, Langdon thought. This is a room with a view.
At the far end of the hall, at a carved desk, a man sat writing furiously. ‘Avanti,’ he called out again, setting down his pen and waving them over.
Olivetti led the way, his gait military. ‘Signore,’ he said apologetically. ‘No ho potuto—’
The man cut him off. He stood and studied his two visitors.
The camerlengo was nothing like the images of frail, beatific old men Langdon usually imagined roaming the Vatican. He wore no rosary beads or pendants. No heavy robes. He was dressed instead in a simple black cassock that seemed to amplify the solidity of his substantial frame. He looked to be in his late-thirties, indeed a child by Vatican standards. He had a surprisingly handsome face, a swirl of coarse brown hair, and almost radiant green eyes that shone as if they were somehow fueled by the mysteries of the universe. As the man drew nearer, though, Langdon saw in his eyes a profound exhaustion – like a soul who had been through the toughest fifteen days of his life.
‘I am Carlo Ventresca,’ he said, his English perfect. ‘The late Pope’s camerlengo.’ His voice was unpretentious and kind, with only the slightest hint of Italian inflection.
‘Vittoria Vetra,’ she said, stepping forward and offering her hand. ‘Thank you for seeing us.’
Olivetti twitched as the camerlengo shook Vittoria’s hand.
‘This is Robert Langdon,’ Vittoria said. ‘A religious historian from Harvard University.’
‘Padre,’ Langdon said, in his best Italian accent. He bowed his head as he extended his hand.
‘No, no,’ the camerlengo insisted, lifting Langdon back up. ‘His Holiness’s office does not make me holy. I am merely a priest – a chamberlain serving in a time of need.’
Langdon stood upright.
‘Please,’ the camerlengo said, ‘everyone sit.’ He arranged some chairs around his desk. Langdon and Vittoria sat. Olivetti apparently preferred to stand.
The camerlengo seated himself at the desk, folded his hands, sighed, and eyed his visitors.
‘Signore,’ Olivetti said. ‘The woman’s attire is my fault. I—’
‘Her attire is not what concerns me,’ the camerlengo replied, sounding too exhausted to be bothered. ‘When the Vatican operator calls me a half hour before I begin conclave to tell me a woman is calling from your private office to warn me of some sort of major security threat of which I have not been informed, that concerns me.’
Olivetti stood rigid, his back arched like a soldier under intense inspection.
Langdon felt hypnotized by the camerlengo’s presence. Young and wearied as he was, the priest had the air of some mythical hero – radiating charisma and authority.
‘Signore,’ Olivetti said, his tone apologetic but still unyielding. ‘You should not concern yourself with matters of security. You have other responsibilities.’
‘I am well aware of my other responsibilities. I am also aware that as direttore intermediario, I have a responsibility for the safety and wellbeing of everyone at this conclave. What is going on here?’
‘I have the situation under control.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Father,’ Langdon interrupted, taking out the crumpled fax and handing it to the camerlengo, ‘please.’
Commander Olivetti stepped forward, trying to intervene. ‘Father, please do not trouble your thoughts with—’
The camerlengo took the fax, ignoring Olivetti for a long moment. He looked at the image of the murdered Leonardo Vetra and drew a startled breath. ‘What is this?’
‘That is my father,’ Vittoria said, her voice wavering. ‘He was a priest and a man of science. He was murdered last night.’
The camerlengo’s face softened instantly. He looked up at her. ‘My dear child. I’m so sorry.’ He crossed himself and looked again at the fax, his eyes seeming to pool with waves of abhorrence. ‘Who would . . . and this burn on his . . .’ The camerlengo paused, squinting closer at the image.
‘It says Illuminati,’ Langdon said. ‘No doubt you are familiar with the name.’
An odd look came across the camerlengo’s face. ‘I have heard the name, yes, but . . .’
‘The Illuminati murdered Leonardo Vetra so they could steal a new technology he was—’
‘Signore,’ Olivetti interjected. ‘This is absurd. The Illuminati? This is clearly some sort of elaborate hoax.’
The camerlengo seemed to ponder Olivetti’s words. Then he turned and contemplated Langdon so fully that Langdon felt the air leave his lungs. ‘Mr Langdon, I have spent my life in the Catholic Church. I am familiar with the Illuminati lore . . . and the legend of the brandings. And yet I must warn you, I am a man of the present tense. Christianity has enough real enemies without resurrecting ghosts.’
‘The symbol is authentic,’ Langdon said, a little too defensively he thought. He reached over and rotated the fax for the camerlengo.
The camerlengo fell silent when he saw the symmetry.
‘Even modern computers,’ Langdon added, ‘have been unable to forge a symmetrical ambigram of this word.’
The camerlengo folded his hands and said nothing for a long time. ‘The Illuminati are dead,’ he finally said. ‘Long ago. That is historical fact.’
Langdon nodded. ‘Yesterday, I would have agreed with you.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘Before today’s chain of events. I believe the Illuminati have resurfaced to make good on an ancient pact.’
‘Forgive me. My history is rusty. What ancient pact is this?’
Langdon took a deep breath. ‘The destruction of Vatican City.’
‘Destroy Vatican City?’ The camerlengo looked less frightened than confused. ‘But that would be impossible.’
Vittoria shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we have some more bad news.’
40
‘Is this true?’ the camerlengo demanded, looking amazed as
he turned from Vittoria to Olivetti.
‘Signore,’ Olivetti assured, ‘I’ll admit there is some sort of device here. It is visible on one of our security monitors, but as for Ms Vetra’s claims as to the power of this substance, I cannot possibly—’
‘Wait a minute,’ the camerlengo said. ‘You can see this thing?’
‘Yes, signore. On wireless camera #86.’
‘Then why haven’t you recovered it?’ The camerlengo’s voice echoed anger now.
‘Very difficult, signore.’ Olivetti stood straight as he explained the situation.
The camerlengo listened, and Vittoria sensed his growing concern. ‘Are you certain it is inside Vatican City?’ the camerlengo asked. ‘Maybe someone took the camera out and is transmitting from somewhere else.’
‘Impossible,’ Olivetti said. ‘Our external walls are shielded electronically to protect our internal communications. This signal can only be coming from the inside or we would not be receiving it.’
‘And I assume,’ he said, ‘that you are now looking for the missing camera with all available resources?’
Olivetti shook his head. ‘No, signore. Locating that camera could take hundreds of man hours. We have a number of other security concerns at the moment, and with all due respect to Ms Vetra, this droplet she talks about is very small. It could not possibly be as explosive as she claims.’
Vittoria’s patience evaporated. ‘That droplet is enough to level Vatican City! Did you even listen to a word I told you?’
‘Ma’am,’ Olivetti said, his voice like steel, ‘my experience with explosives is extensive.’
‘Your experience is obsolete,’ she fired back, equally tough. ‘Despite my attire, which I realize you find troublesome, I am a senior level physicist at the world’s most advanced subatomic research facility. I personally designed the antimatter trap that is keeping that sample from annihilating right now. And I am warning you that unless you find that canister in the next six hours, your guards will have nothing to protect for the next century but a big hole in the ground.’
Olivetti wheeled to the camerlengo, his insect eyes flashing rage. ‘Signore, I cannot in good conscience allow this to go any further. Your time is being wasted by pranksters. The Illuminati? A droplet that will destroy us all?’
‘Basta,’ the camerlengo declared. He spoke the word quietly and yet it seemed to echo across the chamber. Then there was silence. He continued in a whisper. ‘Dangerous or not, Illuminati or no Illuminati, whatever this thing is, it most certainly should not be inside Vatican City . . . no less on the eve of the conclave. I want it found and removed. Organize a search immediately.’
Olivetti persisted. ‘Signore, even if we used all the guards to search the complex, it could take days to find this camera. Also, after speaking to Ms Vetra, I had one of my guards consult our most advanced ballistics guide for any mention of this substance called antimatter. I found no mention of it anywhere. Nothing.’
Pompous ass, Vittoria thought. A ballistics guide? Did you try an encyclopedia? Under A!
Olivetti was still talking. ‘Signore, if you are suggesting we make a naked-eye search of the entirety of Vatican City then I must object.’
‘Commander.’ The camerlengo’s voice simmered with rage. ‘May I remind you that when you address me, you are addressing this office. I realize you do not take my position seriously – nonetheless, by law, I am in charge. If I am not mistaken, the cardinals are now safely within the Sistine Chapel, and your security concerns are at a minimum until the conclave breaks. I do not understand why you are hesitant to look for this device. If I did not know better it would appear that you are causing this conclave intentional danger.’
Olivetti looked scornful. ‘How dare you! I have served your Pope for twelve years! And the Pope before that for fourteen years! Since 1438 the Swiss Guard have—’
The walkie-talkie on Olivetti’s belt squawked loudly, cutting him off. ‘Comandante?’
Olivetti snatched it up and pressed the transmitter. ‘Sono occupato! Cosa vuoi!!’
‘Scusi,’ the Swiss Guard on the radio said. ‘Communications here. I thought you would want to be informed that we have received a bomb threat.’
Olivetti could not have looked less interested. ‘So handle it! Run the usual trace, and write it up.’
‘We did, sir, but the caller . . .’ The guard paused. ‘I would not trouble you, commander, except that he mentioned the substance you just asked me to research. Antimatter.’
Everyone in the room exchanged stunned looks.
‘He mentioned what?’ Olivetti stammered.
‘Antimatter, sir. While we were trying to run a trace, I did some additional research on his claim. The information on antimatter is . . . well, frankly, it’s quite troubling.’
‘I thought you said the ballistics guide showed no mention of it.’
‘I found it on-line.’
Alleluia, Vittoria thought.
‘The substance appears to be quite explosive,’ the guard said. ‘It’s hard to imagine this information is accurate but it says here that pound for pound antimatter carries about a hundred times more payload than a nuclear warhead.’
Olivetti slumped. It was like watching a mountain crumble. Vittoria’s feeling of triumph was erased by the look of horror on the camerlengo’s face.
‘Did you trace the call?’ Olivetti stammered.
‘No luck. Cellular with heavy encryption. The SAT lines are interfused, so triangulation is out. The IF signature suggests he’s somewhere in Rome, but there’s really no way to trace him.’
‘Did he make demands?’ Olivetti said, his voice quiet.
‘No, sir. Just warned us that there is antimatter hidden inside the complex. He seemed surprised I didn’t know. Asked me if I’d seen it yet. You’d asked me about antimatter, so I decided to advise you.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Olivetti said. ‘I’ll be down in a minute. Alert me immediately if he calls back.’
There was a moment of silence on the walkie-talkie. ‘The caller is still on the line, sir.’
Olivetti looked like he’d just been electrocuted. ‘The line is open?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ve been trying to trace him for ten minutes, getting nothing but splayed ferreting. He must know we can’t touch him because he refuses to hang up until he speaks to the camerlengo.’
‘Patch him through,’ the camerlengo commanded. ‘Now!’
Olivetti wheeled. ‘Father, no. A trained Swiss Guard negotiator is much better suited to handle this.’
‘Now!’
Olivetti gave the order.
A moment later, the phone on Camerlengo Ventresca’s desk began to ring. The camerlengo rammed his fingers down on the speaker-phone button. ‘Who in the name of God do you think you are?’
41
The voice emanating from the camerlengo’s speaker phone was metallic and cold, laced with arrogance. Everyone in the room listened.
Langdon tried to place the accent. Middle Eastern, perhaps?
‘I am a messenger of an ancient brotherhood,’ the voice announced in an alien cadence. ‘A brotherhood you have wronged for centuries. I am a messenger of the Illuminati.’
Langdon felt his muscles tighten, the last shreds of doubt withering away. For an instant he felt the familiar collision of thrill, privilege, and dead fear that he had experienced when he first saw the ambigram this morning.
‘What do you want?’ the camerlengo demanded.
‘I represent men of science. Men who like yourselves are searching for the answers. Answers to man’s destiny, his purpose, his creator.’
‘Whoever you are,’ the camerlengo said, ‘I—’
‘Silenzio. You will do better to listen. For two millennia your church has dominated the quest for truth. You have crushed your opposition with lies and prophecies of doom. You have manipulated the truth to serve your needs, murdering those whose discoveries did not serve your politics. Are you surprised you ar
e the target of enlightened men from around the globe?’
‘Enlightened men do not resort to blackmail to further their causes.’
‘Blackmail?’ The caller laughed. ‘This is not blackmail. We have no demands. The abolition of the Vatican is nonnegotiable. We have waited four hundred years for this day. At midnight, your city will be destroyed. There is nothing you can do.’
Olivetti stormed toward the speaker phone. ‘Access to this city is impossible! You could not possibly have planted explosives in here!’
‘You speak with the ignorant devotion of a Swiss Guard. Perhaps even an officer? Surely you are aware that for centuries the Illuminati have infiltrated elitist organizations across the globe. Do you really believe the Vatican is immune?’
Jesus, Langdon thought, they’ve got someone on the inside. It was no secret that infiltration was the Illuminati trademark of power. They had infiltrated the Masons, major banking networks, government bodies. In fact, Churchill had once told reporters that if English spies had infiltrated the Nazis to the degree the Illuminati had infiltrated English Parliament, the war would have been over in one month.
‘A transparent bluff,’ Olivetti snapped. ‘Your influence cannot possibly extend so far.’
‘Why? Because your Swiss Guards are vigilant? Because they watch every corner of your private world? How about the Swiss Guards themselves? Are they not men? Do you truly believe they stake their lives on a fable about a man who walks on water? Ask yourself how else the canister could have entered your city. Or how four of your most precious assets could have disappeared this afternoon.’
‘Our assets?’ Olivetti scowled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘One, two, three, four. You haven’t missed them by now?’
‘What the hell are you talk—’ Olivetti stopped short, his eyes rocketing wide as though he’d just been punched in the gut.
‘Light dawns,’ the caller said. ‘Shall I read their names?’
‘What’s going on?’ the camerlengo said, looking bewildered.
