by Dan Brown
‘Ambulanza?’ That explained it. Langdon felt like he could use an ambulance ride.
The woman led him around the side of the building. On an outcropping over the water was a cement deck where her vehicle sat waiting. When Langdon saw the vehicle he stopped in his tracks. It was an aging medevac chopper. The hull read Aero-Ambulanza.
He hung his head.
The woman smiled. ‘Fly Vatican City. Very fast.’
128
The College of Cardinals bristled with ebullience and electricity as they streamed back into the Sistine Chapel. In contrast, Mortati felt in himself a rising confusion he thought might lift him off the floor and carry him away. He believed in the ancient miracles of the Scriptures, and yet what he had just witnessed in person was something he could not possibly comprehend. After a lifetime of devotion, seventy-nine years, Mortati knew these events should ignite in him a pious exuberance . . . a fervent and living faith. And yet all he felt was a growing spectral unease. Something did not feel right.
‘Signore Mortati!’ a Swiss Guard yelled, running down the hall.
‘We have gone to the roof as you asked. The camerlengo is . . . flesh! He is a true man! He is not a spirit! He is exactly as we knew him!’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘He kneels in silent prayer! We are afraid to touch him!’
Mortati was at a loss. ‘Tell him . . . his cardinals await.’
‘Signore, because he is a man . . .’ the guard hesitated.
‘What is it?’
‘His chest . . . he is burned. Should we bind his wounds? He must be in pain.’
Mortati considered it. Nothing in his lifetime of service to the church had prepared him for this situation. ‘He is a man, so serve him as a man. Bathe him. Bind his wounds. Dress him in fresh robes. We await his arrival in the Sistine Chapel.’
The guard ran off.
Mortati headed for the chapel. The rest of the cardinals were inside now. As he walked down the hall, he saw Vittoria Vetra slumped alone on a bench at the foot of the Royal Staircase. He could see the pain and loneliness of her loss and wanted to go to her, but he knew it would have to wait. He had work to do . . . although he had no idea what that work could possibly be.
Mortati entered the chapel. There was a riotous excitement. He closed the door. God help me.
Hospital Tiberina’s twin-rotor Aero-Ambulanza circled in behind Vatican City, and Langdon clenched his teeth, swearing to God this was the very last helicopter ride of his life.
After convincing the pilot that the rules governing Vatican airspace were the least of the Vatican’s concerns right now, he guided her in, unseen, over the rear wall, and landed them on the Vatican’s helipad.
‘Grazie,’ he said, lowering himself painfully onto the ground. She blew him a kiss and quickly took off, disappearing back over the wall and into the night.
Langdon exhaled, trying to clear his head, hoping to make sense of what he was about to do. With the camcorder in hand, he boarded the same golf cart he had ridden earlier that day. It had not been charged, and the battery-meter registered close to empty. Langdon drove without headlights to conserve power.
He also preferred no one see him coming.
At the back of the Sistine Chapel, Cardinal Mortati stood in a daze as he watched the pandemonium before him.
‘It was a miracle!’ one of the cardinals shouted. ‘The work of God!’
‘Yes!’ others exclaimed. ‘God has made His will manifest!’
‘The camerlengo will be our Pope!’ another shouted. ‘He is not a cardinal, but God has sent a miraculous sign!’
‘Yes!’ someone agreed. ‘The laws of conclave are man’s laws. God’s will is before us! I call for a balloting immediately!’
‘A balloting?’ Mortati demanded, moving toward them. ‘I believe that is my job.’
Everyone turned.
Mortati could sense the cardinals studying him. They seemed distant, at a loss, offended by his sobriety. Mortati longed to feel his heart swept up in the miraculous exultation he saw in the faces around him. But he was not. He felt an inexplicable pain in his soul . . . an aching sadness he could not explain. He had vowed to guide these proceedings with purity of soul, and this hesitancy was something he could not deny.
‘My friends,’ Mortati said, stepping to the altar. His voice did not seem his own. ‘I suspect I will struggle for the rest of my days with the meaning of what I have witnessed tonight. And yet, what you are suggesting regarding the camerlengo . . . it cannot possibly be God’s will.’
The room fell silent.
‘How . . . can you say that?’ one of the cardinals finally demanded. ‘The camerlengo saved the church. God spoke to the camerlengo directly! The man survived death itself! What sign do we need!’
‘The camerlengo is coming to us now,’ Mortati said. ‘Let us wait. Let us hear him before we have a balloting. There may be an explanation.’
‘An explanation?’
‘As your Great Elector, I have vowed to uphold the laws of conclave. You are no doubt aware that by Holy Law the camerlengo is ineligible for election to the papacy. He is not a cardinal. He is a priest . . . a chamberlain. There is also the question of his inadequate age.’ Mortati felt the stares hardening. ‘By even allowing a balloting, I would be requesting that you endorse a man who Vatican Law proclaims ineligible. I would be asking each of you to break a sacred oath.’
‘But what happened here tonight,’ someone stammered, ‘it certainly transcends our laws!’
‘Does it?’ Mortati boomed, not even knowing now where his words were coming from. ‘Is it God’s will that we discard the rules of the church? Is it God’s will that we abandon reason and give ourselves over to frenzy?’
‘But did you not see what we saw?’ another challenged angrily. ‘How can you presume to question that kind of power!’
Mortati’s voice bellowed now with a resonance he had never known. ‘I am not questioning God’s power! It is God who gave us reason and circumspection! It is God we serve by exercising prudence!’
129
In the hallway outside the Sistine Chapel, Vittoria Vetra sat benumbed on a bench at the foot of the Royal Staircase. When she saw the figure coming through the rear door, she wondered if she were seeing another spirit. He was bandaged, limping, and wearing some kind of medical suit.
She stood . . . unable to believe the vision. ‘Ro . . . bert?’
He never answered. He strode directly to her and wrapped her in his arms. When he pressed his lips to hers, it was an impulsive, longing kiss filled with thankfulness.
Vittoria felt the tears coming. ‘Oh, God . . . oh, thank God . . .’
He kissed her again, more passionately, and she pressed against him, losing herself in his embrace. Their bodies locked, as if they had known each other for years. She forgot the fear and pain. She closed her eyes, weightless in the moment.
‘It is God’s will!’ someone was yelling, his voice echoing in the Sistine Chapel. ‘Who but the chosen one could have survived that diabolical explosion?’
‘Me,’ a voice reverberated from the back of the chapel.
Mortati and the others turned in wonder at the bedraggled form coming up the center aisle. ‘Mr . . . Langdon?’
Without a word, Langdon walked slowly to the front of the chapel. Vittoria Vetra entered too. Then two guards hurried in, pushing a cart with a large television on it. Langdon waited while they plugged it in, facing the cardinals. Then Langdon motioned for the guards to leave. They did, closing the door behind them.
Now it was only Langdon, Vittoria, and the cardinals. Langdon plugged the Sony RUVI’s output into the television. Then he pressed PLAY.
The television blared to life.
The scene that materialized before the cardinals revealed the Pope’s office. The video had been awkwardly filmed, as if by hidden camera. Off center on the screen the camerlengo stood in the dimness, in front of a fire. Although he appeared to be tal
king directly to the camera, it quickly became evident that he was speaking to someone else – whoever was making this video. Langdon told them the video was filmed by Maximilian Kohler, the director of CERN. Only an hour ago Kohler had secretly recorded his meeting with the camerlengo by using a tiny camcorder covertly mounted under the arm of his wheelchair.
Mortati and the cardinals watched in bewilderment. Although the conversation was already in progress, Langdon did not bother to rewind. Apparently, whatever Langdon wanted the cardinals to see was coming up . . .
‘Leonardo Vetra kept diaries?’ the camerlengo was saying. ‘I suppose that is good news for CERN. If the diaries contain his processes for creating antimatter—’
‘They don’t,’ Kohler said. ‘You will be relieved to know those processes died with Leonardo. However, his diaries spoke of something else. You.’
The camerlengo looked troubled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘They described a meeting Leonardo had last month. With you.’
The camerlengo hesitated, then looked toward the door. ‘Rocher should not have granted you access without consulting me. How did you get in here?’
‘Rocher knows the truth. I called earlier and told him what you have done.’
‘What I have done? Whatever story you told him, Rocher is a Swiss Guard and far too faithful to this church to believe a bitter scientist over his camerlengo.’
‘Actually, he is too faithful not to believe. He is so faithful that despite the evidence that one of his loyal guards had betrayed the church, he refused to accept it. All day long he has been searching for another explanation.’
‘So you gave him one.’
‘The truth. Shocking as it was.’
‘If Rocher believed you, he would have arrested me.’
‘No. I wouldn’t let him. I offered him my silence in exchange for this meeting.’
The camerlengo let out an odd laugh. ‘You plan to blackmail the church with a story that no one will possibly believe?’
‘I have no need of blackmail. I simply want to hear the truth from your lips. Leonardo Vetra was a friend.’
The camerlengo said nothing. He simply stared down at Kohler.
‘Try this,’ Kohler snapped. ‘About a month ago, Leonardo Vetra contacted you requesting an urgent audience with the Pope – an audience you granted because the Pope was an admirer of Leonardo’s work and because Leonardo said it was an emergency.’
The camerlengo turned to the fire. He said nothing.
‘Leonardo came to the Vatican in great secrecy. He was betraying his daughter’s confidence by coming here, a fact that troubled him deeply, but he felt he had no choice. His research had left him deeply conflicted and in need of spiritual guidance from the church. In a private meeting, he told you and the Pope that he had made a scientific discovery with profound religious implications. He had proved Genesis was physically possible, and that intense sources of energy – what Vetra called God – could duplicate the moment of Creation.’
Silence.
‘The Pope was stunned,’ Kohler continued. ‘He wanted Leonardo to go public. His Holiness thought this discovery might begin to bridge the gap between science and religion – one of the Pope’s life dreams. Then Leonardo explained to you the downside – the reason he required the church’s guidance. It seemed his Creation experiment, exactly as your Bible predicts, produced everything in pairs. Opposites. Light and dark. Vetra found himself, in addition to creating matter, creating antimatter. Shall I go on?’
The camerlengo was silent. He bent down and stoked the coals.
‘After Leonardo Vetra came here,’ Kohler said, ‘you came to CERN to see his work. Leonardo’s diaries said you made a personal trip to his lab.’
The camerlengo looked up.
Kohler went on. ‘The Pope could not travel without attracting media attention, so he sent you. Leonardo gave you a secret tour of his lab. He showed you an antimatter annihilation – the Big Bang – the power of Creation. He also showed you a large specimen he kept locked away as proof that his new process could produce antimatter on a large scale. You were in awe. You returned to Vatican City to report to the Pope what you had witnessed.’
The camerlengo sighed. ‘And what is it that troubles you? That I would respect Leonardo’s confidentiality by pretending before the world tonight that I knew nothing of antimatter?’
‘No! It troubles me that Leonardo Vetra practically proved the existence of your God, and you had him murdered!’
The camerlengo turned now, his face revealing nothing.
The only sound was the crackle of the fire.
Suddenly, the camera jiggled, and Kohler’s arm appeared in the frame. He leaned forward, seeming to struggle with something affixed beneath his wheelchair. When he sat back down, he held a pistol out before him. The camera angle was a chilling one . . . looking from behind . . . down the length of the outstretched gun . . . directly at the camerlengo.
Kohler said, ‘Confess your sins, Father. Now.’
The camerlengo looked startled. ‘You will never get out of here alive.’
‘Death would be a welcome relief from the misery your faith has put me through since I was a boy.’ Kohler held the gun with both hands now. ‘I am giving you a choice. Confess your sins . . . or die right now.’
The camerlengo glanced toward the door.
‘Rocher is outside,’ Kohler challenged. ‘He too is prepared to kill you.’
‘Rocher is a sworn protector of th—’
‘Rocher let me in here. Armed. He is sickened by your lies. You have a single option. Confess to me. I have to hear it from your very lips.’
The camerlengo hesitated.
Kohler cocked his gun. ‘Do you really doubt I will kill you?’
‘No matter what I tell you,’ the camerlengo said, ‘a man like you will never understand.’
‘Try me.’
The camerlengo stood still for a moment, a dominant silhouette in the dim light of the fire. When he spoke, his words echoed with a dignity more suited to the glorious recounting of altruism than that of a confession.
‘Since the beginning of time,’ the camerlengo said, ‘this church has fought the enemies of God. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with swords. And we have always survived.’
The camerlengo radiated conviction.
‘But the demons of the past,’ he continued, ‘were demons of fire and abomination . . . they were enemies we could fight – enemies who inspired fear. Yet Satan is shrewd. As time passed, he cast off his diabolical countenance for a new face . . . the face of pure reason. Transparent and insidious, but soulless all the same.’ The camerlengo’s voice flashed sudden anger – an almost maniacal transition. ‘Tell me, Mr Kohler! How can the church condemn that which makes logical sense to our minds! How can we decry that which is now the very foundation of our society! Each time the church raises its voice in warning, you shout back, calling us ignorant. Paranoid. Controlling! And so your evil grows. Shrouded in a veil of self-righteous intellectualism. It spreads like a cancer. Sanctified by the miracles of its own technology. Deifying itself! Until we no longer suspect you are anything but pure goodness. Science has come to save us from our sickness, hunger, and pain! Behold science – the new God of endless miracles, omnipotent and benevolent! Ignore the weapons and the chaos. Forget the fractured loneliness and endless peril. Science is here!’ The camerlengo stepped toward the gun. ‘But I have seen Satan’s face lurking . . . I have seen the peril . . .’
‘What are you talking about! Vetra’s science practically proved the existence of your God! He was your ally!’
‘Ally? Science and religion are not in this together! We do not seek the same God, you and I! Who is your God? One of protons, masses, and particle charges? How does your God inspire? How does your God reach into the hearts of man and remind him he is accountable to a greater power! Remind him that he is accountable to his fellow man! Vetra was misguided. His work was not religious, it was sa
crilegious! Man cannot put God’s Creation in a test tube and wave it around for the world to see! This does not glorify God, it demeans God!’ The camerlengo was clawing at his body now, his voice manic.
‘And so you had Leonardo Vetra killed!’
‘For the church! For all mankind! The madness of it! Man is not ready to hold the power of Creation in his hands. God in a test tube? A droplet of liquid that can vaporize an entire city? He had to be stopped!’ The camerlengo fell abruptly silent. He looked away, back toward the fire. He seemed to be contemplating his options.
Kohler’s hands leveled the gun. ‘You have confessed. You have no escape.’
The camerlengo laughed sadly. ‘Don’t you see. Confessing your sins is the escape.’ He looked toward the door. ‘When God is on your side, you have options a man like you could never comprehend.’ With his words still hanging in the air, the camerlengo grabbed the neck of his cassock and violently tore it open, revealing his bare chest.
Kohler jolted, obviously startled. ‘What are you doing!’
The camerlengo did not reply. He stepped backward, toward the fireplace, and removed an object from the glowing embers.
‘Stop!’ Kohler demanded, his gun still leveled. ‘What are you doing!’
When the camerlengo turned, he was holding a red-hot brand. The Illuminati Diamond. The man’s eyes looked wild suddenly. ‘I had intended to do this all alone.’ His voice seethed with a feral intensity. ‘But now . . . I see God meant for you to be here. You are my salvation.’
Before Kohler could react, the camerlengo closed his eyes, arched his back, and rammed the red hot brand into the center of his own chest. His flesh hissed. ‘Mother Mary! Blessed Mother . . . Behold your son!’ He screamed out in agony.
Kohler lurched into the frame now . . . standing awkwardly on his feet, gun wavering wildly before him.
The camerlengo screamed louder, teetering in shock. He threw the brand at Kohler’s feet. Then the priest collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony.
What happened next was a blur.
