Angels and Demons

by Dan Brown

There was a great flurry onscreen as the Swiss Guard burst into the room. The soundtrack exploded with gunfire. Kohler clutched his chest, blown backward, bleeding, falling into his wheelchair.

  ‘No!’ Rocher called, trying to stop his guards from firing on Kohler.

  The camerlengo, still writhing on the floor, rolled and pointed frantically at Rocher. ‘Illuminatus!’

  ‘You bastard,’ Rocher yelled, running at him. ‘You sanctimonious bas—’

  Chartrand cut him down with three bullets. Rocher slid dead across the floor.

  Then the guards ran to the wounded camerlengo, gathering around him. As they huddled, the video caught the face of a dazed Robert Langdon, kneeling beside the wheelchair, looking at the brand. Then, the entire frame began lurching wildly. Kohler had regained consciousness and was detaching the tiny camcorder from its holder under the arm of the wheelchair. Then he tried to hand the camcorder to Langdon.

  ‘G-give . . .’ Kohler gasped. ‘G-give this to the m-media.’

  Then the screen went blank.

  130

  The camerlengo began to feel the fog of wonder and adrenaline dissipating. As the Swiss Guard helped him down the Royal Staircase toward the Sistine Chapel, the camerlengo heard singing in St Peter’s Square and he knew that mountains had been moved.

  Grazie Dio.

  He had prayed for strength, and God had given it to him. At moments when he had doubted, God had spoken. Yours is a Holy mission, God had said. I will give you strength. Even with God’s strength, the camerlengo had felt fear, questioning the righteousness of his path.

  If not you, God had challenged, then WHO?

  If not now, then WHEN?

  If not this way, then HOW?

  Jesus, God reminded him, had saved them all . . . saved them from their own apathy. With two deeds, Jesus had opened their eyes. Horror and Hope. The crucifixion and the resurrection. He had changed the world.

  But that was millennia ago. Time had eroded the miracle. People had forgotten. They had turned to false idols – techno-deities and miracles of the mind. What about miracles of the heart!

  The camerlengo had often prayed to God to show him how to make the people believe again. But God had been silent. It was not until the camerlengo’s moment of deepest darkness that God had come to him. Oh, the horror of that night!

  The camerlengo could still remember lying on the floor in tattered nightclothes, clawing at his own flesh, trying to purge his soul of the pain brought on by a vile truth he had just learned. It cannot be! he had screamed. And yet he knew it was. The deception tore at him like the fires of hell. The bishop who had taken him in, the man who had been like a father to him, the clergyman whom the camerlengo had stood beside while he rose to the papacy . . . was a fraud. A common sinner. Lying to the world about a deed so traitorous at its core that the camerlengo doubted even God could forgive it. ‘Your vow!’ the camerlengo had screamed at the Pope. ‘You broke your vow to God! You, of all men!’

  The Pope had tried to explain himself, but the camerlengo could not listen. He had run out, staggering blindly through the hallways, vomiting, tearing at his own skin, until he found himself bloody and alone, lying on the cold earthen floor before St Peter’s tomb. Mother Mary, what do I do? It was in that moment of pain and betrayal, as the camerlengo lay devastated in the Necropolis, praying for God to take him from this faithless world, that God had come.

  The voice in his head resounded like peals of thunder. ‘Did you vow to serve your God?’

  ‘Yes!’ the camerlengo cried out.

  ‘Would you die for your God?’

  ‘Yes! Take me now!’

  ‘Would you die for your church?’

  ‘Yes! Please deliver me!’

  ‘But would you die for . . . mankind?’

  It was in the silence that followed that the camerlengo felt himself falling into the abyss. He tumbled farther, faster, out of control. And yet he knew the answer. He had always known.

  ‘Yes!’ he shouted into the madness. ‘I would die for man! Like your son, I would die for them!’

  Hours later, the camerlengo still lay shivering on his floor. He saw his mother’s face. God has plans for you, she was saying. The camerlengo plunged deeper into madness. It was then God had spoken again. This time with silence. But the camerlengo understood. Restore their faith.

  If not me . . . then who?

  If not now . . . then when?

  As the guards unbolted the door of the Sistine Chapel, Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca felt the power moving in his veins . . . exactly as it had when he was a boy. God had chosen him. Long ago.

  His will be done.

  The camerlengo felt reborn. The Swiss Guard had bandaged his chest, bathed him, and dressed him in a fresh white linen robe. They had also given him an injection of morphine for the burn. The camerlengo wished they had not given him painkillers. Jesus endured his pain for three days before ascending! He could already feel the drug uprooting his senses . . . a dizzying undertow.

  As he walked into the chapel, he was not at all surprised to see the cardinals staring at him in wonder. They are in awe of God, he reminded himself. Not of me, but how God works THROUGH me. As he moved up the center aisle, he saw bewilderment in every face. And yet, with each new face he passed, he sensed something else in their eyes. What was it? The camerlengo had tried to imagine how they would receive him tonight. Joyfully? Reverently? He tried to read their eyes and saw neither emotion.

  It was then the camerlengo looked at the altar and saw Robert Langdon.

  131

  Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca stood in the aisle of the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals were all standing near the front of the church, turned, staring at him. Robert Langdon was on the altar beside a television that was on endless loop, playing a scene the camerlengo recognized but could not imagine how it had come to be. Vittoria Vetra stood beside him, her face drawn.

  The camerlengo closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the morphine was making him hallucinate and that when he opened them the scene might be different. But it was not.

  They knew.

  Oddly, he felt no fear. Show me the way, Father. Give me the words that I can make them see Your vision.

  But the camerlengo heard no reply.

  Father, We have come too far together to fail now.

  Silence.

  They do not understand what We have done.

  The camerlengo did not know whose voice he heard in his own mind, but the message was stark.

  And the truth shall set you free . . .

  And so it was that Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca held his head high as he walked toward the front of the Sistine Chapel. As he moved toward the cardinals, not even the diffused light of the candles could soften the eyes boring into him. Explain yourself, the faces said. Make sense of this madness. Tell us our fears are wrong!

  Truth, the camerlengo told himself. Only truth. There were too many secrets in these walls . . . one so dark it had driven him to madness. But from the madness had come the light.

  ‘If you could give your own soul to save millions,’ the camerlengo said, as he moved down the aisle, ‘would you?’

  The faces in the chapel simply stared. No one moved. No one spoke. Beyond the walls, the joyous strains of song could be heard in the square.

  The camerlengo walked toward them. ‘Which is the greater sin? Killing one’s enemy? Or standing idle while your true love is strangled?’ They are singing in St Peter’s Square! The camerlengo stopped for a moment and gazed up at the ceiling of the Sistine. Michelangelo’s God was staring down from the darkened vault . . . and He seemed pleased.

  ‘I could no longer stand by,’ the camerlengo said. Still, as he drew nearer, he saw no flicker of understanding in anyone’s eyes. Didn’t they see the radiant simplicity of his deeds? Didn’t they see the utter necessity!

  It had been so pure.

  The Illuminati. Science and Satan as one.

  Resurrect the ancient fear. Then crush it.


  Horror and Hope. Make them believe again.

  Tonight, the power of the Illuminati had been unleashed anew . . . and with glorious consequence. The apathy had evaporated. The fear had shot out across the world like a bolt of lightning, uniting the people. And then God’s majesty had vanquished the darkness.

  I could not stand idly by!

  The inspiration had been God’s own – appearing like a beacon in the camerlengo’s night of agony. Oh, this faithless world! Someone must deliver them. You. If not you, who? You have been saved for a reason. Show them the old demons. Remind them of their fear. Apathy is death. Without darkness, there is no light. Without evil, there is no good. Make them choose. Dark or light. Where is the fear? Where are the heroes? If not now, when?

  The camerlengo walked up the center aisle directly toward the crowd of standing cardinals. He felt like Moses as the sea of red sashes and caps parted before him, allowing him to pass. On the altar, Robert Langdon switched off the television, took Vittoria’s hand, and relinquished the altar. The fact that Robert Langdon had survived, the camerlengo knew, could only have been God’s will. God had saved Robert Langdon. The camerlengo wondered why.

  The voice that broke the silence was the voice of the only woman in the Sistine Chapel. ‘You killed my father?’ she said, stepping forward.

  When the camerlengo turned to Vittoria Vetra, the look on her face was one he could not quite understand – pain yes, but anger? Certainly she must understand. Her father’s genius was deadly. He had to be stopped. For the good of Mankind.

  ‘He was doing God’s work,’ Vittoria said.

  ‘God’s work is not done in a lab. It is done in the heart.’

  ‘My father’s heart was pure! And his research proved—’

  ‘His research proved yet again that man’s mind is progressing faster than his soul!’ The camerlengo’s voice was sharper than he had expected. He lowered his voice. ‘If a man as spiritual as your father could create a weapon like the one we saw tonight, imagine what an ordinary man will do with his technology.’

  ‘A man like you?’

  The camerlengo took a deep breath. Did she not see? Man’s morality was not advancing as fast as man’s science. Mankind was not spiritually evolved enough for the powers he possessed. We have never created a weapon we have not used! And yet he knew that antimatter was nothing – another weapon in man’s already burgeoning arsenal. Man could already destroy. Man learned to kill long ago. And his mother’s blood rained down. Leonardo Vetra’s genius was dangerous for another reason.

  ‘For centuries,’ the camerlengo said, ‘the church has stood by while science picked away at religion bit by bit. Debunking miracles. Training the mind to overcome the heart. Condemning religion as the opiate of the masses. They denounce God as a hallucination – a delusional crutch for those too weak to accept that life is meaningless. I could not stand by while science presumed to harness the power of God Himself! Proof, you say? Yes, proof of science’s ignorance! What is wrong with the admission that something exists beyond our understanding? The day science substantiates God in a lab is the day people stop needing faith!’

  ‘You mean the day they stop needing the church,’ Vittoria challenged, moving toward him. ‘Doubt is your last shred of control. It is doubt that brings souls to you. Our need to know that life has meaning. Man’s insecurity and need for an enlightened soul assuring him everything is part of a master plan. But the church is not the only enlightened soul on the planet! We all seek God in different ways. What are you afraid of? That God will show himself somewhere other than inside these walls? That people will find him in their own lives and leave your antiquated rituals behind? Religions evolve! The mind finds answers, the heart grapples with new truths. My father was on your quest! A parallel path! Why couldn’t you see that? God is not some omnipotent authority looking down from above, threatening to throw us into a pit of fire if we disobey. God is the energy that flows through the synapses of our nervous system and the chambers of our hearts! God is in all things!’

  ‘Except science,’ the camerlengo fired back, his eyes showing only pity. ‘Science, by definition, is soulless. Divorced from the heart. Intellectual miracles like antimatter arrive in this world with no ethical instructions attached. This in itself is perilous! But when science heralds its Godless pursuits as the enlightened path? Promising answers to questions whose beauty is that they have no answers?’ He shook his head. ‘No.’

  There was a moment of silence. The camerlengo felt suddenly tired as he returned Vittoria’s unbending stare. This was not how it was supposed to be. Is this God’s final test?

  It was Mortati who broke the spell. ‘The preferiti,’ he said in a horrified whisper. ‘Baggia and the others. Please tell me you did not . . .’

  The camerlengo turned to him, surprised by the pain in his voice. Certainly Mortati could understand. Headlines carried science’s miracles every day. How long had it been for religion? Centuries? Religion needed a miracle! Something to awaken a sleeping world. Bring them back to the path of righteousness. Restore faith. The preferiti were not leaders anyway, they were transformers – liberals prepared to embrace the new world and abandon the old ways! This was the only way. A new leader. Young. Powerful. Vibrant. Miraculous. The preferiti served the church far more effectively in death than they ever could alive. Horror and Hope. Offer four souls to save millions. The world would remember them forever as martyrs. The church would raise glorious tribute to their names. How many thousands have died for the glory of God? They are only four.

  ‘The preferiti,’ Mortati repeated.

  ‘I shared their pain,’ the camerlengo defended, motioning to his chest. ‘And I too would die for God, but my work is only just begun. They are singing in St Peter’s Square!’

  The camerlengo saw the horror in Mortati’s eyes and again felt confused. Was it the morphine? Mortati was looking at him as if the camerlengo himself had killed these men with his bare hands. I would do even that for God, the camerlengo thought, and yet he had not. The deeds had been carried out by the Hassassin – a heathen soul tricked into thinking he was doing the work of the Illuminati. I am Janus, the camerlengo had told him. I will prove my power. And he had. The Hassassin’s hatred had made him God’s pawn.

  ‘Listen to the singing,’ the camerlengo said, smiling, his own heart rejoicing. ‘Nothing unites hearts like the presence of evil. Burn a church and the community rises up, holding hands, singing hymns of defiance as they rebuild. Look how they flock tonight. Fear has brought them home. Forge modern demons for modern man. Apathy is dead. Show them the face of evil – Satanists lurking among us – running our governments, our banks, our schools, threatening to obliterate the very House of God with their misguided science. Depravity runs deep. Man must be vigilant. Seek the goodness. Become the goodness!’

  In the silence, the camerlengo hoped they now understood. The Illuminati had not resurfaced. The Illuminati were long deceased. Only their myth was alive. The camerlengo had resurrected the Illuminati as a reminder. Those who knew the Illuminati history relived their evil. Those who did not, had learned of it and were amazed how blind they had been. The ancient demons had been resurrected to awaken an indifferent world.

  ‘But . . . the brands?’ Mortati’s voice was stiff with outrage.

  The camerlengo did not answer. Mortati had no way of knowing, but the brands had been confiscated by the Vatican over a century ago. They had been locked away, forgotten and dust covered, in the Papal Vault – the Pope’s private reliquary, deep within his Borgia apartments. The Papal Vault contained those items the church deemed too dangerous for anyone’s eyes except the Pope’s.

  Why did they hide that which inspired fear? Fear brought people to God!

  The vault’s key was passed down from Pope to Pope. Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca had purloined the key and ventured inside; the myth of what the vault contained was bewitching – including the original manuscript for the fourteen unpublished books
of the Bible known as the Apocrypha and the location of the tomb of the Virgin Mary. In addition to these, the camerlengo had found the Illuminati Collection – all the secrets the church had uncovered after banishing the group from Rome . . . their contemptible Path of Illumination . . . the cunning deceit of the Vatican’s head artist, Bernini . . . Europe’s top scientists mocking religion as they secretly assembled in the Vatican’s own Castle St Angelo. The collection included a pentagon box containing iron brands, one of them the mythical Illuminati Diamond. This was a part of Vatican history the ancients thought best forgotten. The camerlengo, however, had disagreed.

  ‘But the antimatter . . .’ Vittoria demanded. ‘You risked destroying the Vatican!’

  ‘There is no risk when God is at your side,’ the camerlengo said. ‘This cause was His.’

  ‘You’re insane!’ she seethed.

  ‘Millions were saved.’

  ‘People were killed!’

  ‘Souls were saved.’

  ‘Tell that to my father and Max Kohler!’

  ‘CERN’s arrogance needed to be revealed. A droplet of liquid that can vaporize a half mile? And you call me mad?’ The camerlengo felt a rage rising in him. Did they think his was a simple charge? ‘Those who believe undergo great tests for God! God asked Abraham to sacrifice his child! God commanded Jesus to endure crucifixion! And so we hang the symbol of the crucifix before our eyes – bloody, painful, agonizing – to remind us of evil’s power! To keep our hearts vigilant! The scars on Jesus’ body are a living reminder of the powers of darkness! My scars are a living reminder! Evil lives, but the power of God will overcome!’

  His shouts echoed off the back wall of the Sistine Chapel and then a profound silence fell. Time seemed to stop. Michelangelo’s Last Judgment rose ominously behind him . . . Jesus casting sinners into hell. Tears brimmed in Mortati’s eyes.

  ‘What have you done, Carlo?’ Mortati asked in a whisper. He closed his eyes, and a tear rolled. ‘His Holiness?’

  A collective sigh of pain went up, as if everyone in the room had forgotten until that very moment. The Pope. Poisoned.