Gunther Glick–Live in Vatican City

Reporter Glick was apparently reporting by phone, the connection scratchy. "… my videographer got the footage of the cardinal being removed from the Chigi Chapel."

"Let me reiterate for our viewers," the anchorman in London was saying, "BBC reporter Gunther Glick is the man who first broke this story. He has been in phone contact twice now with the alleged Illuminati assassin. Gunther, you say the assassin phoned only moments ago to pass along a message from the Illuminati?"

"He did."

"And their message was that the Illuminati were somehow responsible for the Pope’s death?" The anchorman sounded incredulous.

"Correct. The caller told me that the Pope’s death was not a stroke, as the Vatican had thought, but rather that the Pope had been poisoned by the Illuminati."

Everyone in the Pope’s office froze.

"Poisoned?" the anchorman demanded. "But… but how!"

"They gave no specifics," Glick replied, "except to say that they killed him with a drug known as…"–there was a rustling of papers on the line–"something known as Heparin."

The camerlegno, Olivetti, and Rocher all exchanged confused looks.

"Heparin?" Rocher demanded, looking unnerved. "But isn’t that…?"

The camerlegno blanched. "The Pope’s medication."

Vittoria was stunned. "The Pope was on Heparin?"

"He had thrombophlebitis," the camerlegno said. "He took an injection once a day."

Rocher looked flabbergasted. "But Heparin isn’t a poison. Why would the Illuminati claim–"

"Heparin is lethal in the wrong dosages," Vittoria offered. "It’s a powerful anticoagulant. An overdose would cause massive internal bleeding and brain hemorrhages."

Olivetti eyed her suspiciously. "How would you know that?"

"Marine biologists use it on sea mammals in captivity to prevent blood clotting from decreased activity. Animals have died from improper administration of the drug." She paused. "A Heparin overdose in a human would cause symptoms easily mistaken for a stroke… especially in the absence of a proper autopsy."

The camerlegno now looked deeply troubled.

"Signore," Olivetti said, "this is obviously an Illuminati ploy for publicity. Someone overdosing the Pope would be impossible. Nobody had access. And even if we take the bait and try to refute their claim, how could we? Papal law prohibits autopsy. Even with an autopsy, we would learn nothing. We would find traces of Heparin in his body from his daily injections."

"True." The camerlegno’s voice sharpened. "And yet something else troubles me. No one on the outside knew His Holiness was taking this medication."

There was a silence.

"If he overdosed with Heparin," Vittoria said, "his body would show signs."

Olivetti spun toward her. "Ms. Vetra, in case you didn’t hear me, papal autopsies are prohibited by Vatican Law. We are not about to defile His Holiness’s body by cutting him open just because an enemy makes a taunting claim!"

Vittoria felt shamed. "I was not implying…" She had not meant to seem disrespectful. "I certainly was not suggesting you exhume the Pope…" She hesitated, though. Something Robert told her in the Chigi passed like a ghost through her mind. He had mentioned that papal sarcophagi were above ground and never cemented shut, a throwback to the days of the pharaohs when sealing and burying a casket was believed to trap the deceased’s soul inside. Gravity had become the mortar of choice, with coffin lids often weighing hundreds of pounds. Technically, she realized, it would be possible to–

"What sort of signs?" the camerlegno said suddenly.

Vittoria felt her heart flutter with fear. "Overdoses can cause bleeding of the oral mucosa."

"Oral what?"

"The victim’s gums would bleed. Post mortem, the blood congeals and turns the inside of the mouth black." Vittoria had once seen a photo taken at an aquarium in London where a pair of killer whales had been mistakenly overdosed by their trainer. The whales floated lifeless in the tank, their mouths hanging open and their tongues black as soot.

The camerlegno made no reply. He turned and stared out the window.

Rocher’s voice had lost its optimism. "Signore, if this claim about poisoning is true…"

"It’s not true," Olivetti declared. "Access to the Pope by an outsider is utterly impossible."

"If this claim is true," Rocher repeated, "and our Holy Father was poisoned, then that has profound implications for our antimatter search. The alleged assassination implies a much deeper infiltration of Vatican City than we had imagined. Searching the white zones may be inadequate. If we are compromised to such a deep extent, we may not find the canister in time."

Olivetti leveled his captain with a cold stare. "Captain, I will tell you what is going to happen."

"No," the camerlegno said, turning suddenly. "I will tell you what is going to happen." He looked directly at Olivetti. "This has gone far enough. In twenty minutes I will be making a decision whether or not to cancel conclave and evacuate Vatican City. My decision will be final. Is that clear?"

Olivetti did not blink. Nor did he respond.

The camerlegno spoke forcefully now, as though tapping a hidden reserve of power. "Captain Rocher, you will complete your search of the white zones and report directly to me when you are finished."

Rocher nodded, throwing Olivetti an uneasy glance.

The camerlegno then singled out two guards. "I want the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick, in this office immediately. If the Illuminati have been communicating with him, he may be able to help us. Go."

The two soldiers disappeared.

Now the camerlegno turned and addressed the remaining guards. "Gentlemen, I will not permit any more loss of life this evening. By ten o’clock you will locate the remaining two cardinals and capture the monster responsible for these murders. Do I make myself understood?"

"But, signore," Olivetti argued, "we have no idea where–"

"Mr. Langdon is working on that. He seems capable. I have faith."

With that, the camerlegno strode for the door, a new determination in his step. On his way out, he pointed to three guards. "You three, come with me. Now."

The guards followed.

In the doorway, the camerlegno stopped. He turned to Vittoria. "Ms. Vetra. You too. Please come with me."

Vittoria hesitated. "Where are we going?"

He headed out the door. "To see an old friend."

At CERN, secretary Sylvie Baudeloque was hungry, wishing she could go home. To her dismay, Kohler had apparently survived his trip to the infirmary; he had phoned and demanded–not asked, demanded–that Sylvie stay late this evening. No explanation.

Over the years, Sylvie had programmed herself to ignore Kohler’s bizarre mood swings and eccentricities–his silent treatments, his unnerving propensity to secretly film meetings with his wheelchair’s porta‑video. She secretly hoped one day he would shoot himself during his weekly visit to CERN’s recreational pistol range, but apparently he was a pretty good shot.

Now, sitting alone at her desk, Sylvie heard her stomach growling. Kohler had not yet returned, nor had he given her any additional work for the evening. To hell with sitting here bored and starving, she decided. She left Kohler a note and headed for the staff dining commons to grab a quick bite.

She never made it.

As she passed CERN’s recreational "suites de loisir"–a long hallway of lounges with televisions–she noticed the rooms were overflowing with employees who had apparently abandoned dinner to watch the news. Something big was going on. Sylvie entered the first suite. It was packed with byte‑heads–wild young computer programmers. When she saw the headlines on the TV, she gasped.

Terror at the Vatican

Sylvie listened to the report, unable to believe her ears. Some ancient brotherhood killing cardinals? What did that prove? Their hatred? Their dominance? Their ignorance?

And yet, incredibly, the mood in this suite seemed anything but somber.

Two young techies ran by waving T‑shirts that bore a picture of Bill Gates and the message:

And the Geekshall inherit the Earth!

"Illuminati!" one shouted. "I told you these guys were real!"

"Incredible! I thought it was just a game!"

"They killed the Pope, man! The Pope!"

"Jeez! I wonder how many points you get for that?"

They ran off laughing.

Sylvie stood in stunned amazement. As a Catholic working among scientists, she occasionally endured the antireligious whisperings, but the party these kids seemed to be having was all‑out euphoria over the church’s loss. How could they be so callous? Why the hatred?

For Sylvie, the church had always been an innocuous entity… a place of fellowship and introspection… sometimes just a place to sing out loud without people staring at her. The church recorded the benchmarks of her life–funerals, weddings, baptisms, holidays–and it asked for nothing in return. Even the monetary dues were voluntary. Her children emerged from Sunday School every week uplifted, filled with ideas about helping others and being kinder. What could possibly be wrong with that?

It never ceased to amaze her that so many of CERN’s so‑called "brilliant minds" failed to comprehend the importance of the church. Did they really believe quarks and mesons inspired the average human being? Or that equations could replace someone’s need for faith in the divine?

Dazed, Sylvie moved down the hallway past the other lounges. All the TV rooms were packed. She began wondering now about the call Kohler had gotten from the Vatican earlier. Coincidence? Perhaps. The Vatican called CERN from time to time as a "courtesy" before issuing scathing statements condemning CERN’s research–most recently for CERN’s breakthroughs in nanotechnology, a field the church denounced because of its implications for genetic engineering. CERN never cared. Invariably, within minutes after a Vatican salvo, Kohler’s phone would ring off the hook with tech‑investment companies wanting to license the new discovery. "No such thing as bad press," Kohler would always say.

Sylvie wondered if she should page Kohler, wherever the hell he was, and tell him to turn on the news. Did he care? Had he heard? Of course, he’d heard. He was probably videotaping the entire report with his freaky little camcorder, smiling for the first time in a year.

As Sylvie continued down the hall, she finally found a lounge where the mood was subdued… almost melancholy. Here the scientists watching the report were some of CERN’s oldest and most respected. They did not even look up as Sylvie slipped in and took a seat.

On the other side of CERN, in Leonardo Vetra’s frigid apartment, Maximilian Kohler had finished reading the leather‑bound journal he’d taken from Vetra’s bedside table. Now he was watching the television reports. After a few minutes, he replaced Vetra’s journal, turned off the television, and left the apartment.

Far away, in Vatican City, Cardinal Mortati carried another tray of ballots to the Sistine Chapel chimney. He burned them, and the smoke was black.

Two ballotings. No Pope.

Flashlights were no match for the voluminous blackness of St. Peter’s Basilica. The void overhead pressed down like a starless night, and Vittoria felt the emptiness spread out around her like a desolate ocean. She stayed close as the Swiss Guards and the camerlegno pushed on. High above, a dove cooed and fluttered away.

As if sensing her discomfort, the camerlegno dropped back and lay a hand on her shoulder. A tangible strength transferred in the touch, as if the man were magically infusing her with the calm she needed to do what they were about to do.

What are we about to do? she thought. This is madness!

And yet, Vittoria knew, for all its impiety and inevitable horror, the task at hand was inescapable. The grave decisions facing the camerlegno required information… information entombed in a sarcophagus in the Vatican Grottoes. She wondered what they would find. Did the Illuminati murder the Pope? Did their power really reach so far? Am I really about to perform the first papal autopsy?

Vittoria found it ironic that she felt more apprehensive in this unlit church than she would swimming at night with barracuda. Nature was her refuge. She understood nature. But it was matters of man and spirit that left her mystified. Killer fish gathering in the dark conjured images of the press gathering outside. TV footage of branded bodies reminded her of her father’s corpse… and the killer’s harsh laugh. The killer was out there somewhere. Vittoria felt the anger drowning her fear.

As they circled past a pillar–thicker in girth than any redwood she could imagine–Vittoria saw an orange glow up ahead. The light seemed to emanate from beneath the floor in the center of the basilica. As they came closer, she realized what she was seeing. It was the famous sunken sanctuary beneath the main altar–the sumptuous underground chamber that held the Vatican’s most sacred relics. As they drew even with the gate surrounding the hollow, Vittoria gazed down at the golden coffer surrounded by scores of glowing oil lamps.

"St. Peter’s bones?" she asked, knowing full well that they were. Everyone who came to St. Peter’s knew what was in the golden casket.

"Actually, no," the camerlegno said. "A common misconception. That’s not a reliquary. The box holds palliums–woven sashes that the Pope gives to newly elected cardinals."

"But I thought–"

"As does everyone. The guidebooks label this as St. Peter’s tomb, but his true grave is two stories beneath us, buried in the earth. The Vatican excavated it in the forties. Nobody is allowed down there."

Vittoria was shocked. As they moved away from the glowing recession into the darkness again, she thought of the stories she’d heard of pilgrims traveling thousands of miles to look at that golden box, thinking they were in the presence of St. Peter. "Shouldn’t the Vatican tell people?"

"We all benefit from a sense of contact with divinity… even if it is only imagined."

Vittoria, as a scientist, could not argue the logic. She had read countless studies of the placebo effect–aspirins curing cancer in people who believed they were using a miracle drug. What was faith, after all?

"Change," the camerlegno said, "is not something we do well within Vatican City. Admitting our past faults, modernization, are things we historically eschew. His Holiness was trying to change that." He paused. "Reaching to the modern world. Searching for new paths to God."

Vittoria nodded in the dark. "Like science?"

"To be honest, science seems irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" Vittoria could think of a lot of words to describe science, but in the modern world "irrelevant" did not seem like one of them.

"Science can heal, or science can kill. It depends on the soul of the man using the science. It is the soul that interests me."

"When did you hear your call?"

"Before I was born."

Vittoria looked at him.

"I’m sorry, that always seems like a strange question. What I mean is that I’ve always known I would serve God. From the moment I could first think. It wasn’t until I was a young man, though, in the military, that I truly understood my purpose."

Vittoria was surprised. "You were in the military?"

"Two years. I refused to fire a weapon, so they made me fly instead. Medevac helicopters. In fact, I still fly from time to time."

Vittoria tried to picture the young priest flying a helicopter. Oddly, she could see him perfectly behind the controls. Camerlegno Ventresca possessed a grit that seemed to accentuate his conviction rather than cloud it. "Did you ever fly the Pope?"

"Heavens no. We left that precious cargo to the professionals. His Holiness let me take the helicopter to our retreat in Gandolfo sometimes." He paused, looking at her. "Ms. Vetra, thank you for your help here today. I am very sorry about your father. Truly."

"Thank you."

"I never knew my father. He died before I was born. I lost my mother when I was ten."

Vittoria looked up. "You were orphaned?" She felt a sudden kinship.

"I survived an accident. An accident that took my mother."

"Who took care of you?"

"God," the camerlegno said. "He quite literally sent me another father. A bishop from Palermo appeared at my hospital bed and took me in. At the time I was not surprised. I had sensed God’s watchful hand over me even as a boy. The bishop’s appearance simply confirmed what I had already suspected, that God had somehow chosen me to serve him."

"You believed God chose you?"

"I did. And I do." There was no trace of conceit in the camerlegno’s voice, only gratitude. "I worked under the bishop’s tutelage for many years. He eventually became a cardinal. Still, he never forgot me. He is the father I remember." A beam of a flashlight caught the camerlegno’s face, and Vittoria sensed a loneliness in his eyes.

The group arrived beneath a towering pillar, and their lights converged on an opening in the floor. Vittoria looked down at the staircase descending into the void and suddenly wanted to turn back. The guards were already helping the camerlegno onto the stairs. They helped her next.

"What became of him?" she asked, descending, trying to keep her voice steady. "The cardinal who took you in?"

"He left the College of Cardinals for another position."

Vittoria was surprised.

"And then, I’m sorry to say, he passed on."

"Le mie condoglianze," Vittoria said. "Recently?"

The camerlegno turned, shadows accentuating the pain on his face. "Exactly fifteen days ago. We are going to see him right now."

The dark lights glowed hot inside the archival vault. This vault was much smaller than the previous one Langdon had been in. Less air. Less time. He wished he’d asked Olivetti to turn on the recirculating fans.

Langdon quickly located the section of assets containing the ledgers cataloging Belle Arti. The section was impossible to miss. It occupied almost eight full stacks. The Catholic church owned millions of individual pieces worldwide.

Langdon scanned the shelves searching for Gianlorenzo Bernini. He began his search about midway down the first stack, at about the spot he thought the B’s would begin. After a moment of panic fearing the ledger was missing, he realized, to his greater dismay, that the ledgers were not arranged alphabetically. Why am I not surprised?

It was not until Langdon circled back to the beginning of the collection and climbed a rolling ladder to the top shelf that he understood the vault’s organization. Perched precariously on the upper stacks he found the fattest ledgers of all–those belonging to the masters of the Renaissance–Michelangelo, Raphael, da Vinci, Botticelli. Langdon now realized, appropriate to a vault called "Vatican Assets," the ledgers were arranged by the overall monetary value of each artist’s collection. Sandwiched between Raphael and Michelangelo, Langdon found the ledger marked Bernini. It was over five inches thick.

Already short of breath and struggling with the cumbersome volume, Langdon descended the ladder. Then, like a kid with a comic book, he spread himself out on the floor and opened the cover.

The book was cloth‑bound and very solid. The ledger was handwritten in Italian. Each page cataloged a single work, including a short description, date, location, cost of materials, and sometimes a rough sketch of the piece. Langdon fanned through the pages… over eight hundred in all. Bernini had been a busy man.

As a young student of art, Langdon had wondered how single artists could create so much work in their lifetimes. Later he learned, much to his disappointment, that famous artists actually created very little of their own work. They ran studios where they trained young artists to carry out their designs. Sculptors like Bernini created miniatures in clay and hired others to enlarge them into marble. Langdon knew that if Bernini had been required to personally complete all of his commissions, he would still be working today.

"Index," he said aloud, trying to ward off the mental cobwebs. He flipped to the back of the book, intending to look under the letter F for titles containing the word fuòco–fire–but the F’s were not together. Langdon swore under his breath. What the hell do these people have against alphabetizing?

The entries had apparently been logged chronologically, one by one, as Bernini created each new work. Everything was listed by date. No help at all.

As Langdon stared at the list, another disheartening thought occurred to him. The title of the sculpture he was looking for might not even contain the word Fire. The previous two works–Habakkuk and the Angel and West Ponente–had not contained specific references to Earth or Air.

He spent a minute or two flipping randomly through the ledger in hopes that an illustration might jump out at him. Nothing did. He saw dozens of obscure works he had never heard of, but he also saw plenty he recognized… Daniel and the Lion, Apollo and Daphne, as well as a half dozen fountains. When he saw the fountains, his thoughts skipped momentarily ahead. Water. He wondered if the fourth altar of science was a fountain. A fountain seemed a perfect tribute to water. Langdon hoped they could catch the killer before he had to consider Water–Bernini had carved dozens of fountains in Rome, most of them in front of churches.

Langdon turned back to the matter at hand. Fire. As he looked through the book, Vittoria’s words encouraged him. You were familiar with the first two sculptures… you probably know this one too. As he turned to the index again, he scanned for titles he knew. Some were familiar, but none jumped out. Langdon now realized he would never complete his search before passing out, so he decided, against his better judgment, that he would have to take the book outside the vault. It’s only a ledger, he told himself. It’s not like I’m removing an original Galilean folio. Langdon recalled the folio in his breast pocket and reminded himself to return it before leaving.

Hurrying now, he reached down to lift the volume, but as he did, he saw something that gave him pause. Although there were numerous notations throughout the index, the one that had just caught his eye seemed odd.

The note indicated that the famous Bernini sculpture, The Ecstasy of St. Teresa, shortly after its unveiling, had been moved from its original location inside the Vatican. This in itself was not what had caught Langdon’s eye. He was already familiar with the sculpture’s checkered past. Though some thought it a masterpiece, Pope Urban VIII had rejected The Ecstasy of St. Teresa as too sexually explicit for the Vatican. He had banished it to some obscure chapel across town. What had caught Langdon’s eye was that the work had apparently been placed in one of the five churches on his list. What was more, the note indicated it had been moved there per suggerimento del artista.

By suggestion of the artist? Langdon was confused. It made no sense that Bernini had suggested his masterpiece be hidden in some obscure location. All artists wanted their work displayed prominently, not in some remote–

Langdon hesitated. Unless…

He was fearful even to entertain the notion. Was it possible? Had Bernini intentionally created a work so explicit that it forced the Vatican to hide it in some out‑of‑the‑way spot? A location perhaps that Bernini himself could suggest? Maybe a remote church on a direct line with West Ponente’s breath?

As Langdon’s excitement mounted, his vague familiarity with the statue intervened, insisting the work had nothing to do with fire. The sculpture, as anyone who had seen it could attest, was anything but scientific–pornographic maybe, but certainly not scientific. An English critic had once condemned The Ecstasy of St. Teresa as "the most unfit ornament ever to be placed in a Christian Church." Langdon certainly understood the controversy. Though brilliantly rendered, the statue depicted St. Teresa on her back in the throes of a toe‑curling orgasm. Hardly Vatican fare.

Langdon hurriedly flipped to the ledger’s description of the work. When he saw the sketch, he felt an instantaneous and unexpected tingle of hope. In the sketch, St. Teresa did indeed appear to be enjoying herself, but there was another figure in the statue who Langdon had forgotten was there.

An angel.

The sordid legend suddenly came back…

St. Teresa was a nun sainted after she claimed an angel had paid her a blissful visit in her sleep. Critics later decided her encounter had probably been more sexual than spiritual. Scrawled at the bottom of the ledger, Langdon saw a familiar excerpt. St. Teresa’s own words left little to the imagination:

… his great golden spear… filled with fire… plunged into me several times… penetrated to my entrails… a sweetness so extreme that one could not possibly wish it to stop.

Langdon smiled. If that’s not a metaphor for some serious sex, I don’t know what is. He was smiling also because of the ledger’s description of the work. Although the paragraph was in Italian, the word fuòco appeared a half dozen times:

… angel’s spear tipped with point of fire…

… angel’s head emanating rays of fire…

… woman inflamed by passion’s fire…

Langdon was not entirely convinced until he glanced up at the sketch again. The angel’s fiery spear was raised like a beacon, pointing the way. Let angels guide you on your lofty quest. Even the type of angel Bernini had selected seemed significant. It’s a seraphim, Langdon realized. Seraphim literally means "the fiery one."

Robert Langdon was not a man who had ever looked for confirmation from above, but when he read the name of the church where the sculpture now resided, he decided he might become a believer after all.

Santa Maria della Vittoria.

Vittoria, he thought, grinning. Perfect.

Staggering to his feet, Langdon felt a rush of dizziness. He glanced up the ladder, wondering if he should replace the book. The hell with it, he thought. Father Jaqui can do it. He closed the book and left it neatly at the bottom of the shelf.

As he made his way toward the glowing button on the vault’s electronic exit, he was breathing in shallow gasps. Nonetheless, he felt rejuvenated by his good fortune.

His good fortune, however, ran out before he reached the exit.

Without warning, the vault let out a pained sigh. The lights dimmed, and the exit button went dead. Then, like an enormous expiring beast, the archival complex went totally black. Someone had just killed power.

The Holy Vatican Grottoes are located beneath the main floor of St. Peter’s Basilica. They are the burial place of deceased Popes.

Vittoria reached the bottom of the spiral staircase and entered the grotto. The darkened tunnel reminded her of CERN’s Large Hadron Collider–black and cold. Lit now only by the flashlights of the Swiss Guards, the tunnel carried a distinctly incorporeal feel. On both sides, hollow niches lined the walls. Recessed in the alcoves, as far as the lights let them see, the hulking shadows of sarcophagi loomed.

An iciness raked her flesh. It’s the cold, she told herself, knowing that was only partially true. She had the sense they were being watched, not by anyone in the flesh, but by specters in the dark. On top of each tomb, in full papal vestments, lay life‑sized semblances of each Pope, shown in death, arms folded across their chests. The prostrate bodies seemed to emerge from within the tombs, pressing upward against the marble lids as if trying to escape their mortal restraints. The flashlight procession moved on, and the papal silhouettes rose and fell against the walls, stretching and vanishing in a macabre shadowbox dance.

A silence had fallen across the group, and Vittoria couldn’t tell whether it was one of respect or apprehension. She sensed both. The camerlegno moved with his eyes closed, as if he knew every step by heart. Vittoria suspected he had made this eerie promenade many times since the Pope’s death… perhaps to pray at his tomb for guidance.

I worked under the cardinal’s tutelage for many years, the camerlegno had said. He was like a father to me. Vittoria recalled the camerlegno speaking those words in reference to the cardinal who had "saved" him from the army. Now, however, Vittoria understood the rest of the story. That very cardinal who had taken the camerlegno under his wing had apparently later risen to the papacy and brought with him his young protégé to serve as chamberlain.

That explains a lot, Vittoria thought. She had always possessed a well‑tuned perception for others’ inner emotions, and something about the camerlegno had been nagging her all day. Since meeting him, she had sensed an anguish more soulful and private than the overwhelming crisis he now faced. Behind his pious calm, she saw a man tormented by personal demons. Now she knew her instincts had been correct. Not only was he facing the most devastating threat in Vatican history, but he was doing it without his mentor and friend… flying solo.

The guards slowed now, as if unsure where exactly in the darkness the most recent Pope was buried. The camerlegno continued assuredly and stopped before a marble tomb that seemed to glisten brighter than the others. Lying atop was a carved figure of the late Pope. When Vittoria recognized his face from television, a shot of fear gripped her. What are we doing?

"I realize we do not have much time," the camerlegno said. "I still ask we take a moment of prayer."

The Swiss Guard all bowed their heads where they were standing. Vittoria followed suit, her heart pounding in the silence. The camerlegno knelt before the tomb and prayed in Italian. As Vittoria listened to his words, an unexpected grief surfaced as tears… tears for her own mentor… her own holy father. The camerlegno’s words seemed as appropriate for her father as they did for the Pope.

"Supreme father, counselor, friend." The camerlegno’s voice echoed dully around the ring. "You told me when I was young that the voice in my heart was that of God. You told me I must follow it no matter what painful places it leads. I hear that voice now, asking of me impossible tasks. Give me strength. Bestow on me forgiveness. What I do… I do in the name of everything you believe. Amen."

"Amen," the guards whispered.

Amen, Father. Vittoria wiped her eyes.

The camerlegno stood slowly and stepped away from the tomb. "Push the covering aside."

The Swiss Guards hesitated. "Signore," one said, "by law we are at your command." He paused. "We will do as you say…"

The camerlegno seemed to read the young man’s mind. "Someday I will ask your forgiveness for placing you in this position. Today I ask for your obedience. Vatican laws are established to protect this church. It is in that very spirit that I command you to break them now."

There was a moment of silence and then the lead guard gave the order. The three men set down their flashlights on the floor, and their shadows leapt overhead. Lit now from beneath, the men advanced toward the tomb. Bracing their hands against the marble covering near the head of the tomb, they planted their feet and prepared to push. On signal, they all thrust, straining against the enormous slab. When the lid did not move at all, Vittoria found herself almost hoping it was too heavy. She was suddenly fearful of what they would find inside.

The men pushed harder, and still the stone did not move.

"Ancora," the camerlegno said, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock and preparing to push along with them. "Ora!" Everyone heaved.

Vittoria was about to offer her own help, but just then, the lid began to slide. The men dug in again, and with an almost primal growl of stone on stone, the lid rotated off the top of the tomb and came to rest at an angle–the Pope’s carved head now pushed back into the niche and his feet extended out into the hallway.

Everyone stepped back.

Tentatively, a guard bent and retrieved his flashlight. Then he aimed it into the tomb. The beam seemed to tremble a moment, and then the guard held it steady. The other guards gathered one by one. Even in the darkness Vittoria sensed them recoil. In succession, they crossed themselves.

The camerlegno shuddered when he looked into the tomb, his shoulders dropping like weights. He stood a long moment before turning away.

Vittoria had feared the corpse’s mouth might be clenched tight with rigor mortis and that she would have to suggest breaking the jaw to see the tongue. She now saw it would be unnecessary. The cheeks had collapsed, and the Pope’s mouth gaped wide.

His tongue was black as death.

No light. No sound.

The Secret Archives were black.

Fear, Langdon now realized, was an intense motivator. Short of breath, he fumbled through the blackness toward the revolving door. He found the button on the wall and rammed his palm against it. Nothing happened. He tried again. The door was dead.

Spinning blind, he called out, but his voice emerged strangled. The peril of his predicament suddenly closed in around him. His lungs strained for oxygen as the adrenaline doubled his heart rate. He felt like someone had just punched him in the gut.

When he threw his weight into the door, for an instant he thought he felt the door start to turn. He pushed again, seeing stars. Now he realized it was the entire room turning, not the door. Staggering away, Langdon tripped over the base of a rolling ladder and fell hard. He tore his knee against the edge of a book stack. Swearing, he got up and groped for the ladder.

He found it. He had hoped it would be heavy wood or iron, but it was aluminum. He grabbed the ladder and held it like a battering ram. Then he ran through the dark at the glass wall. It was closer than he thought. The ladder hit head‑on, bouncing off. From the feeble sound of the collision, Langdon knew he was going to need a hell of a lot more than an aluminum ladder to break this glass.

When he flashed on the semiautomatic, his hopes surged and then instantly fell. The weapon was gone. Olivetti had relieved him of it in the Pope’s office, saying he did not want loaded weapons around with the camerlegno present. It made sense at the time.

Langdon called out again, making less sound than the last time.

Next he remembered the walkie‑talkie the guard had left on the table outside the vault. Why the hell didn’t I bring it in! As the purple stars began to dance before his eyes, Langdon forced himself to think. You’ve been trapped before, he told himself. You survived worse. You were just a kid and you figured it out. The crushing darkness came flooding in. Think!

Langdon lowered himself onto the floor. He rolled over on his back and laid his hands at his sides. The first step was to gain control.

Relax. Conserve.

No longer fighting gravity to pump blood, Langdon’s heart began to slow. It was a trick swimmers used to re‑oxygenate their blood between tightly scheduled races.

There is plenty of air in here, he told himself. Plenty. Now think. He waited, half‑expecting the lights to come back on at any moment. They did not. As he lay there, able to breathe better now, an eerie resignation came across him. He felt peaceful. He fought it.

You will move, damn it! But where…

On Langdon’s wrist, Mickey Mouse glowed happily as if enjoying the dark: 9:33 P.M. Half an hour until Fire. Langdon thought it felt a whole hell of a lot later. His mind, instead of coming up with a plan for escape, was suddenly demanding an explanation. Who turned off the power? Was Rocher expanding his search? Wouldn’t Olivetti have warned Rocher that I’m in here! Langdon knew at this point it made no difference.

Opening his mouth wide and tipping back his head, Langdon pulled the deepest breaths he could manage. Each breath burned a little less than the last. His head cleared. He reeled his thoughts in and forced the gears into motion.

Glass walls, he told himself. But damn thick glass.

He wondered if any of the books in here were stored in heavy, steel, fireproof file cabinets. Langdon had seen them from time to time in other archives but had seen none here. Besides, finding one in the dark could prove time‑consuming. Not that he could lift one anyway, particularly in his present state.

How about the examination table? Langdon knew this vault, like the other, had an examination table in the center of the stacks. So what? He knew he couldn’t lift it. Not to mention, even if he could drag it, he wouldn’t get it far. The stacks were closely packed, the aisles between them far too narrow.

The aisles are too narrow…

Suddenly, Langdon knew.

With a burst of confidence, he jumped to his feet far too fast. Swaying in the fog of a head rush, he reached out in the dark for support. His hand found a stack. Waiting a moment, he forced himself to conserve. He would need all of his strength to do this.

Positioning himself against the book stack like a football player against a training sled, he planted his feet and pushed. If I can somehow tip the shelf. But it barely moved. He realigned and pushed again. His feet slipped backward on the floor. The stack creaked but did not move.

He needed leverage.

Finding the glass wall again, he placed one hand on it to guide him as he raced in the dark toward the far end of the vault. The back wall loomed suddenly, and he collided with it, crushing his shoulder. Cursing, Langdon circled the shelf and grabbed the stack at about eye level. Then, propping one leg on the glass behind him and another on the lower shelves, he started to climb. Books fell around him, fluttering into the darkness. He didn’t care. Instinct for survival had long since overridden archival decorum. He sensed his equilibrium was hampered by the total darkness and closed his eyes, coaxing his brain to ignore visual input. He moved faster now. The air felt leaner the higher he went. He scrambled toward the upper shelves, stepping on books, trying to gain purchase, heaving himself upward. Then, like a rock climber conquering a rock face, Langdon grasped the top shelf. Stretching his legs out behind him, he walked his feet up the glass wall until he was almost horizontal.

Now or never, Robert, a voice urged. Just like the leg press in the Harvard gym.

With dizzying exertion, he planted his feet against the wall behind him, braced his arms and chest against the stack, and pushed. Nothing happened.

Fighting for air, he repositioned and tried again, extending his legs. Ever so slightly, the stack moved. He pushed again, and the stack rocked forward an inch or so and then back. Langdon took advantage of the motion, inhaling what felt like an oxygenless breath and heaving again. The shelf rocked farther.

Like a swing set, he told himself. Keep the rhythm. A little more.

Langdon rocked the shelf, extending his legs farther with each push. His quadriceps burned now, and he blocked the pain. The pendulum was in motion. Three more pushes, he urged himself.

It only took two.

There was an instant of weightless uncertainty. Then, with a thundering of books sliding off the shelves, Langdon and the shelf were falling forward.

Halfway to the ground, the shelf hit the stack next to it. Langdon hung on, throwing his weight forward, urging the second shelf to topple. There was a moment of motionless panic, and then, creaking under the weight, the second stack began to tip. Langdon was falling again.

Like enormous dominoes, the stacks began to topple, one after another. Metal on metal, books tumbling everywhere. Langdon held on as his inclined stack bounced downward like a ratchet on a jack. He wondered how many stacks there were in all. How much would they weigh? The glass at the far end was thick…

Langdon’s stack had fallen almost to the horizontal when he heard what he was waiting for–a different kind of collision. Far off. At the end of the vault. The sharp smack of metal on glass. The vault around him shook, and Langdon knew the final stack, weighted down by the others, had hit the glass hard. The sound that followed was the most unwelcome sound Langdon had ever heard.

Silence.

There was no crashing of glass, only the resounding thud as the wall accepted the weight of the stacks now propped against it. He lay wide‑eyed on the pile of books. Somewhere in the distance there was a creaking. Langdon would have held his breath to listen, but he had none left to hold.

One second. Two…

Then, as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, Langdon heard a distant yielding… a ripple spidering outward through the glass. Suddenly, like a cannon, the glass exploded. The stack beneath Langdon collapsed to the floor.

Like welcome rain on a desert, shards of glass tinkled downward in the dark. With a great sucking hiss, the air gushed in.

Thirty seconds later, in the Vatican Grottoes, Vittoria was standing before a corpse when the electronic squawk of a walkie‑talkie broke the silence. The voice blaring out sounded short of breath. "This is Robert Langdon! Can anyone hear me?"

Vittoria looked up. Robert! She could not believe how much she suddenly wished he were there.

The guards exchanged puzzled looks. One took a radio off his belt. "Mr. Langdon? You are on channel three. The commander is waiting to hear from you on channel one."

"I know he’s on channel one, damn it! I don’t want to speak to him. I want the camerlegno. Now! Somebody find him for me."

In the obscurity of the Secret Archives, Langdon stood amidst shattered glass and tried to catch his breath. He felt a warm liquid on his left hand and knew he was bleeding. The camerlegno’s voice spoke at once, startling Langdon.

"This is Camerlegno Ventresca. What’s going on?"

Langdon pressed the button, his heart still pounding. "I think somebody just tried to kill me!"

There was a silence on the line.

Langdon tried to calm himself. "I also know where the next killing is going to be."

The voice that came back was not the camerlegno’s. It was Commander Olivetti’s: "Mr. Langdon. Do not speak another word."

Langdon’s watch, now smeared with blood, read 9:41 P.M. as he ran across the Courtyard of the Belvedere and approached the fountain outside the Swiss Guard security center. His hand had stopped bleeding and now felt worse than it looked. As he arrived, it seemed everyone convened at once–Olivetti, Rocher, the camerlegno, Vittoria, and a handful of guards.

Vittoria hurried toward him immediately. "Robert, you’re hurt."

Before Langdon could answer, Olivetti was before him. "Mr. Langdon, I’m relieved you’re okay. I’m sorry about the crossed signals in the archives."

"Crossed signals?" Langdon demanded. "You knew damn well–"

"It was my fault," Rocher said, stepping forward, sounding contrite. "I had no idea you were in the archives. Portions of our white zones are cross‑wired with that building. We were extending our search. I’m the one who killed power. If I had known…"

"Robert," Vittoria said, taking his wounded hand in hers and looking it over, "the Pope was poisoned. The Illuminati killed him."

Langdon heard the words, but they barely registered. He was saturated. All he could feel was the warmth of Vittoria’s hands.

The camerlegno pulled a silk handkerchief from his cassock and handed it to Langdon so he could clean himself. The man said nothing. His green eyes seemed filled with a new fire.

"Robert," Vittoria pressed, "you said you found where the next cardinal is going to be killed?"

Langdon felt flighty. "I do, it’s at the–"

"No," Olivetti interrupted. "Mr. Langdon, when I asked you not to speak another word on the walkie‑talkie, it was for a reason." He turned to the handful of assembled Swiss Guards. "Excuse us, gentlemen."

The soldiers disappeared into the security center. No indignity. Only compliance.

Olivetti turned back to the remaining group. "As much as it pains me to say this, the murder of our Pope is an act that could only have been accomplished with help from within these walls. For the good of all, we can trust no one. Including our guards." He seemed to be suffering as he spoke the words.

Rocher looked anxious. "Inside collusion implies–"

"Yes," Olivetti said. "The integrity of your search is compromised. And yet it is a gamble we must take. Keep looking."

Rocher looked like he was about to say something, thought better of it, and left.

The camerlegno inhaled deeply. He had not said a word yet, and Langdon sensed a new rigor in the man, as if a turning point had been reached.

"Commander?" The camerlegno’s tone was impermeable. "I am going to break conclave."

Olivetti pursed his lips, looking dour. "I advise against it. We still have two hours and twenty minutes."

"A heartbeat."

Olivetti’s tone was now challenging "What do you intend to do? Evacuate the cardinals single‑handedly?"

"I intend to save this church with whatever power God has given me. How I proceed is no longer your concern."

Olivetti straightened. "Whatever you intend to do…" He paused. "I do not have the authority to restrain you. Particularly in light of my apparent failure as head of security. I ask only that you wait. Wait twenty minutes… until after ten o’clock. If Mr. Langdon’s information is correct, I may still have a chance to catch this assassin. There is still a chance to preserve protocol and decorum."

"Decorum?" The camerlegno let out a choked laugh. "We have long since passed propriety, commander. In case you hadn’t noticed, this is war."

A guard emerged from the security center and called out to the camerlegno, "Signore, I just got word we have detained the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick."

The camerlegno nodded. "Have both he and his camerawoman meet me outside the Sistine Chapel."

Olivetti’s eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

"Twenty minutes, commander. That’s all I’m giving you." Then he was gone.

When Olivetti’s Alpha Romeo tore out of Vatican City, this time there was no line of unmarked cars following him. In the back seat, Vittoria bandaged Langdon’s hand with a first‑aid kit she’d found in the glove box.

Olivetti stared straight ahead. "Okay, Mr. Langdon. Where are we going?"

Even with its siren now affixed and blaring, Olivetti’s Alpha Romeo seemed to go unnoticed as it rocketed across the bridge into the heart of old Rome. All the traffic was moving in the other direction, toward the Vatican, as if the Holy See had suddenly become the hottest entertainment in Rome.

Langdon sat in the backseat, the questions whipping through his mind. He wondered about the killer, if they would catch him this time, if he would tell them what they needed to know, if it was already too late. How long before the camerlegno told the crowd in St. Peter’s Square they were in danger? The incident in the vault still nagged. A mistake.

Olivetti never touched the brakes as he snaked the howling Alpha Romeo toward the Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Langdon knew on any other day his knuckles would have been white. At the moment, however, he felt anesthetized. Only the throbbing in his hand reminded him where he was.

Overhead, the siren wailed. Nothing like telling him we’re coming, Langdon thought. And yet they were making incredible time. He guessed Olivetti would kill the siren as they drew nearer.

Now with a moment to sit and reflect, Langdon felt a tinge of amazement as the news of the Pope’s murder finally registered in his mind. The thought was inconceivable, and yet somehow it seemed a perfectly logical event. Infiltration had always been the Illuminati powerbase–rearrangements of power from within. And it was not as if Popes had never been murdered. Countless rumors of treachery abounded, although with no autopsy, none was ever confirmed. Until recently. Academics not long ago had gotten permission to X‑ray the tomb of Pope Celestine V, who had allegedly died at the hands of his overeager successor, Boniface VIII. The researchers had hoped the X‑ray might reveal some small hint of foul play–a broken bone perhaps. Incredibly, the X‑ray had revealed a ten‑inch nail driven into the Pope’s skull.

Langdon now recalled a series of news clippings fellow Illuminati buffs had sent him years ago. At first he had thought the clippings were a prank, so he’d gone to the Harvard microfiche collection to confirm the articles were authentic. Incredibly, they were. He now kept them on his bulletin board as examples of how even respectable news organizations sometimes got carried away with Illuminati paranoia. Suddenly, the media’s suspicions seemed a lot less paranoid. Langdon could see the articles clearly in his mind…