Mortati tried not to show too much concern. "Perhaps still with the camerlegno."
"At this hour? That would be highly unorthodox!" The cardinal frowned mistrustingly. "Perhaps the camerlegno lost track of time?"
Mortati sincerely doubted it, but he said nothing. He was well aware that most cardinals did not much care for the camerlegno, feeling he was too young to serve the Pope so closely. Mortati suspected much of the cardinals’ dislike was jealousy, and Mortati actually admired the young man, secretly applauding the late Pope’s selection for chamberlain. Mortati saw only conviction when he looked in the camerlegno’s eyes, and unlike many of the cardinals, the camerlegno put church and faith before petty politics. He was truly a man of God.
Throughout his tenure, the camerlegno’s steadfast devotion had become legendary. Many attributed it to the miraculous event in his childhood… an event that would have left a permanent impression on any man’s heart. The miracle and wonder of it, Mortati thought, often wishing his own childhood had presented an event that fostered that kind of doubtless faith.
Unfortunately for the church, Mortati knew, the camerlegno would never become Pope in his elder years. Attaining the papacy required a certain amount of political ambition, something the young camerlegno apparently lacked; he had refused his Pope’s offers for higher clerical stations many times, saying he preferred to serve the church as a simple man.
"What next?" The cardinal tapped Mortati, waiting.
Mortati looked up. "I’m sorry?"
"They’re late! What shall we do?"
"What can we do?" Mortati replied. "We wait. And have faith."
Looking entirely unsatisfied with Mortati’s response, the cardinal shrunk back into the shadows.
Mortati stood a moment, dabbing his temples and trying to clear his mind. Indeed, what shall we do? He gazed past the altar up to Michelangelo’s renowned fresco, "The Last Judgment." The painting did nothing to soothe his anxiety. It was a horrifying, fifty-foot-tall depiction of Jesus Christ separating mankind into the righteous and sinners, casting the sinners into hell. There was flayed flesh, burning bodies, and even one of Michelangelo’s rivals sitting in hell wearing ass’s ears. Guy de Maupassant had once written that the painting looked like something painted for a carnival wrestling booth by an ignorant coal heaver.
Cardinal Mortati had to agree.
43
Langdon stood motionless at the Pope’s bulletproof window and gazed down at the bustle of media trailers in St. Peter’s Square. The eerie phone conversation had left him feeling turgid… distended somehow. Not himself.
The Illuminati, like a serpent from the forgotten depths of history, had risen and wrapped themselves around an ancient foe. No demands. No negotiation. Just retribution. Demonically simple. Squeezing. A revenge 400 years in the making. It seemed that after centuries of persecution, science had bitten back.
The camerlegno stood at his desk, staring blankly at the phone. Olivetti was the first to break the silence. "Carlo," he said, using the camerlegno’s first name and sounding more like a weary friend than an officer. "For twenty-six years, I have sworn my life to the protection of this office. It seems tonight I am dishonored."
The camerlegno shook his head. "You and I serve God in different capacities, but service always brings honor."
"These events… I can’t imagine how… this situation…" Olivetti looked overwhelmed.
"You realize we have only one possible course of action. I have a responsibility for the safety of the College of Cardinals."
"I fear that responsibility was mine, signore."
"Then your men will oversee the immediate evacuation."
"Signore?"
"Other options can be exercised later—a search for this device, a manhunt for the missing cardinals and their captors. But first the cardinals must be taken to safety. The sanctity of human life weighs above all. Those men are the foundation of this church."
"You suggest we cancel conclave right now?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"What about your charge to bring a new Pope?"
The young chamberlain sighed and turned to the window, his eyes drifting out onto the sprawl of Rome below. "His Holiness once told me that a Pope is a man torn between two worlds… the real world and the divine. He warned that any church that ignored reality would not survive to enjoy the divine." His voice sounded suddenly wise for its years. "The real world is upon us tonight. We would be vain to ignore it. Pride and precedent cannot overshadow reason."
Olivetti nodded, looking impressed. "I have underestimated you, signore."
The camerlegno did not seem to hear. His gaze was distant on the window.
"I will speak openly, signore. The real world is my world. I immerse myself in its ugliness every day such that others are unencumbered to seek something more pure. Let me advise you on the present situation. It is what I am trained for. Your instincts, though worthy… could be disastrous."
The camerlegno turned.
Olivetti sighed. "The evacuation of the College of Cardinals from the Sistine Chapel is the worst possible thing you could do right now."
The camerlegno did not look indignant, only at a loss. "What do you suggest?"
"Say nothing to the cardinals. Seal conclave. It will buy us time to try other options."
The camerlegno looked troubled. "Are you suggesting I lock the entire College of Cardinals on top of a time bomb?"
"Yes, signore. For now. Later, if need be, we can arrange evacuation."
The camerlegno shook his head. "Postponing the ceremony before it starts is grounds alone for an inquiry, but after the doors are sealed nothing intervenes. Conclave procedure obligates—"
"Real world, signore. You’re in it tonight. Listen closely." Olivetti spoke now with the efficient rattle of a field officer. "Marching one hundred sixty-five cardinals unprepared and unprotected into Rome would be reckless. It would cause confusion and panic in some very old men, and frankly, one fatal stroke this month is enough."
One fatal stroke. The commander’s words recalled the headlines Langdon had read over dinner with some students in the Harvard Commons:
"In addition," Olivetti said, "the Sistine Chapel is a fortress. Although we don’t advertise the fact, the structure is heavily reinforced and can repel any attack short of missiles. As preparation we searched every inch of the chapel this afternoon, scanning for bugs and other surveillance equipment. The chapel is clean, a safe haven, and I am confident the antimatter is not inside. There is no safer place those men can be right now. We can always discuss emergency evacuation later if it comes to that."
Langdon was impressed. Olivetti’s cold, smart logic reminded him of Kohler.
"Commander," Vittoria said, her voice tense, "there are other concerns. Nobody has ever created this much antimatter. The blast radius, I can only estimate. Some of surrounding Rome may be in danger. If the canister is in one of your central buildings or underground, the effect outside these walls may be minimal, but if the canister is near the perimeter… in this building for example…" She glanced warily out the window at the crowd in St. Peter’s Square.
"I am well aware of my responsibilities to the outside world," Olivetti replied, "and it makes this situation no more grave. The protection of this sanctuary has been my sole charge for over two decades. I have no intention of allowing this weapon to detonate."
Camerlegno Ventresca looked up. "You think you can find it?"
"Let me discuss our options with some of my surveillance specialists. There is a possibility, if we kill power to Vatican City, that we can eliminate the background RF and create a clean enough environment to get a reading on that canister’s magnetic field."