Angels & Demons (17 page)

“Okay. You know the Pope’s private number?”

“No. But I’m not calling on
my
phone.” She nodded to a high-tech phone system on Olivetti’s desk. It was riddled with speed dial buttons. “The head of security
must
have a direct line to the Pope’s office.”

“He also has a weight lifter with a gun planted six feet away.”

“And we’re locked in.”

“I was actually aware of that.”

“I mean the
guard
is locked out. This is Olivetti’s private office. I doubt anyone else has a key.”

Langdon looked out at the guard. “This is pretty thin glass, and that’s a pretty big gun.”

“What’s he going to do, shoot me for using the phone?”

“Who the hell knows! This is a pretty strange place, and the way things are going—”

“Either that,” Vittoria said, “or we can spend the next five hours and forty-eight minutes in Vatican Prison. At least we’ll have a front-row seat when the antimatter goes off.”

Langdon paled. “But the guard will get Olivetti the second you pick up that phone. Besides, there are twenty buttons on there. And I don’t see any identification. You going to try them all and hope to get lucky?”

“Nope,” she said, striding to the phone. “Just one.” Vittoria picked up the phone and pressed the top button. “Number
one
. I bet you one of those Illuminati U.S. dollars you have in your pocket that this is the Pope’s office. What else would take primary importance for a Swiss Guard commander?”

Langdon did not have time to respond. The guard outside the door started rapping on the glass with the butt of his gun. He motioned for her to set down the phone.

Vittoria winked at him. The guard seemed to inflate with rage.

Langdon moved away from the door and turned back to Vittoria. “You damn well better be right, ‘cause this guy does not look amused!”

“Damn!” she said, listening to the receiver. “A recording.”

“Recording?” Langdon demanded. “The Pope has an answering machine?”

“It wasn’t the Pope’s office,” Vittoria said, hanging up. “It was the damn weekly menu for the Vatican commissary.”

Langdon offered a weak smile to the guard outside who was now glaring angrily though the glass while he hailed Olivetti on his walkie-talkie.

38

T he Vatican switchboard is located in the Ufficio di Communicazione behind the Vatican post office. It is a relatively small room containing an eight-line Corelco 141 switchboard. The office handles over 2,000 calls a day, most routed automatically to the recording information system. Tonight, the sole communications operator on duty sat quietly sipping a cup of caffeinated tea. He felt proud to be one of only a handful of employees still allowed inside Vatican City tonight. Of course the honor was tainted somewhat by the presence of the Swiss Guards hovering outside his door.
An escort to
the bathroom,
the operator thought.
Ah, the indignities we endure in the name of Holy Conclave
. Fortunately, the calls this evening had been light. Or maybe it was not so
fortunate,
he thought. World interest in Vatican events seemed to have dwindled in the last few years. The number of press calls had thinned, and even the crazies weren’t calling as often. The press office had hoped tonight’s event would have more of a festive buzz about it. Sadly, though, despite St. Peter’s Square being filled with press trucks, the vans looked to be mostly standard Italian and Euro press. Only a handful of global cover-all networks were there . . . no doubt having sent their
giornalisti secundari
. The operator gripped his mug and wondered how long tonight would last.
Midnight or so,
he guessed. Nowadays, most insiders already knew who was favored to become Pope well before conclave convened, so the process was more of a three-or four-hour ritual than an actual election. Of course, last-minute dissension in the ranks could prolong the ceremony through dawn . . . or beyond. The conclave of 1831

had lasted fifty-four days.
Not tonight,
he told himself; rumor was
this
conclave would be a “smokewatch.”

The operator’s thoughts evaporated with the buzz of an inside line on his switchboard. He looked at the blinking red light and scratched his head.
That’s odd,
he thought.
The zero-line
.
Who on the inside would
be calling operator information tonight? Who is even inside?

“Città del Vaticano, prego?”
he said, picking up the phone.

The voice on the line spoke in rapid Italian. The operator vaguely recognized the accent as that common to Swiss Guards—fluent Italian tainted by the Franco-Swiss influence. This caller, however, was most definitely not Swiss Guard.

On hearing the woman’s voice, the operator stood suddenly, almost spilling his tea. He shot a look back down at the line. He had not been mistaken.
An internal extension
. The call was from the inside.
There
must be some mistake!
he thought.
A woman inside Vatican City? Tonight?

The woman was speaking fast and furiously. The operator had spent enough years on the phones to know when he was dealing with a
pazzo
. This woman did not sound crazy. She was urgent but rational. Calm and efficient. He listened to her request, bewildered.

“Il camerlegno?”
the operator said, still trying to figure out where the hell the call was coming from. “I cannot possibly connect . . . yes, I am aware he is in the Pope’s office but . . . who are you again? . . . and you want to warn him of . . .” He listened, more and more unnerved.
Everyone is in danger? How? And
where are you calling from?
“Perhaps I should contact the Swiss . . .” The operator stopped short. “You say you’re
where? Where?”

He listened in shock, then made a decision. “Hold, please,” he said, putting the woman on hold before she could respond. Then he called Commander Olivetti’s direct line.
There is no way that woman is really
—

The line picked up instantly.

“Per l’amore di Dio!”
a familiar woman’s voice shouted at him. “Place the damn call!”

The door of the Swiss Guards’ security center hissed open. The guards parted as Commander Olivetti entered the room like a rocket. Turning the corner to his office, Olivetti confirmed what his guard on the walkie-talkie had just told him; Vittoria Vetra was standing at his desk talking on the commander’s private telephone.

Che coglioni che ha questa!
he thought.
The balls on this one!

Livid, he strode to the door and rammed the key into the lock. He pulled open the door and demanded,

“What are you doing!”

Vittoria ignored him. “Yes,” she was saying into the phone. “And I must warn—”

Olivetti ripped the receiver from her hand, and raised it to his ear. “Who the hell is this!”

For the tiniest of an instant, Olivetti’s inelastic posture slumped. “Yes, camerlegno . . .” he said. “Correct, signore . . . but questions of security demand . . . of course not . . . I am holding her here for . . . certainly, but . . .” He listened. “Yes, sir,” he said finally. “I will bring them up immediately.”

39

T he Apostolic Palace is a conglomeration of buildings located near the Sistine Chapel in the northeast corner of Vatican City. With a commanding view of St. Peter’s Square, the palace houses both the Papal Apartments and the Office of the Pope.

Vittoria and Langdon followed in silence as Commander Olivetti led them down a long rococo corridor, the muscles in his neck pulsing with rage. After climbing three sets of stairs, they entered a wide, dimly lit hallway.

Langdon could not believe the artwork on the walls—mint-condition busts, tapestries, friezes—works worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Two-thirds of the way down the hall they passed an alabaster fountain. Olivetti turned left into an alcove and strode to one of the largest doors Langdon had ever seen.

“Ufficio di Papa,”
the commander declared, giving Vittoria an acrimonious scowl. Vittoria didn’t flinch. She reached over Olivetti and knocked loudly on the door.

Office of the Pope,
Langdon thought, having difficulty fathoming that he was standing outside one of the most sacred rooms in all of world religion.

“Avanti!”
someone called from within.

When the door opened, Langdon had to shield his eyes. The sunlight was blinding. Slowly, the image before him came into focus.

The Office of the Pope seemed more of a ballroom than an office. Red marble floors sprawled out in all directions to walls adorned with vivid frescoes. A colossal chandelier hung overhead, beyond which a bank of arched windows offered a stunning panorama of the sun-drenched St. Peter’s Square.
My God,
Langdon thought.
This is a room with a view
.

At the far end of the hall, at a carved desk, a man sat writing furiously.
“Avanti,”
he called out again, setting down his pen and waving them over.

Olivetti led the way, his gait military.
“Signore,”
he said apologetically.
“No ho potuto—”

The man cut him off. He stood and studied his two visitors.

The camerlegno was nothing like the images of frail, beatific old men Langdon usually imagined roaming the Vatican. He wore no rosary beads or pendants. No heavy robes. He was dressed instead in a simple black cassock that seemed to amplify the solidity of his substantial frame. He looked to be in his latethirties, indeed a child by Vatican standards. He had a surprisingly handsome face, a swirl of coarse brown hair, and almost radiant green eyes that shone as if they were somehow fueled by the mysteries of the universe. As the man drew nearer, though, Langdon saw in his eyes a profound exhaustion—like a soul who had been through the toughest fifteen days of his life.

“I am Carlo Ventresca,” he said, his English perfect. “The late Pope’s camerlegno.” His voice was unpretentious and kind, with only the slightest hint of Italian inflection.

“Vittoria Vetra,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand. “Thank you for seeing us.”

Olivetti twitched as the camerlegno shook Vittoria’s hand.

“This is Robert Langdon,” Vittoria said. “A religious historian from Harvard University.”

“Padre,”
Langdon said, in his best Italian accent. He bowed his head as he extended his hand.

“No, no,” the camerlegno insisted, lifting Langdon back up. “His Holiness’s office does not make me holy. I am merely a priest—a chamberlain serving in a time of need.”

Langdon stood upright.

“Please,” the camerlegno said, “everyone sit.” He arranged some chairs around his desk. Langdon and Vittoria sat. Olivetti apparently preferred to stand.

The camerlegno seated himself at the desk, folded his hands, sighed, and eyed his visitors.

“Signore,” Olivetti said. “The woman’s attire is my fault. I—”

“Her attire is
not
what concerns me,” the camerlegno replied, sounding too exhausted to be bothered.

“When the Vatican operator calls me a half hour before I begin conclave to tell me a woman is calling from
your
private office to warn me of some sort of major security threat of which I have not been informed,
that
concerns me.”

Olivetti stood rigid, his back arched like a soldier under intense inspection. Langdon felt hypnotized by the camerlegno’s presence. Young and wearied as he was, the priest had the air of some mythical hero—radiating charisma and authority.

“Signore,” Olivetti said, his tone apologetic but still unyielding. “You should not concern yourself with matters of security. You have other responsibilities.”

“I am well aware of my other responsibilities. I am also aware that as
direttore intermediario,
I have a responsibility for the safety and well-being of everyone at this conclave. What is going on here?”

“I have the situation under control.”

“Apparently not.”

“Father,” Langdon interrupted, taking out the crumpled fax and handing it to the camerlegno, “please.”

Commander Olivetti stepped forward, trying to intervene. “Father, please do not trouble your thoughts with—”

The camerlegno took the fax, ignoring Olivetti for a long moment. He looked at the image of the murdered Leonardo Vetra and drew a startled breath. “What is this?”

“That is my father,” Vittoria said, her voice wavering. “He was a priest and a man of science. He was murdered last night.”

The camerlegno’s face softened instantly. He looked up at her. “My dear child. I’m so sorry.” He crossed himself and looked again at the fax, his eyes seeming to pool with waves of abhorrence. “Who would . . . and this burn on his . . .” The camerlegno paused, squinting closer at the image.

“It says
Illuminati,”
Langdon said. “No doubt you are familiar with the name.”

An odd look came across the camerlegno’s face. “I have heard the name, yes, but . . .”

“The Illuminati murdered Leonardo Vetra so they could steal a new technology he was—”

“Signore,” Olivetti interjected. “This is absurd. The Illuminati? This is clearly some sort of elaborate hoax.”

The camerlegno seemed to ponder Olivetti’s words. Then he turned and contemplated Langdon so fully that Langdon felt the air leave his lungs. “Mr. Langdon, I have spent my life in the Catholic Church. I am familiar with the Illuminati lore . . . and the legend of the brandings. And yet I must warn you, I am a man of the present tense. Christianity has enough real enemies without resurrecting ghosts.”

“The symbol is authentic,” Langdon said, a little too defensively he thought. He reached over and rotated the fax for the camerlegno.

The camerlegno fell silent when he saw the symmetry.

“Even modern computers,” Langdon added, “have been unable to forge a symmetrical ambigram of this word.”

The camerlegno folded his hands and said nothing for a long time. “The Illuminati are dead,” he finally said. “Long ago. That is historical fact.”

Langdon nodded. “Yesterday, I would have agreed with you.”

“Yesterday?”