Angels & Demons (42 page)

Langdon frowned. It was the second time today he had been handed the gun. He slid it into his breast pocket. As he did, he realized he was still carrying the folio from
Diagramma
. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten to leave it behind. He pictured the Vatican Curator collapsing in spasms of outrage at the thought of this priceless artifact being packed around Rome like some tourist map. Then Langdon thought of the mess of shattered glass and strewn documents that he’d left behind in the archives. The curator had other problems.
If the archives even survive the night
. . .

Olivetti got out of the car and motioned back up the alley. “The piazza is that way. Keep your eyes open and don’t let yourselves be seen.” He tapped the phone on his belt. “Ms. Vetra, let’s retest our auto dial.”

Vittoria removed her phone and hit the auto dial number she and Olivetti had programmed at the Pantheon. Olivetti’s phone vibrated in silent-ring mode on his belt.

The commander nodded. “Good. If you see anything, I want to know.” He cocked his weapon. “I’ll be inside waiting. This heathen is mine.”

At that moment, very nearby, another cellular phone was ringing.

The Hassassin answered. “Speak.”

“It is I,” the voice said. “Janus.”

The Hassassin smiled. “Hello, master.”

“Your position may be known. Someone is coming to stop you.”

“They are too late. I have already made the arrangements here.”

“Good. Make sure you escape alive. There is work yet to be done.”

“Those who stand in my way will die.”

“Those who stand in your way are knowledgeable.”

“You speak of an American scholar?”

“You are aware of him?”

The Hassassin chuckled. “Cool-tempered but naïve. He spoke to me on the phone earlier. He is with a female who seems quite the opposite.” The killer felt a stirring of arousal as he recalled the fiery temperament of Leonardo Vetra’s daughter.

There was a momentary silence on the line, the first hesitation the Hassassin had ever sensed from his Illuminati master. Finally, Janus spoke. “Eliminate them if need be.”

The killer smiled. “Consider it done.” He felt a warm anticipation spreading through his body.
Although
the woman I may keep as a prize
.

89

W ar had broken out in St. Peter’s Square.

The piazza had exploded into a frenzy of aggression. Media trucks skidded into place like assault vehicles claiming beachheads. Reporters unfurled high-tech electronics like soldiers arming for battle. All around the perimeter of the square, networks jockeyed for position as they raced to erect the newest weapon in media wars—flat-screen displays.

Flat-screen displays were enormous video screens that could be assembled on top of trucks or portable scaffolding. The screens served as a kind of billboard advertisement for the network, broadcasting that network’s coverage and corporate logo like a drive-in movie. If a screen were well-situated—in front of the action, for example—a competing network could not shoot the story without including an advertisement for their competitor.

The square was quickly becoming not only a multimedia extravaganza, but a frenzied public vigil. Onlookers poured in from all directions. Open space in the usually limitless square was fast becoming a valuable commodity. People clustered around the towering flat-screen displays, listening to live reports in stunned excitement.

Only a hundred yards away, inside the thick walls of St. Peter’s Basilica, the world was serene. Lieutenant Chartrand and three other guards moved through the darkness. Wearing their infrared goggles, they fanned out across the nave, swinging their detectors before them. The search of Vatican City’s public access areas so far had yielded nothing.

“Better remove your goggles up here,” the senior guard said.

Chartrand was already doing it. They were nearing the Niche of the Palliums—the sunken area in the center of the basilica. It was lit by ninety-nine oil lamps, and the amplified infrared would have seared their eyes.

Chartrand enjoyed being out of the heavy goggles, and he stretched his neck as they descended into the sunken niche to scan the area. The room was beautiful . . . golden and glowing. He had not been down here yet.

It seemed every day since Chartrand had arrived in Vatican City he had learned some new Vatican mystery. These oil lamps were one of them. There were exactly ninety-nine lamps burning at all times. It was tradition. The clergy vigilantly refilled the lamps with sacred oils such that no lamp ever burned out. It was said they would burn until the end of time.

Or at least until midnight
, Chartrand thought, feeling his mouth go dry again. Chartrand swung his detector over the oil lamps. Nothing hidden in here. He was not surprised; the canister, according to the video feed, was hidden in a
dark
area. As he moved across the niche, he came to a bulkhead grate covering a hole in the floor. The hole led to a steep and narrow stairway that went straight down. He had heard stories about what lay down there. Thankfully, they would not have to descend. Rocher’s orders were clear.
Search only the public access
areas; ignore the white zones
.

“What’s that smell?” he asked, turning away from the grate. The niche smelled intoxicatingly sweet.

“Fumes from the lamps,” one of them replied.

Chartrand was surprised. “Smells more like cologne than kerosene.”

“It’s not kerosene. These lamps are close to the papal altar, so they take a special, ambiental mixture—ethanol, sugar, butane, and perfume.”

“Butane?”
Chartrand eyed the lamps uneasily.

The guard nodded. “Don’t spill any. Smells like heaven, but burns like hell.”

The guards had completed searching the Niche of the Palliums and were moving across the basilica again when their walkie-talkies went off.

It was an update. The guards listened in shock.

Apparently there were troubling new developments, which could not be shared on-air, but the camerlegno had decided to break tradition and enter conclave to address the cardinals. Never before in history had this been done. Then again, Chartrand realized, never before in history had the Vatican been sitting on what amounted to some sort of neoteric nuclear warhead.

Chartrand felt comforted to know the camerlegno was taking control. The camerlegno was the person inside Vatican City for whom Chartrand held the most respect. Some of the guards thought of the camerlegno as a
beato
—a religious zealot whose love of God bordered on obsession—but even they agreed . . . when it came to fighting the enemies of God, the camerlegno was the one man who would stand up and play hardball.

The Swiss Guards had seen a lot of the camerlegno this week in preparation for conclave, and everyone had commented that the man seemed a bit rough around the edges, his verdant eyes a bit more intense than usual. Not surprisingly, they had all commented; not only was the camerlegno responsible for planning the sacred conclave, but he had to do it immediately on the heels of the loss of his mentor, the Pope.

Chartrand had only been at the Vatican a few months when he heard the story of the bomb that blew up the camerlegno’s mother before the kid’s very eyes.
A bomb in church . . . and now it’s happening all
over again
. Sadly, the authorities never caught the bastards who planted the bomb . . . probably some antiChristian hate group they said, and the case faded away. No wonder the camerlegno despised apathy. A couple months back, on a peaceful afternoon inside Vatican City, Chartrand had bumped into the camerlegno coming across the grounds. The camerlegno had apparently recognized Chartrand as a new guard and invited him to accompany him on a stroll. They had talked about nothing in particular, and the camerlegno made Chartrand feel immediately at home.

“Father,” Chartrand said, “may I ask you a strange question?”

The camerlegno smiled. “Only if I may give you a strange answer.”

Chartrand laughed. “I have asked every priest I know, and I still don’t understand.”

“What troubles you?” The camerlegno led the way in short, quick strides, his frock kicking out in front of him as he walked. His black, crepe-sole shoess seemed befitting, Chartrand thought, like reflections of the man’s essence . . . modern but humble, and showing signs of wear.

Chartrand took a deep breath. “I don’t understand this
omnipotent-benevolent
thing.”

The camerlegno smiled. “You’ve been reading Scripture.”

“I try.”

“You are confused because the Bible describes God as an omnipotent and benevolent deity.”

“Exactly.”

“Omnipotent-benevolent simply means that God is all-powerful
and
well-meaning.”

“I understand the concept. It’s just . . . there seems to be a contradiction.”

“Yes. The contradiction is pain. Man’s starvation, war, sickness . . .”

“Exactly!” Chartrand knew the camerlegno would understand. “Terrible things happen in this world. Human tragedy seems like proof that God could not possibly be
both
all-powerful and well-meaning. If He
loves
us and has the
power
to change our situation, He would prevent our pain, wouldn’t He?”

The camerlegno frowned. “Would He?”

Chartrand felt uneasy. Had he overstepped his bounds? Was this one of those religious questions you just didn’t ask? “Well . . . if God loves us, and He can protect us, He would
have
to. It seems He is either omnipotent and uncaring, or benevolent and powerless to help.”

“Do you have children, Lieutenant?”

Chartrand flushed. “No, signore.”

“Imagine you had an eight-year-old son . . . would you love him?”

“Of course.”

“Would you do everything in your power to prevent pain in his life?”

“Of course.”

“Would you let him skateboard?”

Chartrand did a double take. The camerlegno always seemed oddly “in touch” for a clergyman. “Yeah, I guess,” Chartrand said. “Sure, I’d let him skateboard, but I’d tell him to be careful.”

“So as this child’s father, you would give him some basic, good advice and then let him go off and make his own mistakes?”

“I wouldn’t run behind him and mollycoddle him if that’s what you mean.”

“But what if he fell and skinned his knee?”

“He would learn to be more careful.”

The camerlegno smiled. “So although you have the power to interfere and prevent your child’s pain, you would choose to show your love by letting him learn his own lessons?”

“Of course. Pain is part of growing up. It’s how we learn.”

The camerlegno nodded. “Exactly.”

90

L angdon and Vittoria observed Piazza Barberini from the shadows of a small alleyway on the western corner. The church was opposite them, a hazy cupola emerging from a faint cluster of buildings across the square. The night had brought with it a welcome cool, and Langdon was surprised to find the square deserted. Above them, through open windows, blaring televisions reminded Langdon where everyone had disappeared to.

“. . . no comment yet from the Vatican . . . Illuminati murders of two cardinals . . . satanic presence in Rome . . . speculation about further infiltration . . .”

The news had spread like Nero’s fire. Rome sat riveted, as did the rest of the world. Langdon wondered if they would really be able to stop this runaway train. As he scanned the piazza and waited, Langdon realized that despite the encroachment of modern buildings, the piazza still looked remarkably elliptical. High above, like some sort of modern shrine to a bygone hero, an enormous neon sign blinked on the roof of a luxurious hotel. Vittoria had already pointed it out to Langdon. The sign seemed eerily befitting.

“Five of ten,” Vittoria said, cat eyes darting around the square. No sooner had she spoken the words than she grabbed Langdon’s arm and pulled him back into the shadows. She motioned into the center of the square.

Langdon followed her gaze. When he saw it, he stiffened.

Crossing in front of them, beneath a street lamp, two dark figures appeared. Both were cloaked, their heads covered with dark
mantles
, the traditional black covering of Catholic widows. Langdon would have guessed they were women, but he couldn’t be sure in the dark. One looked elderly and moved as if in pain, hunched over. The other, larger and stronger, was helping.

“Give me the gun,” Vittoria said.

“You can’t just—”

Fluid as a cat, Vittoria was in and out of his pocket once again. The gun glinted in her hand. Then, in absolute silence, as if her feet never touched the cobblestone, she was circling left in the shadows, arching across the square to approach the couple from the rear. Langdon stood transfixed as Vittoria disappeared. Then, swearing to himself, he hurried after her.

The couple was moving slowly, and it was only a matter of half a minute before Langdon and Vittoria were positioned behind them, closing in from the rear. Vittoria concealed the gun beneath casually crossed arms in front of her, out of sight but accessible in a flash. She seemed to float faster and faster as the gap lessened, and Langdon battled to keep up. When his shoes scuffed a stone and sent it skittering, Vittoria shot him a sideways glare. But the couple did not seem to hear. They were talking. At thirty feet, Langdon could start to hear voices. No words. Just faint murmurings. Beside him, Vittoria moved faster with every step. Her arms loosened before her, the gun starting to peek out. Twenty feet. The voices were clearer—one much louder than the other. Angry. Ranting. Langdon sensed it was the voice of an old woman. Gruff. Androgynous. He strained to hear what she was saying, but another voice cut the night.

“Mi scusi!”
Vittoria’s friendly tone lit the square like a torch. Langdon tensed as the cloaked couple stopped short and began to turn. Vittoria kept striding toward them, even faster now, on a collision course. They would have no time to react. Langdon realized his own feet had stopped moving. From behind, he saw Vittoria’s arms loosening, her hand coming free, the gun swinging forward. Then, over her shoulder, he saw a face, lit now in the street lamp. The panic surged to his legs, and he lunged forward. “Vittoria, no!”