Angels & Demons (45 page)

“And all the while, you proclaim the church is ignorant. But who is more ignorant? The man who cannot define lightning, or the man who does not respect its awesome power? This church is reaching out to you. Reaching out to everyone. And yet the more we reach, the more you push us away. Show me
proof
there is a God, you say. I say use your telescopes to look to the heavens, and tell me how there could
not
be a God!” The camerlegno had tears in his eyes now. “You ask what does God look like. I say, where did that question come from? The answers are one and the same. Do you not see God in your science? How can you miss Him! You proclaim that even the slightest change in the force of gravity or the weight of an atom would have rendered our universe a lifeless mist rather than our magnificent sea of heavenly bodies, and yet you fail to see God’s hand in
this?
Is it really so much easier to believe that we simply chose the right card from a deck of billions? Have we become so spiritually bankrupt that we would rather believe in mathematical impossibility than in a power greater than us?

“Whether or not you believe in God,” the camerlegno said, his voice deepening with deliberation, “you must believe this. When we as a species abandon our trust in the power greater than us, we abandon our sense of accountability. Faith . . .
all
faiths . . . are admonitions that there is something we cannot understand, something to which we are accountable . . . With faith we are accountable to each other, to ourselves, and to a higher truth. Religion is flawed, but only because
man
is flawed. If the outside world could see this church as I do . . . looking beyond the ritual of these walls . . . they would see a modern miracle . . . a brotherhood of imperfect, simple souls wanting only to be a voice of compassion in a world spinning out of control.”

The camerlegno motioned out over the College of Cardinals, and the BBC camerawoman instinctively followed, panning the crowd.

“Are we obsolete?” the camerlegno asked. “Are these men dino-saurs? Am I? Does the world really need a voice for the poor, the weak, the oppressed, the unborn child? Do we really need souls like these who, though imperfect, spend their lives imploring each of us to read the signposts of morality and not lose our way?”

Mortati now realized that the camerlegno, whether consciously or not, was making a brilliant move. By showing the cardinals, he was personalizing the church. Vatican City was no longer a building, it was
people
—people like the camerlegno who had spent their lives in the service of goodness.

“Tonight we are perched on a precipice,” the camerlegno said. “None of us can afford to be apathetic. Whether you see this evil as Satan, corruption, or immorality . . . the dark force is alive and growing every day. Do not ignore it.” The camerlegno lowered his voice to a whisper, and the camera moved in. “The force, though mighty, is not invincible. Goodness can prevail. Listen to your hearts. Listen to God. Together we can step back from this abyss.”

Now Mortati understood. This was the reason. Conclave had been violated, but this was the only way. It was a dramatic and desperate plea for help. The camerlegno was speaking to both his enemy and his friends now. He was entreating anyone, friend or foe, to see the light and stop this madness. Certainly someone listening would realize the insanity of this plot and come forward. The camerlegno knelt at the altar. “Pray with me.”

The College of Cardinals dropped to their knees to join him in prayer. Outside in St. Peter’s Square and around the globe . . . a stunned world knelt with them.

95

T he Hassassin lay his unconscious trophy in the rear of the van and took a moment to admire her sprawled body. She was not as beautiful as the women he bought, and yet she had an animal strength that excited him. Her body was radiant, dewy with perspiration. She smelled of musk. As the Hassasin stood there savoring his prize, he ignored the throb in his arm. The bruise from the falling sarcophagus, although painful, was insignificant . . . well worth the compensation that lay before him. He took consolation in knowing the American who had done this to him was probably dead by now. Gazing down at his incapacitated prisoner, the Hassassin visualized what lay ahead. He ran a palm up beneath her shirt. Her breasts felt perfect beneath her bra.
Yes
, he smiled.
You are more than worthy
. Fighting the urge to take her right there, he closed the door and drove off into the night. There was no need to alert the press about
this
killing . . . the flames would do that for him. At CERN, Sylvie sat stunned by the camerlegno’s address. Never before had she felt so proud to be a Catholic and so ashamed to work at CERN. As she left the recreational wing, the mood in every single viewing room was dazed and somber. When she got back to Kohler’s office, all seven phone lines were ringing. Media inquiries were never routed to Kohler’s office, so the incoming calls could only be one thing.

Geld
. Money calls.

Antimatter technology already had some takers.

Inside the Vatican, Gunther Glick was walking on air as he followed the camerlegno from the Sistine Chapel. Glick and Macri had just made
the
live transmission of the decade. And what a transmission it had been. The camerlegno had been spellbinding.

Now out in the hallway, the camerlegno turned to Glick and Macri. “I have asked the Swiss Guard to assemble photos for you—photos of the branded cardinals as well as one of His late Holiness. I must warn you, these are not pleasant pictures. Ghastly burns. Blackened tongues. But I would like you to broadcast them to the world.”

Glick decided it must be perpetual Christmas inside Vatican City.
He wants me to broadcast an exclusive
photo of the dead Pope?
“Are you sure?” Glick asked, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. The camerlegno nodded. “The Swiss Guard will also provide you a live video feed of the antimatter canister as it counts down.”

Glick stared.
Christmas. Christmas. Christmas!

“The Illuminati are about to find out,” the camerlegno declared, “that they have grossly overplayed their hand.”

96

L ike a recurring theme in some demonic symphony, the suffocating darkness had returned.
No light. No air. No exit.

Langdon lay trapped beneath the overturned sarcophagus and felt his mind careening dangerously close to the brink. Trying to drive his thoughts in any direction other than the crushing space around him, Langdon urged his mind toward some logical process . . . mathematics, music, anything. But there was no room for calming thoughts.
I can’t move! I can’t breathe!

The pinched sleeve of his jacket had thankfully come free when the casket fell, leaving Langdon now with two mobile arms. Even so, as he pressed upward on the ceiling of his tiny cell, he found it immovable. Oddly, he wished his sleeve were still caught.
At least it might create a crack for some air.
As Langdon pushed against the roof above, his sleeve fell back to reveal the faint glow of an old friend. Mickey. The greenish cartoon face seemed mocking now.

Langdon probed the blackness for any other sign of light, but the casket rim was flush against the floor. Goddamn Italian perfectionists, he cursed, now imperiled by the same artistic excellence he taught his students to revere . . . impeccable edges, faultless parallels, and of course, use only of the most seamless and resilient
Carrara
marble.

Precision can be suffocating.

“Lift the damn thing,” he said aloud, pressing harder through the tangle of bones. The box shifted slightly. Setting his jaw, he heaved again. The box felt like a boulder, but this time it raised a quarter of an inch. A fleeting glimmer of light surrounded him, and then the casket thudded back down. Langdon lay panting in the dark. He tried to use his legs to lift as he had before, but now that the sarcophagus had fallen flat, there was no room even to straighten his knees.

As the claustrophobic panic closed in, Langdon was overcome by images of the sarcophagus shrinking around him. Squeezed by delirium, he fought the illusion with every logical shred of intellect he had.

“Sarcophagus,” he stated aloud, with as much academic sterility as he could muster. But even erudition seemed to be his enemy today.
Sarcophagus is from the Greek “sarx”meaning “flesh,” and “phagein”

meaning “to eat.” I’m trapped in a box literally designed to “eat flesh.”

Images of flesh eaten from bone only served as a grim reminder that Langdon lay covered in human remains. The notion brought nausea and chills. But it also brought an idea. Fumbling blindly around the coffin, Langdon found a shard of bone. A rib maybe? He didn’t care. All he wanted was a wedge. If he could lift the box, even a crack, and slide the bone fragment beneath the rim, then maybe enough air could . . .

Reaching across his body and wedging the tapered end of the bone into the crack between the floor and the coffin, Langdon reached up with his other hand and heaved skyward. The box did not move. Not even slightly. He tried again. For a moment, it seemed to tremble slightly, but that was all. With the fetid stench and lack of oxygen choking the strength from his body, Langdon realized he only had time for one more effort. He also knew he would need both arms.

Regrouping, he placed the tapered edge of the bone against the crack, and shifting his body, he wedged the bone against his shoulder, pinning it in place. Careful not to dislodge it, he raised both hands above him. As the stifling confine began to smother him, he felt a welling of intensified panic. It was the second time today he had been trapped with no air. Hollering aloud, Langdon thrust upward in one explosive motion. The casket jostled off the floor for an instant. But long enough. The bone shard he had braced against his shoulder slipped outward into the widening crack. When the casket fell again, the bone shattered. But this time Langdon could see the casket was propped up. A tiny slit of light showed beneath the rim.

Exhausted, Langdon collapsed. Hoping the strangling sensation in his throat would pass, he waited. But it only worsened as the seconds passed. Whatever air was coming through the slit seemed imperceptible. Langdon wondered if it would be enough to keep him alive. And if so, for how long? If he passed out, who would know he was even in there?

With arms like lead, Langdon raised his watch again: 10:12 P.M. Fighting trembling fingers, he fumbled with the watch and made his final play. He twisted one of the tiny dials and pressed a button. As consciousness faded, and the walls squeezed closer, Langdon felt the old fears sweep over him. He tried to imagine, as he had so many times, that he was in an open field. The image he conjured, however, was no help. The nightmare that had haunted him since his youth came crashing back . . . The flowers here are like paintings,
the child thought, laughing as he ran across the meadow. He wished
his parents had come along. But his parents were busy pitching camp.

“Don’t explore too far,” his mother had said.

He had pretended not to hear as he bounded off into the woods.

Now, traversing this glorious field, the boy came across a pile of fieldstones. He figured it must be the
foundation of an old homestead. He would not go near it. He knew better. Besides, his eyes had been
drawn to something else—a brilliant lady’s slipper—the rarest and most beautiful flower in New
Hampshire. He had only ever seen them in books.

Excited, the boy moved toward the flower. He knelt down. The ground beneath him felt mulchy and
hollow. He realized his flower had found an extra-fertile spot. It was growing from a patch of rotting
wood.

Thrilled by the thought of taking home his prize, the boy reached out . . . fingers extending toward the
stem.

He never reached it.

With a sickening crack, the earth gave way.

In the three seconds of dizzying terror as he fell, the boy knew he would die. Plummeting downward, he
braced for the bone-crushing collision. When it came, there was no pain. Only softness.
And cold.

He hit the deep liquid face first, plunging into a narrow blackness. Spinning disoriented somersaults, he
groped the sheer walls that
enclosed him on all sides. Somehow, as if by instinct, he sputtered to the
surface.

Light.

Faint. Above him. Miles above him, it seemed.

His arms clawed at the water, searching the walls of the hollow for something to grab onto. Only smooth
stone. He had fallen through an abandoned well covering. He screamed for help, but his cries
reverberated in the tight shaft. He called out again and again. Above him, the tattered hole grew dim.
Night fell
.

Time seemed to contort in the darkness. Numbness set in as he treaded water in the depths of the chasm,
calling, crying out. He was tormented by visions of the walls collapsing in, burying him alive. His arms
ached with fatigue. A few times he thought he heard voices. He shouted out, but his own voice was muted .

. . like a dream.

As the night wore on, the shaft deepened. The walls inched quietly inward. The boy pressed out against
the enclosure, pushing it away. Exhausted, he wanted to give up. And yet he felt the water buoy him,
cooling his burning fears until he was numb.

When the rescue team arrived, they found the boy barely conscious. He had been treading water for five
hours. Two days later, the Boston Globe ran a front-page story called “The Little Swimmer That Could.”

97

T he Hassassin smiled as he pulled his van into the mammoth stone structure overlooking the Tiber River. He carried his prize up and up . . . spiraling higher in the stone tunnel, grateful his load was slender.

He arrived at the door.

The Church of Illumination, he gloated. The ancient Illuminati meeting room. Who would have imagined
it to be here?