Angels & Demons

one billion Catholics in the world are waiting for a leader. Never mind that the world media is outside. The protocols for this event are holy—not subject to modification. Since 1179, conclaves have survived earthquakes, famines, and even the plague. Believe me, it is not about to be canceled on account of a murdered scientist and a droplet of God knows what."

"Take me to the person in charge," Vittoria demanded.

Olivetti glared. "You’ve got him."

"No," she said. "Someone in the clergy."

The veins on Olivetti’s brow began to show. "The clergy has gone. With the exception of the Swiss Guard, the only ones present in Vatican City at this time are the College of Cardinals. And they are inside the Sistine Chapel."

"How about the chamberlain?" Langdon stated flatly.

"Who?"

"The late Pope’s chamberlain." Langdon repeated the word self- assuredly, praying his memory served him. He recalled reading once about the curious arrangement of Vatican authority following the death of a Pope. If Langdon was correct, during the interim between Popes, complete autonomous power shifted temporarily to the late Pope’s personal assistant—his chamberlain—a secretarial underling who oversaw conclave until the cardinals chose the new Holy Father. "I believe the chamberlain is the man in charge at the moment."

"Il camerlegno?" Olivetti scowled. "The camerlegno is only a priest here. He is not even canonized. He is the late Pope’s hand servant."

"But he is here. And you answer to him."

Olivetti crossed his arms. "Mr. Langdon, it is true that Vatican rule dictates the camerlegno assume chief executive office during conclave, but it is only because his lack of eligibility for the papacy ensures an unbiased election. It is as if your president died, and one of his aides temporarily sat in the oval office. The camerlegno is young, and his understanding of security, or anything else for that matter, is extremely limited. For all intents and purposes, I am in charge here."

"Take us to him," Vittoria said.

"Impossible. Conclave begins in forty minutes. The camerlegno is in the Office of the Pope preparing. I have no intention of disturbing him with matters of security."

Vittoria opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knocking at the door. Olivetti opened it.

A guard in full regalia stood outside, pointing to his watch. "Йй l’ora, comandante."

Olivetti checked his own watch and nodded. He turned back to Langdon and Vittoria like a judge pondering their fate. "Follow me." He led them out of the monitoring room across the security center to a small clear cubicle against the rear wall. "My office." Olivetti ushered them inside. The room was unspecial —a cluttered desk, file cabinets, folding chairs, a water cooler. "I will be back in ten minutes. I suggest you use the time to decide how you would like to proceed."

Vittoria wheeled. "You can’t just leave! That canister is—"

"I do not have time for this," Olivetti seethed. "Perhaps I should detain you until after the conclave when I do have time."

"Signore," the guard urged, pointing to his watch again. "Spazzare di capella."

Olivetti nodded and started to leave.

"Spazzare di capella?" Vittoria demanded. "You’re leaving to sweep the chapel?"

Olivetti turned, his eyes boring through her. "We sweep for electronic bugs, Miss Vetra—a matter of discretion." He motioned to her legs. "Not something I would expect you to understand."

With that he slammed the door, rattling the heavy glass. In one fluid motion he produced a key, inserted it, and twisted. A heavy deadbolt slid into place.

"Idiтta!" Vittoria yelled. "You can’t keep us in here!"

Through the glass, Langdon could see Olivetti say something to the guard. The sentinel nodded. As Olivetti strode out of the room, the guard spun and faced them on the other side of the glass, arms crossed, a large sidearm visible on his hip.

Perfect, Langdon thought. Just bloody perfect.

37

Vittoria glared at the Swiss Guard standing outside Olivetti’s locked door. The sentinel glared back, his colorful costume belying his decidedly ominous air.

"Che fiasco," Vittoria thought. Held hostage by an armed man in pajamas.

Langdon had fallen silent, and Vittoria hoped he was using that Harvard brain of his to think them out of this. She sensed, however, from the look on his face, that he was more in shock than in thought. She regretted getting him so involved.

Vittoria’s first instinct was to pull out her cell phone and call Kohler, but she knew it was foolish. First, the guard would probably walk in and take her phone. Second, if Kohler’s episode ran its usual course, he was probably still incapacitated. Not that it mattered… Olivetti seemed unlikely to take anybody’s word on anything at the moment.

Remember! she told herself. Remember the solution to this test!

Remembrance was a Buddhist philosopher’s trick. Rather than asking her mind to search for a solution to a potentially impossible challenge, Vittoria asked her mind simply to remember it. The presupposition that one once knew the answer created the mindset that the answer must exist… thus eliminating the crippling conception of hopelessness. Vittoria often used the process to solve scientific quandaries… those that most people thought had no solution.

At the moment, however, her remembrance trick was drawing a major blank. So she measured her options… her needs. She needed to warn someone. Someone at the Vatican needed to take her seriously. But who? The camerlegno? How? She was in a glass box with one exit.

Tools, she told herself. There are always tools. Reevaluate your environment.

Instinctively she lowered her shoulders, relaxed her eyes, and took three deep breaths into her lungs. She sensed her heart rate slow and her muscles soften. The chaotic panic in her mind dissolved. Okay, she thought, let your mind be free. What makes this situation positive? What are my assets?

The analytical mind of Vittoria Vetra, once calmed, was a powerful force. Within seconds she realized their incarceration was actually their key to escape.

"I’m making a phone call," she said suddenly.

Langdon looked up. "I was about to suggest you call Kohler, but—"

"Not Kohler. Someone else."

"Who?"

"The camerlegno."

Langdon looked totally lost. "You’re calling the chamberlain? How?"

"Olivetti said the camerlegno was in the Pope’s office."

"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."