Angels & Demons

The editor took out a pen and a standard Lead Sheet. "Regarding?"

"The papal election."

She frowned wearily. The BBC had run a preliminary story yesterday to mediocre response. The public, it seemed, had little interest in Vatican City. "What’s the angle?"

"Do you have a TV reporter in Rome covering the election?"

"I believe so."

"I need to speak to him directly."

"I’m sorry, but I cannot give you that number without some idea—"

"There is a threat to the conclave. That is all I can tell you."

The editor took notes. "Your name?"

"My name is immaterial."

The editor was not surprised. "And you have proof of this claim?"

"I do."

"I would be happy to take the information, but it is not our policy to give out our reporters’ numbers unless—"

"I understand. I will call another network. Thank you for your time. Good-b—"

"Just a moment," she said. "Can you hold?"

The editor put the caller on hold and stretched her neck. The art of screening out potential crank calls was by no means a perfect science, but this caller had just passed the BBC’s two tacit tests for authenticity of a phone source. He had refused to give his name, and he was eager to get off the phone. Hacks and glory hounds usually whined and pleaded.

Fortunately for her, reporters lived in eternal fear of missing the big story, so they seldom chastised her for passing along the occasional delusional psychotic. Wasting five minutes of a reporter’s time was forgivable. Missing a headline was not.

Yawning, she looked at her computer and typed in the keywords "Vatican City." When she saw the name of the field reporter covering the papal election, she chuckled to herself. He was a new guy the BBC had just brought up from some trashy London tabloid to handle some of the BBC’s more mundane coverage. Editorial had obviously started him at the bottom rung.

He was probably bored out of his mind, waiting all night to record his live ten-second video spot. He would most likely be grateful for a break in the monotony.

The BBC content editor copied down the reporter’s satellite extension in Vatican City. Then, lighting another cigarette, she gave the anonymous caller the reporter’s number.

45

"It won’t work," Vittoria said, pacing the Pope’s office. She looked up at the camerlegno. "Even if a Swiss Guard team can filter electronic interference, they will have to be practically on top of the canister before they detect any signal. And that’s if the canister is even accessible… unenclosed by other barriers. What if it’s buried in a metal box somewhere on your grounds? Or up in a metal ventilating duct. There’s no way they’ll trace it. And what if the Swiss Guards have been infiltrated? Who’s to say the search will be clean?"

The camerlegno looked drained. "What are you proposing, Ms. Vetra?"

Vittoria felt flustered. Isn’t it obvious? "I am proposing, sir, that you take other precautions immediately. We can hope against all hope that the commander’s search is successful. At the same time, look out the window. Do you see those people? Those buildings across the piazza? Those media vans? The tourists? They are quite possibly within range of the blast. You need to act now."

The camerlegno nodded vacantly.

Vittoria felt frustrated. Olivetti had convinced everyone there was plenty of time. But Vittoria knew if news of the Vatican predicament leaked out, the entire area could fill with onlookers in a matter of minutes. She had seen it once outside the Swiss Parliament building. During a hostage situation involving a bomb, thousands had congregated outside the building to witness the outcome. Despite police warnings that they were in danger, the crowd packed in closer and closer. Nothing captured human interest like human tragedy.

"Signore," Vittoria urged, "the man who killed my father is out there somewhere. Every cell in this body wants to run from here and hunt him down. But I am standing in your office… because I have a responsibility to you. To you and others. Lives are in danger, signore. Do you hear me?"

The camerlegno did not answer.

Vittoria could hear her own heart racing. Why couldn’t the Swiss Guard trace that damn caller? The Illuminati assassin is the key! He knows where the antimatter is… hell, he knows where the cardinals are! Catch the killer, and everything is solved.

Vittoria sensed she was starting to come unhinged, an alien distress she recalled only faintly from childhood, the orphanage years, frustration with no tools to handle it. You have tools, she told herself, you always have tools. But it was no use. Her thoughts intruded, strangling her. She was a researcher and problem solver. But this was a problem with no solution. What data do you require? What do you want? She told herself to breathe deeply, but for the first time in her life, she could not. She was suffocating.

Langdon’s head ached, and he felt like he was skirting the edges of rationality. He watched Vittoria and the camerlegno, but his vision was blurred by hideous images: explosions, press swarming, cameras rolling, four branded humans.

Shaitan… Lucifer… Bringer of light… Satan…

He shook the fiendish images from his mind. Calculated terrorism, he reminded himself, grasping at reality. Planned chaos. He thought back to a Radcliffe seminar he had once audited while researching praetorian symbolism. He had never seen terrorists the same way since.

"Terrorism," the professor had lectured, "has a singular goal. What is it?"

"Killing innocent people?" a student ventured.

"Incorrect. Death is only a byproduct of terrorism."

"A show of strength?"

"No. A weaker persuasion does not exist."

"To cause terror?"

"Concisely put. Quite simply, the goal of terrorism is to create terror and fear. Fear undermines faith in the establishment. It weakens the enemy from within… causing unrest in the masses. Write this down. Terrorism is not an expression of rage. Terrorism is a political weapon. Remove a government’s faзade of infallibility, and you remove its people’s faith."

Loss of faith…

Is that what this was all about? Langdon wondered how Christians of the world would react to cardinals being laid out like mutilated dogs. If the faith of a canonized priest did not protect him from the evils of Satan, what hope was there for the rest of us? Langdon’s head was pounding louder now… tiny voices playing tug of war.

Faith does not protect you. Medicine and airbags… those are things that protect you. God does not protect you. Intelligence protects you. Enlightenment. Put your faith in something with tangible results. How long has it been since someone walked on water? Modern miracles belong to science… computers, vaccines, space stations… even the divine miracle of creation. Matter from nothing… in a lab. Who needs God? No! Science is God.

The killer’s voice resonated in Langdon’s mind. Midnight… mathematical progression of death… sacrifici vergini nell’ altare di scienza."

Then suddenly, like a crowd dispersed by a single gunshot, the voices were gone.

Robert Langdon bolted to his feet. His chair fell backward and crashed on the marble floor.

Vittoria and the camerlegno jumped.

"I missed it," Langdon whispered, spellbound. "It was right in front of me…"