on's ears before dropping like a brick to the pit of his stomach. Il
Conclavo. The Vatican Conclave. How could he have forgotten? It had been in the news recently.
Fifteen days ago, the Pope, after a tremendously popular twelve-year reign, had passed away. Every paper
in the world had carried the story about the Pope's fatal stroke while sleeping-a sudden and unexpected
death many whispered was suspicious. But now, in keeping with the sacred tradition, fifteen days after the
death of a Pope, the Vatican was holding Il Conclavo-the sacred ceremony in which the 165 cardinals of
the world-the most powerful men in Christendom-gathered in Vatican City to elect the new Pope.
Every cardinal on the planet is here today, Langdon thought as the chopper passed over St. Peter's
Basilica. The expansive inner world of Vatican City spread out beneath him. The entire power structure
of the Roman Catholic Church is sitting on a time bomb.
34
C ardinal Mortati gazed up at the lavish ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and tried to find a moment of
quiet reflection. The frescoed walls echoed with the voices of cardinals from nations around the globe.
The men jostled in the candlelit tabernacle, whispering excitedly and consulting with one another in
numerous languages, the universal tongues being English, Italian, and Spanish.
The light in the chapel was usually sublime-long rays of tinted sun slicing through the darkness like rays
from heaven-but not today. As was the custom, all of the chapel's windows had been covered in black
velvet in the name of secrecy. This ensured that no one on the inside could send signals or communicate
in any way with the outside world. The result was a profound darkness lit only by candles . . . a
shimmering radiance that seemed to purify everyone it touched, making them all ghostly . . . like saints.
What privilege, Mortati thought, that I am to oversee this sanctified event. Cardinals over eighty years of
age were too old to be eligible for election and did not attend conclave, but at seventy-nine years old,
Mortati was the most senior cardinal here and had been appointed to oversee the proceedings.
Following tradition, the cardinals gathered here two hours before conclave to catch up with friends and
engage in last-minute discussion. At 7 P.M., the late Pope's chamberlain would arrive, give opening
prayer, and then leave. Then the Swiss Guard would seal the doors and lock all the cardinals inside. It was
then that the oldest and most secretive political ritual in the world would begin. The cardinals would not
be released until they decided who among them would be the next Pope.
Conclave. Even the name was secretive. "Con clave" literally meant "locked with a key." The cardinals
were permitted no contact whatsoever with the outside world. No phone calls. No messages. No whispers
through doorways. Conclave was a vacuum, not to be influenced by anything in the outside world. This
would ensure that the cardinals kept Solum Dum prae oculis . . . only God before their eyes.
Outside the walls of the chapel, of course, the media watched and waited, speculating as to which of the
cardinals would become the ruler of one billion Catholics worldwide. Conclaves created an intense,
politically charged atmosphere, and over the centuries they had turned deadly; poisonings, fist fights, and
even murder had erupted within the sacred walls. Ancient history, Mortati thought. Tonight's conclave
will be unified, blissful, and above all . . . brief.
Or at least that had been his speculation.
Now, however, an unexpected development had emerged. Mystifyingly, four cardinals were absent from
the chapel. Mortati knew that all the exits to Vatican City were guarded, and the missing cardinals could
not have gone far, but still, with less than an hour before opening prayer, he was feeling disconcerted.
After all, the four missing men were no ordinary cardinals. They were the cardinals.
The chosen four.
As overseer of the conclave, Mortati had already sent word through the proper channels to the Swiss
Guard alerting them to the cardinals' absence. He had yet to hear back. Other cardinals had now noticed
the puzzling absence. The anxious whispers had begun. Of all cardinals, these four should be on time!
Cardinal Mortati was starting to fear it might be a long evening after all.
He had no idea.
35
T he Vatican's helipad, for reasons of safety and noise control, is located in the northwest tip of Vatican
City, as far from St. Peter's Basilica as possible.
"Terra firma," the pilot announced as they touched down. He exited and opened the sliding door for
Langdon and Vittoria.
Langdon descended from the craft and turned to help Vittoria, but she had already dropped effortlessly to
the ground. Every muscle in her body seemed tuned to one objective-finding the antimatter before it left
a horrific legacy.
After stretching a reflective sun tarp across the cockpit window, the pilot ushered them to an oversized
electric golf cart waiting near the helipad. The cart whisked them silently alongside the country's western
border-a fifty-foot-tall cement bulwark thick enough to ward off attacks even by tanks. Lining the
interior of the wall, posted at fifty-meter intervals, Swiss Guards stood at attention, surveying the interior
of the grounds. The cart turned sharply right onto Via della Osservatorio. Signs pointed in all directions:
PALAZZIO GOVERNATORIO
COLLEGIO ETHIOPIANA
BASILICA SAN PIETRO
CAPELLA SISTINA
They accelerated up the manicured road past a squat building marked RADIO VATICANA. This, Langdon
realized to his amazement, was the hub of the world's most listened-to radio programming-Radio
Vaticana-spreading the word of God to millions of listeners around the globe.
"Attenzione," the pilot said, turning sharply into a rotary.
As the cart wound round, Langdon could barely believe the sight now coming into view. Giardini
Vaticani, he thought. The heart of Vatican City. Directly ahead rose the rear of St. Peter's Basilica, a
view, Langdon realized, most people never saw. To the right loomed the Palace of the Tribunal, the lush
papal residence rivaled only by Versailles in its baroque embellishment. The severe-looking
Governatorato building was now behind them, housing Vatican City's administration. And up ahead on
the left, the massive rectangular edifice of the Vatican Museum. Langdon knew there would be no time
for a museum visit this trip.
"Where is everyone?" Vittoria asked, surveying the deserted lawns and walkways.
The guard checked his black, military-style chronograph-an odd anachronism beneath his puffy sleeve.
"The cardinals are convened in the Sistine Chapel. Conclave begins in a little under an hour."
Langdon nodded, vaguely recalling that before conclave the cardinals spent two hours inside the Sistine
Chapel in quiet reflection and visitations with their fellow cardinals from around the globe. The time was
meant to renew old friendships among the cardinals and facilitate a less heated election process. "And the
rest of the residents and staff?"
"Banned from the city for secrecy and security until the conclave concludes."
"And when does it conclude?"
The guard shrugged. "God only knows." The words sounded oddly literal.
After parking the cart on the wide lawn directly behind St. Peter's Basilica, the guard escorted Langdon
and Vittoria up a stone escarpment to a marble plaza off the back of the basilica. Crossing the plaza, they
approached the rear wall of the basilica and followed it through a triangular courtyard, across Via
Belvedere, and into a series of buildings closely huddled together. Langdon's art history had taught him
enough Italian to pick out signs for the Vatican Printing Office, the Tapestry Restoration Lab, Post Office
Management, and the Church of St. Ann. They crossed another small square and arrived at their
destination.
The Office of the Swiss Guard is housed adjacent to Il Corpo di Vigilanza, directly northeast of St. Peter's
Basilica. The office is a squat, stone building. On either side of the entrance, like two stone statues, stood
a pair of guards.
Langdon had to admit, these guards did not look quite so comical. Although they also wore the blue and
gold uniform, each wielded the traditional "Vatican long sword"-an eight-foot spear with a razor-sharp
scythe-rumored to have decapitated countless Muslims while defending the Christian crusaders in the
fifteenth century.
As Langdon and Vittoria approached, the two guards stepped forward, crossing their long swords,
blocking the entrance. One looked up at the pilot in confusion. "I pantaloni," he said, motioning to
Vittoria's shorts.
The pilot waved them off. "Il comandante vuole vederli subito."
The guards frowned. Reluctantly they stepped aside.
Inside, the air was cool. It looked nothing like the administrative security offices Langdon would have
imagined. Ornate and impeccably furnished, the hallways contained paintings Langdon was certain any
museum worldwide would gladly have featured in its main gallery.
The pilot pointed down a steep set of stairs. "Down, please."
Langdon and Vittoria followed the white marble treads as they descended between a gauntlet of nude
male sculptures. Each statue wore a fig leaf that was lighter in color than the rest of the body.
The Great Castration, Langdon thought.
It was one of the most horrific tragedies in Renaissance art. In 1857, Pope Pius IX decided that the
accurate representation of the male form might incite lust inside the Vatican. So he got a chisel and mallet
and hacked off the genitalia of every single male statue inside Vatican City. He defaced works by
Michelangelo, Bramante, and Bernini. Plaster fig leaves were used to patch the damage. Hundreds of
sculptures had been emasculated. Langdon had often wondered if there was a huge crate of stone penises
someplace.
"Here," the guard announce