 spoke before he could stop himself. "Have you heard of the Illuminati?"
The commander's icy exterior cracked. His eyes went white, like a shark about to attack. "I am warning
you. I do not have time for this."
"So you have heard of the Illuminati?"
Olivetti's eyes stabbed like bayonets. "I am a sworn defendant of the Catholic Church. Of course I have
heard of the Illuminati. They have been dead for decades."
Langdon reached in his pocket and pulled out the fax image of Leonardo Vetra's branded body. He
handed it to Olivetti.
"I am an Illuminati scholar," Langdon said as Olivetti studied the picture. "I am having a difficult time
accepting that the Illuminati are still active, and yet the appearance of this brand combined with the fact
that the Illuminati have a well-known covenant against Vatican City has changed my mind."
"A computer-generated hoax." Olivetti handed the fax back to Langdon.
Langdon stared, incredulous. "Hoax? Look at the symmetry! You of all people should realize the
authenticity of-"
"Authenticity is precisely what you lack. Perhaps Ms. Vetra has not informed you, but CERN scientists
have been criticizing Vatican policies for decades. They regularly petition us for retraction of Creationist
theory, formal apologies for Galileo and Copernicus, repeal of our criticism against dangerous or immoral
research. What scenario seems more likely to you-that a four-hundred-year-old satanic cult has
resurfaced with an advanced weapon of mass destruction, or that some prankster at CERN is trying to
disrupt a sacred Vatican event with a well-executed fraud?"
"That photo," Vittoria said, her voice like boiling lava, "is of my father. Murdered. You think this is my
idea of a joke?"
"I don't know, Ms. Vetra. But I do know until I get some answers that make sense, there is no way I will
raise any sort of alarm. Vigilance and discretion are my duty . . . such that spiritual matters can take place
here with clarity of mind. Today of all days."
Langdon said, "At least postpone the event."
"Postpone?" Olivetti's jaw dropped. "Such arrogance! A conclave is not some American baseball game
you call on account of rain. This is a sacred event with a strict code and process. Never mind that 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. "ÉÉ 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.
"Idiòta!" 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
V ittoria 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."
"I mean the guard is locked out. This is Olivetti's private office. I doubt anyone else has a key."
Langdon looked out at the guard. "This is pretty thin glass, and that's a pretty big gun."
"What's he going to do, shoot me for using the phone?"
"Who the hell knows! This is a pretty strange place, and the way things are going-"
"Either that," Vittoria said, "or we can spend the next five hours and forty-eight minutes in Vatican
Prison. At least we'll have a front-row seat when the antimatter goes off."
Langdon paled. "But the guard will get Olivetti the second you pick up that phone. Besides, there are
twenty buttons on there. And I don't see any identification. You going to try them all and hope to get
lucky?"
"Nope," she said, striding to the phone. "Just one." Vittoria picked up the phone and pressed the top
button. "Number one. I bet you one of those Illuminati U.S. dollars you have in your pocket that th