he Catholic Church will continue with or without Vatican City."
"A noble lie. But a lie all the same. We both know the truth. Tell me, why is Vatican City a walled
citadel?"
"Men of God live in a dangerous world," the camerlegno said.
"How young are you? The Vatican is a fortress because the Catholic Church holds half of its equity inside
its walls-rare paintings, sculpture, devalued jewels, priceless books . . . then there is the gold bullion and
the real estate deeds inside the Vatican Bank vaults. Inside estimates put the raw value of Vatican City at
48.5 billion dollars. Quite a nest egg you're sitting on. Tomorrow it will be ash. Liquidated assets as it
were. You will be bankrupt. Not even men of cloth can work for nothing."
The accuracy of the statement seemed to be reflected in Olivetti's and the camerlegno's shell-shocked
looks. Langdon wasn't sure what was more amazing, that the Catholic Church had that kind of money, or
that the Illuminati somehow knew about it.
The camerlegno sighed heavily. "Faith, not money, is the backbone of this church."
"More lies," the caller said. "Last year you spent 183 million dollars trying to support your struggling
dioceses worldwide. Church attendance is at an all-time low-down forty-six percent in the last decade.
Donations are half what they were only seven years ago. Fewer and fewer men are entering the seminary.
Although you will not admit it, your church is dying. Consider this a chance to go out with a bang."
Olivetti stepped forward. He seemed less combative now, as if he now sensed the reality facing him. He
looked like a man searching for an out. Any out. "And what if some of that bullion went to fund your
cause?"
"Do not insult us both."
"We have money."
"As do we. More than you can fathom."
Langdon flashed on the alleged Illuminati fortunes, the ancient wealth of the Bavarian stone masons, the
Rothschilds, the Bilderbergers, the legendary Illuminati Diamond.
"I preferiti," the camerlegno said, changing the subject. His voice was pleading. "Spare them. They are
old. They-"
"They are virgin sacrifices." The caller laughed. "Tell me, do you think they are really virgins? Will the
little lambs squeal when they die? Sacrifici vergini nell' altare di scienza."
The camerlegno was silent for a long time. "They are men of faith," he finally said. "They do not fear
death."
The caller sneered. "Leonardo Vetra was a man of faith, and yet I saw fear in his eyes last night. A fear I
removed."
Vittoria, who had been silent, was suddenly airborne, her body taut with hatred. "Asino! He was my
father!"
A cackle echoed from the speaker. "Your father? What is this? Vetra has a daughter? You should know
your father whimpered like a child at the end. Pitiful really. A pathetic man."
Vittoria reeled as if knocked backward by the words. Langdon reached for her, but she regained her
balance and fixed her dark eyes on the phone. "I swear on my life, before this night is over, I will find
you." Her voice sharpened like a laser. "And when I do . . ."
The caller laughed coarsely. "A woman of spirit. I am aroused. Perhaps before this night is over, I will
find you. And when I do . . ."
The words hung like a blade. Then he was gone.
42
C ardinal Mortati was sweating now in his black robe. Not only was the Sistine Chapel starting to feel
like a sauna, but conclave was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes, and there was still no word on the
four missing cardinals. In their absence, the initial whispers of confusion among the other cardinals had
turned to outspoken anxiety.
Mortati could not imagine where the truant men could be. With the camerlegno perhaps? He knew the
camerlegno had held the traditional private tea for the four preferiti earlier that afternoon, but that had
been hours ago. Were they ill? Something they ate? Mortati doubted it. Even on the verge of death the
preferiti would be here. It was once in a lifetime, usually never, that a cardinal had the chance to be
elected Supreme Pontiff, and by Vatican Law the cardinal had to be inside the Sistine Chapel when the
vote took place. Otherwise, he was ineligible.
Although there were four preferiti, few cardinals had any doubt who the next Pope would be. The past
fifteen days had seen a blizzard of faxes and phone calls discussing potential candidates. As was the
custom, four names had been chosen as preferiti, each of them fulfilling the unspoken requisites for
becoming Pope:
Multilingual in Italian, Spanish, and English.
No skeletons in his closet.
Between sixty-five and eighty years old.
As usual, one of the preferiti had risen above the others as the man the college proposed to elect. Tonight
that man was Cardinal Aldo Baggia from Milan. Baggia's untainted record of service, combined with
unparalleled language skills and the ability to communicate the essence of spirituality, had made him the
clear favorite.
So where the devil is he? Mortati wondered.
Mortati was particularly unnerved by the missing cardinals because the task of supervising this conclave
had fallen to him. A week ago, the College of Cardinals had unanimously chosen Mortati for the office
known as The Great Elector-the conclave's internal master of ceremonies. Even though the camerlegno
was the church's ranking official, the camerlegno was only a priest and had little familiarity with the
complex election process, so one cardinal was selected to oversee the ceremony from within the Sistine
Chapel.
Cardinals often joked that being appointed The Great Elector was the cruelest honor in Christendom. The
appointment made one ineligible as a candidate during the election, and it also required one spend many
days prior to conclave poring over the pages of the Universi Dominici Gregis reviewing the subtleties of
conclave's arcane rituals to ensure the election was properly administered.
Mortati held no grudge, though. He knew he was the logical choice. Not only was he the senior cardinal,
but he had also been a confidant of the late Pope, a fact that elevated his esteem. Although Mortati was
technically still within the legal age window for election, he was getting a bit old to be a serious
candidate. At seventy-nine years old he had crossed the unspoken threshold beyond which the college no
longer trusted one's health to withstand the rigorous schedule of the papacy. A Pope usually worked
fourteen-hour days, seven days a week, and died of exhaustion in an average of 6.3 years. The inside joke
was that accepting the papacy was a cardinal's "fastest route to heaven."
Mortati, many believed, could have been Pope in his younger days had he not been so broad-minded.
When it came to pursuing the papacy, there was a Holy Trinity-Conservative. Conservative.
Conservative.
Mortati had always found it pleasantly ironic that the late Pope, God rest his soul, had revealed himself as
surprisingly liberal once he had taken office. Perhaps sensing the modern world progressing away from
the church, the Pope had made overtures, softening the church's position on the sciences, even donating
money to selective scientific causes. Sadly, it had been political suicide. Conservative Catholics declared
the Pope "senile," while scientific purists accused him of trying to spread the church's influence where it
did not belong.
"So where are they?"
Mortati turned.
One of the cardinals was tapping him nervously on the shoulder. "You know where they are, don't you?"
Mortati tried not to show too much concern. "Perhaps still with the camerlegno."
"At this hour? That would be highly unorthodox!" The cardinal frowned mistrustingly. "Perhaps the
camerlegno lost track of time?"
Mortati sincerely doubted it, but he said nothing. He was well aware that most cardinals did not much
care for the camerlegno, feeling he was too young to serve the Pope so closely. Mortati suspected much of
the cardinals' dislike was jealousy, and Mortati actually admired the young man, secretly applauding the
late Pope's selection for chamberlain. Mortati saw only conviction when he looked in the camerlegno's
eyes, and unlike many of the cardinals, the camerlegno put church and faith before petty politics. He was
truly a man of God.
Throughout his tenure, the camerlegno's steadfast devotion had become legendary. Many attributed it to
the miraculous event in his childhood . . . an event that would have left a permanent impression on any
man's heart. The miracle and wonder of it, Mortati thought, often wishing his own childhood had
presented an event that fostered that kind of doubtless faith.
Unfortunately for the church, Mortati knew, the camerlegno would never become Pope in his elder years.
Attaining the papacy required a certain amount of political ambition, something the young camerlegno
apparently lacked; he had refused his Pope's offers for higher clerical stations many times, saying he
preferred to serve the church as a simple man.
"What next?" The cardinal tapped Mortati, waiting.
Mortati looked up. "I'm sorry?"
"They're late! What shall we do!"
"What can we do?" Mortati replied. "We wait. And have faith."
Looking entirely unsatisfied with Mortati's response, the cardinal shrunk back into the shadows.
Mortati stood a moment, dabbing his temples and trying to clear his mind. Indeed, what shall we do? He
gazed past the altar up to Michelangelo's renowned fresco, "The Last Judgment." The painting did
nothing to soothe his anxiety. It was a horrifying, fifty-foot-tall depiction of Jesus Christ separating
mankind into the righteous and sinners, casting the sinners into hell. There was flayed flesh, burning
bodies, and even one of Michelangelo's rivals sitting in hell wearing ass's ears. Guy de Maupassant had
once written that the painting looked like something painted for a carnival wrestling booth by an ignorant
coal heaver.
Cardinal Mortati had to agree.
43
L angdon stood motionless at the Pope's b