ecrets public. This is their moment.
Their grand unveiling."
Langdon feared the Illuminati unveiling would have a special symmetry to it that he had not yet
mentioned. The four brands. The killer had sworn each cardinal would be branded with a different
symbol. Proof the ancient legends are true, the killer had said. The legend of the four ambigrammatic
brands was as old as the Illuminati itself: earth, air, fire, water-four words crafted in perfect symmetry.
Just like the word Illuminati. Each cardinal was to be branded with one of the ancient elements of science.
The rumor that the four brands were in English rather than Italian remained a point of debate among
historians. English seemed a random deviation from their natural tongue . . . and the Illuminati did
nothing randomly.
Langdon turned up the brick pathway before the archive building. Ghastly images thrashed in his mind.
The overall Illuminati plot was starting to reveal its patient grandeur. The brotherhood had vowed to stay
silent as long as it took, amassing enough influence and power that they could resurface without fear,
make their stand, fight their cause in broad daylight. The Illuminati were no longer about hiding. They
were about flaunting their power, confirming the conspiratorial myths as fact. Tonight was a global
publicity stunt.
Vittoria said, "Here comes our escort." Langdon looked up to see a Swiss Guard hurrying across an
adjacent lawn toward the front door.
When the guard saw them, he stopped in his tracks. He stared at them, as though he thought he was
hallucinating. Without a word he turned away and pulled out his walkie-talkie. Apparently incredulous at
what he was being asked to do, the guard spoke urgently to the person on the other end. The angry bark
coming back was indecipherable to Langdon, but its message was clear. The guard slumped, put away the
walkie-talkie, and turned to them with a look of discontent.
Not a word was spoken as the guard guided them into the building. They passed through four steel doors,
two passkey entries, down a long stairwell, and into a foyer with two combination keypads. Passing
through a high-tech series of electronic gates, they arrived at the end of a long hallway outside a set of
wide oak double doors. The guard stopped, looked them over again and, mumbling under his breath,
walked to a metal box on the wall. He unlocked it, reached inside, and pressed a code. The doors before
them buzzed, and the deadbolt fell open.
The guard turned, speaking to them for the first time. "The archives are beyond that door. I have been
instructed to escort you this far and return for briefing on another matter."
"You're leaving?" Vittoria demanded.
"Swiss Guards are not cleared for access to the Secret Archives. You are here only because my
commander received a direct order from the camerlegno."
"But how do we get out?"
"Monodirectional security. You will have no difficulties." That being the entirety of the conversation, the
guard spun on his heel and marched off down the hall.
Vittoria made some comment, but Langdon did not hear. His mind was fixed on the double doors before
him, wondering what mysteries lay beyond.
47
A lthough he knew time was short, Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca walked slowly. He needed the time
alone to gather his thoughts before facing opening prayer. So much was happening. As he moved in dim
solitude down the Northern Wing, the challenge of the past fifteen days weighed heavy in his bones.
He had followed his holy duties to the letter.
As was Vatican tradition, following the Pope's death the camerlegno had personally confirmed expiration
by placing his fingers on the Pope's carotid artery, listening for breath, and then calling the Pope's name
three times. By law there was no autopsy. Then he had sealed the Pope's bedroom, destroyed the papal
fisherman's ring, shattered the die used to make lead seals, and arranged for the funeral. That done, he
began preparations for the conclave.
Conclave, he thought. The final hurdle. It was one of the oldest traditions in Christendom. Nowadays,
because the outcome of conclave was usually known before it began, the process was criticized as
obsolete-more of a burlesque than an election. The camerlegno knew, however, this was only a lack of
understanding. Conclave was not an election. It was an ancient, mystic transference of power. The
tradition was timeless . . . the secrecy, the folded slips of paper, the burning of the ballots, the mixing of
ancient chemicals, the smoke signals.
As the camerlegno approached through the Loggias of Gregory XIII, he wondered if Cardinal Mortati was
in a panic yet. Certainly Mortati had noticed the preferiti were missing. Without them, the voting would
go on all night. Mortati's appointment as the Great Elector, the camerlegno assured himself, was a good
one. The man was a freethinker and could speak his mind. The conclave would need a leader tonight more
than ever.
As the camerlegno arrived at the top of the Royal Staircase, he felt as though he were standing on the
precipice of his life. Even from up here he could hear the rumble of activity in the Sistine Chapel
below-the uneasy chatter of 165 cardinals.
One hundred sixty-one cardinals, he corrected.
For an instant the camerlegno was falling, plummeting toward hell, people screaming, flames engulfing
him, stones and blood raining from the sky.
And then silence.
When the child awoke, he was in heaven. Everything around him was white. The light was blinding and
pure. Although some would say a ten year old could not possibly understand heaven, the young Carlo
Ventresca understood heaven very well. He was in heaven right now. Where else would he be? Even in
his short decade on earth Carlo had felt the majesty of God-the thundering pipe organs, the towering
domes, the voices raised in song, the stained glass, shimmering bronze and gold. Carlo's mother, Maria,
brought him to Mass every day. The church was Carlo's home.
"Why do we come to Mass every single day?" Carlo asked, not that he minded at all.
"Because I promised God I would," she replied. "And a promise to God is the most important promise of
all. Never break a promise to God."
Carlo promised her he would never break a promise to God. He loved his mother more than anything in
the world. She was his holy angel. Sometimes he called her Maria benedetta-the Blessed
Mary-although she did not like that at all. He knelt with her as she prayed, smelling the sweet scent of
her flesh and listening to the murmur of her voice as she counted the rosary. Hail Mary, Mother of God . .
. pray for us sinners . . . now and at the hour of our death.
"Where is my father?" Carlo asked, already knowing his father had died before he was born.
"God is your father, now," she would always reply. "You are a child of the church."
Carlo loved that.
"Whenever you feel frightened," she said, "remember that God is your father now. He will watch over
you and protect you forever. God has big plans for you, Carlo." The boy knew she was right. He could
already feel God in his blood.
Blood . . .
Blood raining from the sky!
Silence. Then heaven.
His heaven, Carlo learned as the blinding lights were turned off, was actually the Intensive Care Unit in
Santa Clara Hospital outside of Palermo. Carlo had been the sole survivor of a terrorist bombing that had
collapsed a chapel where he and his mother had been attending Mass while on vacation. Thirty-seven
people had died, including Carlo's mother. The papers called Carlo's survival The Miracle of St. Francis.
Carlo had, for some unknown reason, only moments before the blast, left his mother's side and ventured
into a protected alcove to ponder a tapestry depicting the story of St. Francis.
God called me there, he decided. He wanted to save me.
Carlo was delirious with pain. He could still see his mother, kneeling at the pew, blowing him a kiss, and
then with a concussive roar, her sweet-smelling flesh was torn apart. He could still taste man's evil. Blood
showered down. His mother's blood! The blessed Maria!
God will watch over you and protect you forever, his mother had told him.
But where was God now!
Then, like a worldly manifestation of his mother's truth, a clergyman had come to the hospital. He was
not any clergyman. He was a bishop. He prayed over Carlo. The Miracle of St. Francis. When Carlo
recovered, the bishop arranged for him to live in a small monastery attached to the cathedral over which
the bishop presided. Carlo lived and tutored with the monks. He even became an altar boy for his new
protector. The bishop suggested Carlo enter public school, but Carlo refused. He could not have been
more happy with his new home. He now truly lived in the house of God.
Every night Carlo prayed for his mother.
God saved me for a reason, he thought. What is the reason?
When Carlo turned sixteen, he was obliged by Italian law to serve two years of reserve military training.
The bishop told Carlo that if he entered seminary he would be exempt from this duty. Carlo told the priest
that he planned to enter seminary but that first he needed to understand evil.
The bishop did not understand.
Carlo told him that if he was going to spend his life in the church fighting evil, first he had to understand
it. He could not think of any better place to understand evil than in the army. The army used guns and
bombs. A bomb killed my Blessed mother!
The bishop tried to dissuade him, but Carlo's mind was made up.
"Be careful, my son," the bishop had said. "And remember the church awaits you when you return."
Carlo's two years of military service had been dreadful. Carlo's youth had been one of silence and
reflection. But in the army there was no quiet for reflection. Endless noise. Huge machines everywhere.
Not a moment of peace. Although the soldiers went to Mass once a week at the barracks, Carlo did not