story of the bomb that blew up
the camerlegno's mother before the kid's very eyes. A bomb in church . . . and now it's happening all
over again. Sadly, the authorities never caught the bastards who planted the bomb . . . probably some anti-
Christian hate group they said, and the case faded away. No wonder the camerlegno despised apathy.
A couple months back, on a peaceful afternoon inside Vatican City, Chartrand had bumped into the
camerlegno coming across the grounds. The camerlegno had apparently recognized Chartrand as a new
guard and invited him to accompany him on a stroll. They had talked about nothing in particular, and the
camerlegno made Chartrand feel immediately at home.
"Father," Chartrand said, "may I ask you a strange question?"
The camerlegno smiled. "Only if I may give you a strange answer."
Chartrand laughed. "I have asked every priest I know, and I still don't understand."
"What troubles you?" The camerlegno led the way in short, quick strides, his frock kicking out in front of
him as he walked. His black, crepe-sole shoess seemed befitting, Chartrand thought, like reflections of the
man's essence . . . modern but humble, and showing signs of wear.
Chartrand took a deep breath. "I don't understand this omnipotent-benevolent thing."
The camerlegno smiled. "You've been reading Scripture."
"I try."
"You are confused because the Bible describes God as an omnipotent and benevolent deity."
"Exactly."
"Omnipotent-benevolent simply means that God is all-powerful and well-meaning."
"I understand the concept. It's just . . . there seems to be a contradiction."
"Yes. The contradiction is pain. Man's starvation, war, sickness . . ."
"Exactly!" Chartrand knew the camerlegno would understand. "Terrible things happen in this world.
Human tragedy seems like proof that God could not possibly be both all-powerful and well-meaning. If
He loves us and has the power to change our situation, He would prevent our pain, wouldn't He?"
The camerlegno frowned. "Would He?"
Chartrand felt uneasy. Had he overstepped his bounds? Was this one of those religious questions you just
didn't ask? "Well . . . if God loves us, and He can protect us, He would have to. It seems He is either
omnipotent and uncaring, or benevolent and powerless to help."
"Do you have children, Lieutenant?"
Chartrand flushed. "No, signore."
"Imagine you had an eight-year-old son . . . would you love him?"
"Of course."
"Would you do everything in your power to prevent pain in his life?"
"Of course."
"Would you let him skateboard?"
Chartrand did a double take. The camerlegno always seemed oddly "in touch" for a clergyman. "Yeah, I
guess," Chartrand said. "Sure, I'd let him skateboard, but I'd tell him to be careful."
"So as this child's father, you would give him some basic, good advice and then let him go off and make
his own mistakes?"
"I wouldn't run behind him and mollycoddle him if that's what you mean."
"But what if he fell and skinned his knee?"
"He would learn to be more careful."
The camerlegno smiled. "So although you have the power to interfere and prevent your child's pain, you
would choose to show your love by letting him learn his own lessons?"
"Of course. Pain is part of growing up. It's how we learn."
The camerlegno nodded. "Exactly."
90
L angdon and Vittoria observed Piazza Barberini from the shadows of a small alleyway on the western
corner. The church was opposite them, a hazy cupola emerging from a faint cluster of buildings across the
square. The night had brought with it a welcome cool, and Langdon was surprised to find the square
deserted. Above them, through open windows, blaring televisions reminded Langdon where everyone had
disappeared to.
". . . no comment yet from the Vatican . . . Illuminati murders of two cardinals . . . satanic presence in
Rome . . . speculation about further infiltration . . ."
The news had spread like Nero's fire. Rome sat riveted, as did the rest of the world. Langdon wondered if
they would really be able to stop this runaway train. As he scanned the piazza and waited, Langdon
realized that despite the encroachment of modern buildings, the piazza still looked remarkably elliptical.
High above, like some sort of modern shrine to a bygone hero, an enormous neon sign blinked on the roof
of a luxurious hotel. Vittoria had already pointed it out to Langdon. The sign seemed eerily befitting.
HOTEL BERNINI
"Five of ten," Vittoria said, cat eyes darting around the square. No sooner had she spoken the words than
she grabbed Langdon's arm and pulled him back into the shadows. She motioned into the center of the
square.
Langdon followed her gaze. When he saw it, he stiffened.
Crossing in front of them, beneath a street lamp, two dark figures appeared. Both were cloaked, their
heads covered with dark mantles, the traditional black covering of Catholic widows. Langdon would have
guessed they were women, but he couldn't be sure in the dark. One looked elderly and moved as if in
pain, hunched over. The other, larger and stronger, was helping.
"Give me the gun," Vittoria said.
"You can't just-"
Fluid as a cat, Vittoria was in and out of his pocket once again. The gun glinted in her hand. Then, in
absolute silence, as if her feet never touched the cobblestone, she was circling left in the shadows, arching
across the square to approach the couple from the rear. Langdon stood transfixed as Vittoria disappeared.
Then, swearing to himself, he hurried after her.
The couple was moving slowly, and it was only a matter of half a minute before Langdon and Vittoria
were positioned behind them, closing in from the rear. Vittoria concealed the gun beneath casually
crossed arms in front of her, out of sight but accessible in a flash. She seemed to float faster and faster as
the gap lessened, and Langdon battled to keep up. When his shoes scuffed a stone and sent it skittering,
Vittoria shot him a sideways glare. But the couple did not seem to hear. They were talking.
At thirty feet, Langdon could start to hear voices. No words. Just faint murmurings. Beside him, Vittoria
moved faster with every step. Her arms loosened before her, the gun starting to peek out. Twenty feet.
The voices were clearer-one much louder than the other. Angry. Ranting. Langdon sensed it was the
voice of an old woman. Gruff. Androgynous. He strained to hear what she was saying, but another voice
cut the night.
"Mi scusi!" Vittoria's friendly tone lit the square like a torch.
Langdon tensed as the cloaked couple stopped short and began to turn. Vittoria kept striding toward them,
even faster now, on a collision course. They would have no time to react. Langdon realized his own feet
had stopped moving. From behind, he saw Vittoria's arms loosening, her hand coming free, the gun
swinging forward. Then, over her shoulder, he saw a face, lit now in the street lamp. The panic surged to
his legs, and he lunged forward. "Vittoria, no!"
Vittoria, however, seemed to exist a split second ahead of him. In a motion as swift as it was casual,
Vittoria's arms were raised again, the gun disappearing as she clutched herself like a woman on a chilly
night. Langdon stumbled to her side, almost colliding with the cloaked couple before them.
"Buona sera," Vittoria blurted, her voice startled with retreat.
Langdon exhaled in relief. Two elderly women stood before them scowling out from beneath their
mantles. One was so old she could barely stand. The other was helping her. Both clutched rosaries. They
seemed confused by the sudden interruption.
Vittoria smiled, although she looked shaken. "Dov'è la chiesa Santa Maria della Vittoria? Where is the
Church of-"
The two women motioned in unison to a bulky silhouette of a building on an inclined street from the
direction they had come. "È là."
"Grazie," Langdon said, putting his hands on Vittoria's shoulders and gently pulling her back. He
couldn't believe they'd almost attacked a pair of old ladies.
"Non si puó entrare," one woman warned. "È chiusa temprano."
"Closed early?" Vittoria looked surprised. "Perchè?"
Both women explained at once. They sounded irate. Langdon understood only parts of the grumbling
Italian. Apparently, the women had been inside the church fifteen minutes ago praying for the Vatican in
its time of need, when some man had appeared and told them the church was closing early.
"Hanno conosciuto l'uomo?" Vittoria demanded, sounding tense. "Did you know the man?"
The women shook their heads. The man was a straniero crudo, they explained, and he had forcibly made
everyone inside leave, even the young priest and janitor, who said they were calling the police. But the
intruder had only laughed, telling them to be sure the police brought cameras.
Cameras? Langdon wondered.
The women clucked angrily and called the man a bar-àrabo. Then, grumbling, they continued on their
way.
"Bar-àrabo?"Langdon asked Vittoria. "A barbarian?"
Vittoria looked suddenly taut. "Not quite. Bar-àrabo is derogatory wordplay. It means Àrabo . . . Arab."
Langdon felt a shiver and turned toward the outline of the church. As he did, his eyes glimpsed something
in the church's stained-glass windows. The image shot dread through his body.
Unaware, Vittoria removed her cell phone and pressed the auto dial. "I'm warning Olivetti."
Speechless, Langdon reached out and touched her arm. With a tremulous hand, he pointed to the church.
Vittoria let out a gasp.
Inside the building, glowing like evil eyes through the stained-glass windows . . . shone the growing flash
of flames.
91
L angdon and Vittoria dashed to the main entrance of the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria and
found the wooden door locked. Vittoria fired three shots from Olivetti's semi-automatic into the ancient
bolt, and it shattered.
The church had no anteroom, so the entirety of the sanctuary spread out in one gasping sweep as Langdon
and Vittoria threw open th