red up at Camerlegno Ventresca, Mortati felt the paralyzing collision of his heart and mind. The
vision seemed real, tangible. And yet . . . how could it be? Everyone had seen the camerlegno get in the
helicopter. They had all witnessed the ball of light in the sky. And now, somehow, the camerlegno stood
high above them on the rooftop terrace. Transported by angels? Reincarnated by the hand of God?
This is impossible . . .
Mortati's heart wanted nothing more than to believe, but his mind cried out for reason. And yet all around
him, the cardinals stared up, obviously seeing what he was seeing, paralyzed with wonder.
It was the camerlegno. There was no doubt. But he looked different somehow. Divine. As if he had been
purified. A spirit? A man? His white flesh shone in the spotlights with an incorporeal weightlessness.
In the square there was crying, cheering, spontaneous applause. A group of nuns fell to their knees and
wailed saetas. A pulsing grew from in the crowd. Suddenly, the entire square was chanting the
camerlegno's name. The cardinals, some with tears rolling down their faces, joined in. Mortati looked
around him and tried to comprehend. Is this really happening?
Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca stood on the rooftop terrace of St. Peter's Basilica and looked down over the
multitudes of people staring up at him. Was he awake or dreaming? He felt transformed, otherworldly. He
wondered if it was his body or just his spirit that had floated down from heaven toward the soft, darkened
expanse of the Vatican City Gardens . . . alighting like a silent angel on the deserted lawns, his black
parachute shrouded from the madness by the towering shadow of St. Peter's Basilica. He wondered if it
was his body or his spirit that had possessed the strength to climb the ancient Stairway of Medallions to
the rooftop terrace where he now stood.
He felt as light as a ghost.
Although the people below were chanting his name, he knew it was not him they were cheering. They
were cheering from impulsive joy, the same kind of joy he felt every day of his life as he pondered the
Almighty. They were experiencing what each of them had always longed for . . . an assurance of the
beyond . . . a substantiation of the power of the Creator.
Camerlegno Ventresca had prayed all his life for this moment, and still, even he could not fathom that
God had found a way to make it manifest. He wanted to cry out to them. Your God is a living God!
Behold the miracles all around you!
He stood there a while, numb and yet feeling more than he had ever felt. When, at last, the spirit moved
him, he bowed his head and stepped back from the edge.
Alone now, he knelt on the roof, and prayed.
127
T he images around him blurred, drifting in and out. Langdon's eyes slowly began to focus. His legs
ached, and his body felt like it had been run over by a truck. He was lying on his side on the ground.
Something stunk, like bile. He could still hear the incessant sound of lapping water. It no longer sounded
peaceful to him. There were other sounds too-talking close around him. He saw blurry white forms.
Were they all wearing white? Langdon decided he was either in an asylum or heaven. From the burning in
his throat, Langdon decided it could not be heaven.
"He's finished vomiting," one man said in Italian. "Turn him." The voice was firm and professional.
Langdon felt hands slowly rolling him onto his back. His head swam. He tried to sit up, but the hands
gently forced him back down. His body submitted. Then Langdon felt someone going through his
pockets, removing items.
Then he passed out cold.
Dr. Jacobus was not a religious man; the science of medicine had bred that from him long ago. And yet,
the events in Vatican City tonight had put his systematic logic to the test. Now bodies are falling from the
sky?
Dr. Jacobus felt the pulse of the bedraggled man they had just pulled from the Tiber River. The doctor
decided that God himself had hand-delivered this one to safety. The concussion of hitting the water had
knocked the victim unconscious, and if it had not been for Jacobus and his crew standing out on the shore
watching the spectacle in the sky, this falling soul would surely have gone unnoticed and drowned.
"É Americano," a nurse said, going through the man's wallet after they pulled him to dry land.
American? Romans often joked that Americans had gotten so abundant in Rome that hamburgers should
become the official Italian food. But Americans falling from the sky? Jacobus flicked a penlight in the
man's eyes, testing his dilation. "Sir? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"
The man was unconscious again. Jacobus was not surprised. The man had vomited a lot of water after
Jacobus had performed CPR.
"Si chiama Robert Langdon," the nurse said, reading the man's driver's license.
The group assembled on the dock all stopped short.
"Impossibile!" Jacobus declared. Robert Langdon was the man from the television-the American
professor who had been helping the Vatican. Jacobus had seen Mr. Langdon, only minutes ago, getting
into a helicopter in St. Peter's Square and flying miles up into the air. Jacobus and the others had run out
to the dock to witness the antimatter explosion-a tremendous sphere of light like nothing any of them
had ever seen. How could this be the same man!
"It's him!" the nurse exclaimed, brushing his soaked hair back. "And I recognize his tweed coat!"
Suddenly someone was yelling from the hospital entryway. It was one of the patients. She was screaming,
going mad, holding her portable radio to the sky and praising God. Apparently Camerlegno Ventresca had
just miraculously appeared on the roof of the Vatican.
Dr. Jacobus decided, when his shift got off at 8 A.M., he was going straight to church.
The lights over Langdon's head were brighter now, sterile. He was on some kind of examination table. He
smelled astringents, strange chemicals. Someone had just given him an injection, and they had removed
his clothes.
Definitely not gypsies, he decided in his semiconscious delirium. Aliens, perhaps? Yes, he had heard
about things like this. Fortunately these beings would not harm him. All they wanted were his-
"Not on your life!" Langdon sat bolt upright, eyes flying open.
"Attento!" one of the creatures yelled, steadying him. His badge read Dr. Jacobus. He looked remarkably
human.
Langdon stammered, "I . . . thought . . ."
"Easy, Mr. Langdon. You're in a hospital."
The fog began to lift. Langdon felt a wave of relief. He hated hospitals, but they certainly beat aliens
harvesting his testicles.
"My name is Dr. Jacobus," the man said. He explained what had just happened. "You are very lucky to be
alive."
Langdon did not feel lucky. He could barely make sense of his own memories . . . the helicopter . . . the
camerlegno. His body ached everywhere. They gave him some water, and he rinsed out his mouth. They
placed a new gauze on his palm.
"Where are my clothes?" Langdon asked. He was wearing a paper robe.
One of the nurses motioned to a dripping wad of shredded khaki and tweed on the counter. "They were
soaked. We had to cut them off you."
Langdon looked at his shredded Harris tweed and frowned.
"You had some Kleenex in your pocket," the nurse said.
It was then that Langdon saw the ravaged shreds of parchment clinging all over the lining of his jacket.
The folio from Galileo's Diagramma. The last copy on earth had just dissolved. He was too numb to
know how to react. He just stared.
"We saved your personal items." She held up a plastic bin. "Wallet, camcorder, and pen. I dried the
camcorder off the best I could."
"I don't own a camcorder."
The nurse frowned and held out the bin. Langdon looked at the contents. Along with his wallet and pen
was a tiny Sony RUVI camcorder. He recalled it now. Kohler had handed it to him and asked him to give
it to the media.
"We found it in your pocket. I think you'll need a new one, though." The nurse flipped open the two-inch
screen on the back. "Your viewer is cracked." Then she brightened. "The sound still works, though.
Barely." She held the device up to her ear. "Keeps playing something over and over." She listened a
moment and then scowled, handing it to Langdon. "Two guys arguing, I think."
Puzzled, Langdon took the camcorder and held it to his ear. The voices were pinched and metallic, but
they were discernible. One close. One far away. Langdon recognized them both.
Sitting there in his paper gown, Langdon listened in amazement to the conversation. Although he couldn't
see what was happening, when he heard the shocking finale, he was thankful he had been spared the
visual.
My God!
As the conversation began playing again from the beginning, Langdon lowered the camcorder from his
ear and sat in appalled mystification. The antimatter . . . the helicopter . . . Langdon's mind now kicked
into gear.
But that means . . .
He wanted to vomit again. With a rising fury of disorientation and rage, Langdon got off the table and
stood on shaky legs.
"Mr. Langdon!" the doctor said, trying to stop him.
"I need some clothes," Langdon demanded, feeling the draft on his rear from the backless gown.
"But, you need to rest."
"I'm checking out. Now. I need some clothes."
"But, sir, you-"
"Now!"
Everyone exchanged bewildered looks. "We have no clothes," the doctor said. "Perhaps tomorrow a
friend could bring you some."
Langdon drew a slow patient breath and locked eyes with the doctor. "Dr. Jacobus, I am walking out your
door right now. I need clothes. I am going to Vatican City. One does not go to Vatican City with one's ass
hanging out. Do I make myself clear?"
Dr. Jacobus swallowed hard. "Get this man something to wear."
When Langdon limped out of Hospital Tiberina, he felt like an overgrown Cub Scout. He was wearing a
blue paramedic's jumpsuit that zipped up the front and was adorned with cloth badges that a