he outrages,
sacrileges, and indifferences . . .
The camerlegno already felt the physical pain setting in. It was spreading across his skin like a plague,
making him want to claw at his flesh like he had weeks ago when God had first come to him. Do not
forget what pain Jesus endured. He could taste the fumes now in his throat. Not even the morphine could
dull the bite.
My work here is done.
The Horror was his. The Hope was theirs.
In the Niche of the Palliums, the camerlegno had followed God's will and anointed his body. His hair. His
face. His linen robe. His flesh. He was soaking now with the sacred, vitreous oils from the lamps. They
smelled sweet like his mother, but they burned. His would be a merciful ascension. Miraculous and swift.
And he would leave behind not scandal . . . but a new strength and wonder.
He slipped his hand into the pocket of his robe and fingered the small, golden lighter he had brought with
him from the Pallium incendiario.
He whispered a verse from Judgments. And when the flame went up toward heaven, the angel of the Lord
ascended in the flame.
He positioned his thumb.
They were singing in St. Peter's Square . . .
The vision the world witnessed no one would ever forget.
High above on the balcony, like a soul tearing free of its corporeal restrains, a luminous pyre of flame
erupted from the camerlegno's center. The fire shot upward, engulfing his entire body instantly. He did
not scream. He raised his arms over his head and looked toward heaven. The conflagration roared around
him, entirely shrouding his body in a column of light. It raged for what seemed like an eternity, the whole
world bearing witness. The light flared brighter and brighter. Then, gradually, the flames dissipated. The
camerlegno was gone. Whether he had collapsed behind the balustrade or evaporated into thin air was
impossible to tell. All that was left was a cloud of smoke spiraling skyward over Vatican City.
135
D awn came late to Rome.
An early rainstorm had washed the crowds from St. Peter's Square. The media stayed on, huddling under
umbrellas and in vans, commentating on the evening's events. Across the world, churches overflowed. It
was a time of reflection and discussion . . . in all religions. Questions abounded, and yet the answers
seemed only to bring deeper questions. Thus far, the Vatican had remained silent, issuing no statement
whatsoever.
Deep in the Vatican Grottoes, Cardinal Mortati knelt alone before the open sarcophagus. He reached in
and closed the old man's blackened mouth. His Holiness looked peaceful now. In quiet repose for
eternity.
At Mortati's feet was a golden urn, heavy with ashes. Mortati had gathered the ashes himself and brought
them here. "A chance for forgiveness," he said to His Holiness, laying the urn inside the sarcophagus at
the Pope's side. "No love is greater than that of a father for His son." Mortati tucked the urn out of sight
beneath the papal robes. He knew this sacred grotto was reserved exclusively for the relics of Popes, but
somehow Mortati sensed this was appropriate.
"Signore?" someone said, entering the grottoes. It was Lieutenant Chartrand. He was accompanied by
three Swiss Guards. "They are ready for you in conclave."
Mortati nodded. "In a moment." He gazed one last time into the sarcophagus before him, and then stood
up. He turned to the guards. "It is time for His Holiness to have the peace he has earned."
The guards came forward and with enormous effort slid the lid of the Pope's sarcophagus back into place.
It thundered shut with finality.
Mortati was alone as he crossed the Borgia Courtyard toward the Sistine Chapel. A damp breeze tossed
his robe. A fellow cardinal emerged from the Apostolic Palace and strode beside him.
"May I have the honor of escorting you to conclave, signore?"
"The honor is mine."
"Signore," the cardinal said, looking troubled. "The college owes you an apology for last night. We were
blinded by-"
"Please," Mortati replied. "Our minds sometimes see what our hearts wish were true."
The cardinal was silent a long time. Finally he spoke. "Have you been told? You are no longer our Great
Elector."
Mortati smiled. "Yes. I thank God for small blessings."
"The college insisted you be eligible."
"It seems charity is not dead in the church."
"You are a wise man. You would lead us well."
"I am an old man. I would lead you briefly."
They both laughed.
As they reached the end of the Borgia Courtyard, the cardinal hesitated. He turned to Mortati with a
troubled mystification, as if the precarious awe of the night before had slipped back into his heart.
"Were you aware," the cardinal whispered, "that we found no remains on the balcony?"
Mortati smiled. "Perhaps the rain washed them away."
The man looked to the stormy heavens. "Yes, perhaps . . ."
136
T he midmorning sky still hung heavy with clouds as the Sistine Chapel's chimney gave up its first
faint puffs of white smoke. The pearly wisps curled upward toward the firmament and slowly dissipated.
Far below, in St. Peter's Square, reporter Gunther Glick watched in reflective silence. The final chapter . .
.
Chinita Macri approached him from behind and hoisted her camera onto her shoulder. "It's time," she
said.
Glick nodded dolefully. He turned toward her, smoothed his hair, and took a deep breath. My last
transmission, he thought. A small crowd had gathered around them to watch.
"Live in sixty seconds," Macri announced.
Glick glanced over his shoulder at the roof of the Sistine Chapel behind him. "Can you get the smoke?"
Macri patiently nodded. "I know how to frame a shot, Gunther."
Glick felt dumb. Of course she did. Macri's performance behind the camera last night had probably won
her the Pulitzer. His performance, on the other hand . . . he didn't want to think about it. He was sure the
BBC would let him go; no doubt they would have legal troubles from numerous powerful entities . . .
CERN and George Bush among them.
"You look good," Chinita patronized, looking out from behind her camera now with a hint of concern. "I
wonder if I might offer you . . ." She hesitated, holding her tongue.
"Some advice?"
Macri sighed. "I was only going to say that there's no need to go out with a bang."
"I know," he said. "You want a straight wrap."
"The straightest in history. I'm trusting you."
Glick smiled. A straight wrap? Is she crazy? A story like last night's deserved so much more. A twist. A
final bombshell. An unforeseen revelation of shocking truth.
Fortunately, Glick had just the ticket waiting in the wings . . .
* * *
"You're on in . . . five . . . four . . . three . . ."
As Chinita Macri looked through her camera, she sensed a sly glint in Glick's eye. I was insane to let him
do this, she thought. What was I thinking?
But the moment for second thoughts had passed. They were on.
"Live from Vatican City," Glick announced on cue, "this is Gunther Glick reporting." He gave the camera
a solemn stare as the white smoke rose behind him from the Sistine Chapel. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is
now official. Cardinal Saverio Mortati, a seventy-nine-year-old progressive, has just been elected the next
Pope of Vatican City. Although an unlikely candidate, Mortati was chosen by an unprecedented
unanimous vote by the College of Cardinals."
As Macri watched him, she began to breathe easier. Glick seemed surprisingly professional today. Even
austere. For the first time in his life, Glick actually looked and sounded somewhat like a newsman.
"And as we reported earlier," Glick added, his voice intensifying perfectly, "the Vatican has yet to offer
any statement whatsoever regarding the miraculous events of last night."
Good. Chinita's nervousness waned some more. So far, so good.
Glick's expression grew sorrowful now. "And though last night was a night of wonder, it was also a night
of tragedy. Four cardinals perished in yesterday's conflict, along with Commander Olivetti and Captain
Rocher of the Swiss Guard, both in the line of duty. Other casualties include Leonardo Vetra, the
renowned CERN physicist and pioneer of antimatter technology, as well as Maximilian Kohler, the
director of CERN, who apparently came to Vatican City in an effort to help but reportedly passed away in
the process. No official report has been issued yet on Mr. Kohler's death, but conjecture is that he died
due to complications brought on by a long-time illness."
Macri nodded. The report was going perfectly. Just as they discussed.
"And in the wake of the explosion in the sky over the Vatican last night, CERN's antimatter technology
has become the hot topic among scientists, sparking excitement and controversy. A statement read by Mr.
Kohler's assistant in Geneva, Sylvie Baudeloque, announced this morning that CERN's board of
directors, although enthusiastic about antimatter's potential, are suspending all research and licensing
until further inquiries into its safety can be examined."
Excellent, Macri thought. Home stretch.
"Notably absent from our screens tonight," Glick reported, "is the face of Robert Langdon, the Harvard
professor who came to Vatican City yesterday to lend his expertise during this Illuminati crisis. Although
originally thought to have perished in the antimatter blast, we now have reports that Langdon was spotted
in St. Peter's Square after the explosion. How he got there is still speculation, although a spokesman from
Hospital Tiberina claims that Mr. Langdon fell out of the sky into the Tiber River shortly after midnight,
was treated, and released." Glick arched his eyebrows at the camera. "And if that is true . . . it was indeed
a night of miracles."
Perfect ending! Macri felt herself smiling broadly. Flawless wrap! Now sign off!
But Glick did not sign off. Instead, he paused a moment and then stepped toward the camera. He had a
mysterious smile. "But before we sign off . . ."
No!
". . . I wo