"Yes," Olivetti said. "The integrity of your search is compromised. And yet it is a gamble we must take. Keep looking."
Rocher looked like he was about to say something, thought better of it, and left.
The camerlegno inhaled deeply. He had not said a word yet, and Langdon sensed a new rigor in the man, as if a turning point had been reached.
"Commander?" The camerlegno’s tone was impermeable. "I am going to break conclave."
Olivetti pursed his lips, looking dour. "I advise against it. We still have two hours and twenty minutes."
"A heartbeat."
Olivetti’s tone was now challenging "What do you intend to do? Evacuate the cardinals single-handedly?"
"I intend to save this church with whatever power God has given me. How I proceed is no longer your concern."
Olivetti straightened. "Whatever you intend to do…" He paused. "I do not have the authority to restrain you. Particularly in light of my apparent failure as head of security. I ask only that you wait. Wait twenty minutes… until after ten o’clock. If Mr. Langdon’s information is correct, I may still have a chance to catch this assassin. There is still a chance to preserve protocol and decorum."
"Decorum?" The camerlegno let out a choked laugh. "We have long since passed propriety, commander. In case you hadn’t noticed, this is war."
A guard emerged from the security center and called out to the camerlegno, "Signore, I just got word we have detained the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick."
The camerlegno nodded. "Have both he and his camerawoman meet me outside the Sistine Chapel."
Olivetti’s eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"Twenty minutes, commander. That’s all I’m giving you." Then he was gone.
When Olivetti’s Alpha Romeo tore out of Vatican City, this time there was no line of unmarked cars following him. In the back seat, Vittoria bandaged Langdon’s hand with a first-aid kit she’d found in the glove box.
Olivetti stared straight ahead. "Okay, Mr. Langdon. Where are we going?"
Even with its siren now affixed and blaring, Olivetti’s Alpha Romeo seemed to go unnoticed as it rocketed across the bridge into the heart of old Rome. All the traffic was moving in the other direction, toward the Vatican, as if the Holy See had suddenly become the hottest entertainment in Rome.
Langdon sat in the backseat, the questions whipping through his mind. He wondered about the killer, if they would catch him this time, if he would tell them what they needed to know, if it was already too late. How long before the camerlegno told the crowd in St. Peter’s Square they were in danger? The incident in the vault still nagged.
Olivetti never touched the brakes as he snaked the howling Alpha Romeo toward the Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Langdon knew on any other day his knuckles would have been white. At the moment, however, he felt anesthetized. Only the throbbing in his hand reminded him where he was.
Overhead, the siren wailed.
Now with a moment to sit and reflect, Langdon felt a tinge of amazement as the news of the Pope’s murder finally registered in his mind. The thought was inconceivable, and yet somehow it seemed a perfectly logical event. Infiltration had always been the Illuminati powerbase—rearrangements of power from within. And it was not as if Popes had never been murdered. Countless rumors of treachery abounded, although with no autopsy, none was ever confirmed. Until recently. Academics not long ago had gotten permission to X-ray the tomb of Pope Celestine V, who had allegedly died at the hands of his overeager successor, Boniface VIII. The researchers had hoped the X-ray might reveal some small hint of foul play—a broken bone perhaps. Incredibly, the X-ray had revealed a ten-inch nail driven into the Pope’s skull.
Langdon now recalled a series of news clippings fellow Illuminati buffs had sent him years ago. At first he had thought the clippings were a prank, so he’d gone to the Harvard microfiche collection to confirm the articles were authentic. Incredibly, they were. He now kept them on his bulletin board as examples of how even respectable news organizations sometimes got carried away with Illuminati paranoia. Suddenly, the media’s suspicions seemed a lot less paranoid. Langdon could see the articles clearly in his mind…
Pope John Paul I, who died in 1978, fell victim to a plot by the P2 Masonic Lodge… The secret society P2 decided to murder John Paul I when it saw he was determined to dismiss the American Archbishop Paul Marcinkus as President of the Vatican Bank. The Bank had been implicated in shady financial deals with the Masonic Lodge…
