You could not possibly have planted explosives in here!”
“You speak with the ignorant devotion of a Swiss Guard. Perhaps even an officer? Surely you are aware that for centuries the Illuminati have infiltrated elitist organizations across the globe. Do you really believe the Vatican is immune?”
Jesus, Langdon thought, they’ve got someone on the inside. It was no secret that infiltration was the Illuminati trademark of power. They had infiltrated the Masons, major banking networks, government bodies. In fact, Churchill had once told reporters that if English spies had infiltrated the Nazis to the degree the Illuminati had infiltrated English Parliament, the war would have been over in one month.
“A transparent bluff,” Olivetti snapped. “Your influence cannot possibly extend so far.”
“Why? Because your Swiss Guards are vigilant? Because they watch every corner of your private world? How about the Swiss Guards themselves? Are they not men? Do you truly believe they stake their lives on a fable about a man who walks on water? Ask yourself how else the canister could have entered your city. Or how four of your most precious assets could have disappeared this afternoon.”
“Our assets?” Olivetti scowled. “What do you mean?”
“One, two, three, four. You haven’t missed them by now?”
“What the hell are you talk-” Olivetti stopped short, his eyes rocketing wide as though he’d just been punched in the gut.
“Light dawns,” the caller said. “Shall I read their names?”
“What’s going on?” the camerlegno said, looking bewildered.
The caller laughed. “Your officer has not yet informed you? How sinful. No surprise. Such pride. I imagine the disgrace of telling you the truth . . . that four cardinals he had sworn to protect seem to have disappeared . . .”
Olivetti erupted. “Where did you get this information!”
“Camerlegno,” the caller gloated, “ask your commander if all your cardinals are present in the Sistine Chapel.”
The camerlegno turned to Olivetti, his green eyes demanding an explanation.
“Signore,” Olivetti whispered in the camerlegno’s ear, “it is true that four of our cardinals have not yet reported to the Sistine Chapel, but there is no need for alarm. Every one of them checked into the residence hall this morning, so we know they are safely inside Vatican City. You yourself had tea with them only hours ago. They are simply late for the fellowship preceding conclave. We are searching, but I’m sure they just lost track of time and are still out enjoying the grounds.”
“Enjoying the grounds?” The calm departed from the camerlegno’s voice. “They were due in the chapel over an hour ago!”
Langdon shot Vittoria a look of amazement. Missing cardinals? So that’s what they were looking for downstairs?
“Our inventory,” the caller said, “you will find quite convincing. There is Cardinal Lamassй from Paris, Cardinal Guidera from Barcelona, Cardinal Ebner from Frankfurt . . .”
Olivetti seemed to shrink smaller and smaller after each name was read.
The caller paused, as though taking special pleasure in the final name. “And from Italy . . . Cardinal Baggia.”
The camerlegno loosened like a tall ship that had just run sheets first into a dead calm. His frock billowed, and he collapsed in his chair. “I preferiti,” he whispered. “The four favorites . . . including Baggia . . . the most likely successor as Supreme Pontiff . . . how is it possible?”
Langdon had read enough about modern papal elections to understand the look of desperation on the camerlegno’s face. Although technically any cardinal under eighty years old could become Pope, only a very few had the respect necessary to command a two-thirds majority in the ferociously partisan balloting procedure. They were known as the preferiti. And they were all gone.
Sweat dripped from the camerlegno’s brow. “What do you intend with these men?”