“Other options can be exercised later-a search for this device, a manhunt for the missing cardinals and their captors. But first the cardinals must be taken to safety. The sanctity of human life weighs above all. Those men are the foundation of this church.”
“You suggest we cancel conclave right now?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“What about your charge to bring a new Pope?”
The young chamberlain sighed and turned to the window, his eyes drifting out onto the sprawl of Rome below. “His Holiness once told me that a Pope is a man torn between two worlds . . . the real world and the divine. He warned that any church that ignored reality would not survive to enjoy the divine.” His voice sounded suddenly wise for its years. “The real world is upon us tonight. We would be vain to ignore it. Pride and precedent cannot overshadow reason.”
Olivetti nodded, looking impressed. “I have underestimated you, signore.”
The camerlegno did not seem to hear. His gaze was distant on the window.
“I will speak openly, signore. The real world is my world. I immerse myself in its ugliness every day such that others are unencumbered to seek something more pure. Let me advise you on the present situation. It is what I am trained for. Your instincts, though worthy . . . could be disastrous.”
The camerlegno turned.
Olivetti sighed. “The evacuation of the College of Cardinals from the Sistine Chapel is the worst possible thing you could do right now.”
The camerlegno did not look indignant, only at a loss. “What do you suggest?”
“Say nothing to the cardinals. Seal conclave. It will buy us time to try other options.”
The camerlegno looked troubled. “Are you suggesting I lock the entire College of Cardinals on top of a time bomb?”
“Yes, signore. For now. Later, if need be, we can arrange evacuation.”
The camerlegno shook his head. “Postponing the ceremony before it starts is grounds alone for an inquiry, but after the doors are sealed nothing intervenes. Conclave procedure obligates-”
“Real world, signore. You’re in it tonight. Listen closely.” Olivetti spoke now with the efficient rattle of a field officer. “Marching one hundred sixty-five cardinals unprepared and unprotected into Rome would be reckless. It would cause confusion and panic in some very old men, and frankly, one fatal stroke this month is enough.”
One fatal stroke. The commander’s words recalled the headlines Langdon had read over dinner with some students in the Harvard Commons: POPE SUFFERS STROKE. DIES IN SLEEP.
“In addition,” Olivetti said, “the Sistine Chapel is a fortress. Although we don’t advertise the fact, the structure is heavily reinforced and can repel any attack short of missiles. As preparation we searched every inch of the chapel this afternoon, scanning for bugs and other surveillance equipment. The chapel is clean, a safe haven, and I am confident the antimatter is not inside. There is no safer place those men can be right now. We can always discuss emergency evacuation later if it comes to that.”
Langdon was impressed. Olivetti’s cold, smart logic reminded him of Kohler.
“Commander,” Vittoria said, her voice tense, “there are other concerns. Nobody has ever created this much antimatter. The blast radius, I can only estimate. Some of surrounding Rome may be in danger. If the canister is in one of your central buildings or underground, the effect outside these walls may be minimal, but if the canister is near the perimeter . . . in this building for example . . .” She glanced warily out the window at the crowd in St. Peter’s Square.
“I am well aware of my responsibilities to the outside world,” Olivetti replied, “and it makes this situation no more grave. The protection of this sanctuary has been my sole charge for over two decades. I have no intention of allowing this weapon to detonate.”
Camerlegno Ventresca looked up. “You think you can find it?”