Olivetti did not blink. Nor did he respond.
The camerlegno spoke forcefully now, as though tapping a hidden reserve of power. “Captain Rocher, you will complete your search of the white zones and report directly to me when you are finished.”
Rocher nodded, throwing Olivetti an uneasy glance.
The camerlegno then singled out two guards. “I want the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick, in this office immediately. If the Illuminati have been communicating with him, he may be able to help us. Go.”
The two soldiers disappeared.
Now the camerlegno turned and addressed the remaining guards. “Gentlemen, I will not permit any more loss of life this evening. By ten o’clock you will locate the remaining two cardinals and capture the monster responsible for these murders. Do I make myself understood?”
“But, signore,” Olivetti argued, “we have no idea where-”
“Mr. Langdon is working on that. He seems capable. I have faith.”
With that, the camerlegno strode for the door, a new determination in his step. On his way out, he pointed to three guards. “You three, come with me. Now.”
The guards followed.
In the doorway, the camerlegno stopped. He turned to Vittoria. “Ms. Vetra. You too. Please come with me.”
Vittoria hesitated. “Where are we going?”
He headed out the door. “To see an old friend.”
82
At CERN, secretary Sylvie Baudeloque was hungry, wishing she could go home. To her dismay, Kohler had apparently survived his trip to the infirmary; he had phoned and demanded-not asked, demanded-that Sylvie stay late this evening. No explanation.
Over the years, Sylvie had programmed herself to ignore Kohler’s bizarre mood swings and eccentricities-his silent treatments, his unnerving propensity to secretly film meetings with his wheelchair’s porta-video. She secretly hoped one day he would shoot himself during his weekly visit to CERN’s recreational pistol range, but apparently he was a pretty good shot.
Now, sitting alone at her desk, Sylvie heard her stomach growling. Kohler had not yet returned, nor had he given her any additional work for the evening. To hell with sitting here bored and starving, she decided. She left Kohler a note and headed for the staff dining commons to grab a quick bite.
She never made it.
As she passed CERN’s recreational “suites de loisir”- a long hallway of lounges with televisions-she noticed the rooms were overflowing with employees who had apparently abandoned dinner to watch the news. Something big was going on. Sylvie entered the first suite. It was packed with byte-heads-wild young computer programmers. When she saw the headlines on the TV, she gasped.
TERROR AT THE VATICAN
Sylvie listened to the report, unable to believe her ears. Some ancient brotherhood killing cardinals? What did that prove? Their hatred? Their dominance? Their ignorance?
And yet, incredibly, the mood in this suite seemed anything but somber.
Two young techies ran by waving T-shirts that bore a picture of Bill Gates and the message: AND THE GEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH!
“Illuminati!” one shouted. “I told you these guys were real!”
“Incredible! I thought it was just a game!”
“They killed the Pope, man! The Pope!”
“Jeez! I wonder how many points you get for that?”
They ran off laughing.
Sylvie stood in stunned amazement. As a Catholic working among scientists, she occasionally endured the antireligious whisperings, but the party these kids seemed to be having was all-out euphoria over the church’s loss. How could they be so callous?