Angels Demons Page 0,185

She let go of Langdon's hand and began moving through the crowd of cardinals. The chapel door seemed miles away, and she felt like she was moving underwater... slow motion.

As she maneuvered through the robes, her motion seemed to pull others from their trance. Some of the cardinals began to pray. Others wept. Some turned to watch her go, their blank expressions turning slowly to a foreboding cognition as she moved toward the door. She had almost reached the back of the crowd when a hand caught her arm. The touch was frail but resolute. She turned, face to face with a wizened cardinal. His visage was clouded by fear.

"No," the man whispered. "You cannot."

Vittoria stared, incredulous.

Another cardinal was at her side now. "We must think before we act."

And another. "The pain this could cause..."

Vittoria was surrounded. She looked at them all, stunned. "But these deeds here today, tonight... certainly the world should know the truth."

"My heart agrees," the wizened cardinal said, still holding her arm, "and yet it is a path from which there is no return. We must consider the shattered hopes. The cynicism. How could the people ever trust again?"

Suddenly, more cardinals seemed to be blocking her way. There was a wall of black robes before her. "Listen to the people in the square," one said. "What will this do to their hearts? We must exercise prudence."

"We need time to think and pray," another said. "We must act with foresight. The repercussions of this..."

"He killed my father!" Vittoria said. "He killed his own father!"

"I'm certain he will pay for his sins," the cardinal holding her arm said sadly.

Vittoria was certain too, and she intended to ensure he paid. She tried to push toward the door again, but the cardinals huddled closer, their faces frightened.

"What are you going to do?" she exclaimed. "Kill me?"

The old men blanched, and Vittoria immediately regretted her words. She could see these men were gentle souls. They had seen enough violence tonight. They meant no threat. They were simply trapped. Scared. Trying to get their bearings.

"I want..." the wizened cardinal said, "... to do what is right."

"Then you will let her out," a deep voice declared behind her. The words were calm but absolute. Robert Langdon arrived at her side, and she felt his hand take hers. "Ms. Vetra and I are leaving this chapel. Right now."

Faltering, hesitant, the cardinals began to step aside.

"Wait!" It was Mortati. He moved toward them now, down the center aisle, leaving the camerlegno alone and defeated on the altar. Mortati looked older all of a sudden, wearied beyond his years. His motion was burdened with shame. He arrived, putting a hand on Langdon's shoulder and one on Vittoria's as well. Vittoria felt sincerity in his touch. The man's eyes were more tearful now.

"Of course you are free to go," Mortati said. "Of course." The man paused, his grief almost tangible. "I ask only this..." He stared down at his feet a long moment then back up at Vittoria and Langdon. "Let me do it. I will go into the square right now and find a way. I will tell them. I don't know how... but I will find a way. The church's confession should come from within. Our failures should be our own to expose."

Mortati turned sadly back toward the altar. "Carlo, you have brought this church to a disastrous juncture." He paused, looking around. The altar was bare.

There was a rustle of cloth down the side aisle, and the door clicked shut.

The camerlegno was gone.

Chapter 134-137

134

Camerlegno Ventresca's white robe billowed as he moved down the hallway away from the Sistine Chapel. The Swiss Guards had seemed perplexed when he emerged all alone from the chapel and told them he needed a moment of solitude. But they had obeyed, letting him go.

Now as he rounded the corner and left their sight, the camerlegno felt a maelstrom of emotions like nothing he thought possible in human experience. He had poisoned the man he called "Holy Father," the man who addressed him as "my son." The camerlegno had always believed the words "father" and "son" were religious tradition, but now he knew the diabolical truth - the words had been literal.

Like that fateful night weeks ago, the camerlegno now felt himself reeling madly through the darkness.

It was raining the morning the Vatican staff banged on the camerlegno's door, awakening him from a fitful sleep. The Pope, they said, was not answering his door or his phone. The clergy