preparing to descend.
But as he moved across the Niche, the camerlegno paused. Something about this felt wrong. How did this serve God? A solitary and silent end? Jesus had suffered before the eyes of the entire world. Surely this could not be God's will! The camerlegno listened for the voice of his God, but heard only the blurring buzz of drugs.
"Carlo." It was his mother. "God has plans for you."
Bewildered, the camerlegno kept moving.
Then, without warning, God arrived.
The camerlegno stopped short, staring. The light of the ninety-nine oil lanterns had thrown the camerlegno's shadow on the marble wall beside him. Giant and fearful. A hazy form surrounded by golden light. With flames flickering all around him, the camerlegno looked like an angel ascending to heaven. He stood a moment, raising his arms to his sides, watching his own image. Then he turned, looking back up the stairs.
God's meaning was clear.
Three minutes had passed in the chaotic hallways outside the Sistine Chapel, and still nobody could locate the camerlegno. It was as if the man had been swallowed up by the night. Mortati was about to demand a full-scale search of Vatican City when a roar of jubilation erupted outside in St. Peter's Square. The spontaneous celebration of the crowd was tumultuous. The cardinals all exchanged startled looks.
Mortati closed his eyes. "God help us."
For the second time that evening, the College of Cardinals flooded onto St. Peter's Square. Langdon and Vittoria were swept up in the jostling crowd of cardinals, and they too emerged into the night air. The media lights and cameras were all pivoted toward the basilica. And there, having just stepped onto the sacred Papal Balcony located in the exact center of the towering façade, Camerlegno Carlo Ventresca stood with his arms raised to the heavens. Even far away, he looked like purity incarnate. A figurine. Dressed in white. Flooded with light.
The energy in the square seemed to grow like a cresting wave, and all at once the Swiss Guard barriers gave way. The masses streamed toward the basilica in a euphoric torrent of humanity. The onslaught rushed forward - people crying, singing, media cameras flashing. Pandemonium. As the people flooded in around the front of the basilica, the chaos intensified, until it seemed nothing could stop it.
And then something did.
High above, the camerlegno made the smallest of gestures. He folded his hands before him. Then he bowed his head in silent prayer. One by one, then dozens by dozens, then hundreds by hundreds, the people bowed their heads along with him.
The square fell silent... as if a spell had been cast.
In his mind, swirling and distant now, the camerlegno's prayers were a torrent of hopes and sorrows... forgive me, Father... Mother... full of grace... you are the church... may you understand this sacrifice of your only begotten son.
Oh, my Jesus... save us from the fires of hell... take all souls to heaven, especially, those most in need of thy mercy...
The camerlegno did not open his eyes to see the throngs below him, the television cameras, the whole world watching. He could feel it in his soul. Even in his anguish, the unity of the moment was intoxicating. It was as if a connective web had shot out in all directions around the globe. In front of televisions, at home, and in cars, the world prayed as one. Like synapses of a giant heart all firing in tandem, the people reached for God, in dozens of languages, in hundreds of countries. The words they whispered were newborn and yet as familiar to them as their own voices... ancient truths... imprinted on the soul.
The consonance felt eternal.
As the silence lifted, the joyous strains of singing began to rise again.
He knew the moment had come.
Most Holy Trinity, I offer Thee the most precious Body, Blood, Soul... in reparation for the outrages, sacrileges, and indifferences...
The camerlegno already felt the physical pain setting in. It was spreading across his skin like a plague, making him want to claw at his flesh like he had weeks ago when God had first come to him. Do not forget what pain Jesus endured. He could taste the fumes now in his throat. Not even the morphine could dull the bite.
My work here is done.
The Horror was his. The Hope was theirs.
In the Niche of the Palliums, the camerlegno had followed God's will and anointed his body. His hair. His face. His linen robe. His flesh. He was soaking now with the sacred, vitreous oils from