by the Franco-Swiss influence. This caller, however, was most definitely not Swiss Guard.
On hearing the woman's voice, the operator stood suddenly, almost spilling his tea. He shot a look back down at the line. He had not been mistaken. An internal extension. The call was from the inside. There must be some mistake! he thought. A woman inside Vatican City? Tonight?
The woman was speaking fast and furiously. The operator had spent enough years on the phones to know when he was dealing with a pazzo. This woman did not sound crazy. She was urgent but rational. Calm and efficient. He listened to her request, bewildered.
"Il camerlegno?" the operator said, still trying to figure out where the hell the call was coming from. "I cannot possibly connect... yes, I am aware he is in the Pope's office but... who are you again?... and you want to warn him of..." He listened, more and more unnerved. Everyone is in danger? How? And where are you calling from? "Perhaps I should contact the Swiss..." The operator stopped short. "You say you're where? Where?"
He listened in shock, then made a decision. "Hold, please," he said, putting the woman on hold before she could respond. Then he called Commander Olivetti's direct line. There is no way that woman is really -
The line picked up instantly.
"Per l'amore di Dio!" a familiar woman's voice shouted at him. "Place the damn call!"
The door of the Swiss Guards' security center hissed open. The guards parted as Commander Olivetti entered the room like a rocket. Turning the corner to his office, Olivetti confirmed what his guard on the walkie-talkie had just told him; Vittoria Vetra was standing at his desk talking on the commander's private telephone.
Che coglioni che ha questa! he thought. The balls on this one!
Livid, he strode to the door and rammed the key into the lock. He pulled open the door and demanded, "What are you doing?"
Vittoria ignored him. "Yes," she was saying into the phone. "And I must warn - "
Olivetti ripped the receiver from her hand, and raised it to his ear. "Who the hell is this?"
For the tiniest of an instant, Olivetti's inelastic posture slumped. "Yes, camerlegno..." he said. "Correct, signore... but questions of security demand... of course not... I am holding her here for... certainly, but..." He listened. "Yes, sir," he said finally. "I will bring them up immediately."
Chapter 39-41
39
The Apostolic Palace is a conglomeration of buildings located near the Sistine Chapel in the northeast corner of Vatican City. With a commanding view of St. Peter's Square, the palace houses both the Papal Apartments and the Office of the Pope.
Vittoria and Langdon followed in silence as Commander Olivetti led them down a long rococo corridor, the muscles in his neck pulsing with rage. After climbing three sets of stairs, they entered a wide, dimly lit hallway.
Langdon could not believe the artwork on the walls - mint-condition busts, tapestries, friezes - works worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Two-thirds of the way down the hall they passed an alabaster fountain. Olivetti turned left into an alcove and strode to one of the largest doors Langdon had ever seen.
"Ufficio di Papa," the commander declared, giving Vittoria an acrimonious scowl. Vittoria didn't flinch. She reached over Olivetti and knocked loudly on the door.
Office of the Pope, Langdon thought, having difficulty fathoming that he was standing outside one of the most sacred rooms in all of world religion.
"Avanti!" someone called from within.
When the door opened, Langdon had to shield his eyes. The sunlight was blinding. Slowly, the image before him came into focus.
The Office of the Pope seemed more of a ballroom than an office. Red marble floors sprawled out in all directions to walls adorned with vivid frescoes. A colossal chandelier hung overhead, beyond which a bank of arched windows offered a stunning panorama of the sun-drenched St. Peter's Square.
My God, Langdon thought. This is a room with a view.
At the far end of the hall, at a carved desk, a man sat writing furiously. "Avanti," he called out again, setting down his pen and waving them over.
Olivetti led the way, his gait military. "Signore," he said apologetically. "No ho potuto - "
The man cut him off. He stood and studied his two visitors.
The camerlegno was nothing like the images of frail, beatific old men Langdon usually imagined roaming the Vatican. He wore no rosary beads or pendants. No heavy robes. He was dressed instead in a simple black cassock that seemed to amplify