technically still within the legal age window for election, he was getting a bit old to be a serious candidate. At seventy-nine years old he had crossed the unspoken threshold beyond which the college no longer trusted one's health to withstand the rigorous schedule of the papacy. A Pope usually worked fourteen-hour days, seven days a week, and died of exhaustion in an average of 6.3 years. The inside joke was that accepting the papacy was a cardinal's "fastest route to heaven."
Mortati, many believed, could have been Pope in his younger days had he not been so broad-minded. When it came to pursuing the papacy, there was a Holy Trinity - Conservative. Conservative. Conservative.
Mortati had always found it pleasantly ironic that the late Pope, God rest his soul, had revealed himself as surprisingly liberal once he had taken office. Perhaps sensing the modern world progressing away from the church, the Pope had made overtures, softening the church's position on the sciences, even donating money to selective scientific causes. Sadly, it had been political suicide. Conservative Catholics declared the Pope "senile," while scientific purists accused him of trying to spread the church's influence where it did not belong.
"So where are they?"
Mortati turned.
One of the cardinals was tapping him nervously on the shoulder. "You know where they are, don't you?"
Mortati tried not to show too much concern. "Perhaps still with the camerlegno."
"At this hour? That would be highly unorthodox!" The cardinal frowned mistrustingly. "Perhaps the camerlegno lost track of time?"
Mortati sincerely doubted it, but he said nothing. He was well aware that most cardinals did not much care for the camerlegno, feeling he was too young to serve the Pope so closely. Mortati suspected much of the cardinals' dislike was jealousy, and Mortati actually admired the young man, secretly applauding the late Pope's selection for chamberlain. Mortati saw only conviction when he looked in the camerlegno's eyes, and unlike many of the cardinals, the camerlegno put church and faith before petty politics. He was truly a man of God.
Throughout his tenure, the camerlegno's steadfast devotion had become legendary. Many attributed it to the miraculous event in his childhood... an event that would have left a permanent impression on any man's heart. The miracle and wonder of it, Mortati thought, often wishing his own childhood had presented an event that fostered that kind of doubtless faith.
Unfortunately for the church, Mortati knew, the camerlegno would never become Pope in his elder years. Attaining the papacy required a certain amount of political ambition, something the young camerlegno apparently lacked; he had refused his Pope's offers for higher clerical stations many times, saying he preferred to serve the church as a simple man.
"What next?" The cardinal tapped Mortati, waiting.
Mortati looked up. "I'm sorry?"
"They're late! What shall we do?"
"What can we do?" Mortati replied. "We wait. And have faith."
Looking entirely unsatisfied with Mortati's response, the cardinal shrunk back into the shadows.
Mortati stood a moment, dabbing his temples and trying to clear his mind. Indeed, what shall we do? He gazed past the altar up to Michelangelo's renowned fresco, "The Last Judgment." The painting did nothing to soothe his anxiety. It was a horrifying, fifty-foot-tall depiction of Jesus Christ separating mankind into the righteous and sinners, casting the sinners into hell. There was flayed flesh, burning bodies, and even one of Michelangelo's rivals sitting in hell wearing ass's ears. Guy de Maupassant had once written that the painting looked like something painted for a carnival wrestling booth by an ignorant coal heaver.
Cardinal Mortati had to agree.
43
Langdon stood motionless at the Pope's bulletproof window and gazed down at the bustle of media trailers in St. Peter's Square. The eerie phone conversation had left him feeling turgid... distended somehow. Not himself.
The Illuminati, like a serpent from the forgotten depths of history, had risen and wrapped themselves around an ancient foe. No demands. No negotiation. Just retribution. Demonically simple. Squeezing. A revenge 400 years in the making. It seemed that after centuries of persecution, science had bitten back.
The camerlegno stood at his desk, staring blankly at the phone. Olivetti was the first to break the silence. "Carlo," he said, using the camerlegno's first name and sounding more like a weary friend than an officer. "For twenty-six years, I have sworn my life to the protection of this office. It seems tonight I am dishonored."
The camerlegno shook his head. "You and I serve God in different capacities, but service always brings honor."
"These events... I can't imagine how... this situation..." Olivetti looked overwhelmed.
"You