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cardinals would never know. After conclave is sealed, I could pull all except a few of my perimeter guards and begin a search. A hundred men could cover a lot of ground in five hours."

"Four hours," Vittoria corrected. "I need to fly the canister back to CERN. Detonation is unavoidable without recharging the batteries."

"There's no way to recharge here?"

Vittoria shook her head. "The interface is complex. I'd have brought it if I could."

"Four hours then," Olivetti said, frowning. "Still time enough. Panic serves no one. Signore, you have ten minutes. Go to the chapel, seal conclave. Give my men some time to do their job. As we get closer to the critical hour, we will make the critical decisions."

Langdon wondered how close to "the critical hour" Olivetti would let things get.

The camerlegno looked troubled. "But the college will ask about the preferiti... especially about Baggia... where they are."

"Then you will have to think of something, signore. Tell them you served the four cardinals something at tea that disagreed with them."

The camerlegno looked riled. "Stand on the altar of the Sistine Chapel and lie to the College of Cardinals?"

"For their own safety. Una bugia veniale. A white lie. Your job will be to keep the peace." Olivetti headed for the door. "Now if you will excuse me, I need to get started."

"Comandante," the camerlegno urged, "we cannot simply turn our backs on missing cardinals."

Olivetti stopped in the doorway. "Baggia and the others are currently outside our sphere of influence. We must let them go... for the good of the whole. The military calls it triage."

"Don't you mean abandonment?"

His voice hardened. "If there were any way, signore... any way in heaven to locate those four cardinals, I would lay down my life to do it. And yet..." He pointed across the room at the window where the early evening sun glinted off an endless sea of Roman rooftops. "Searching a city of five million is not within my power. I will not waste precious time to appease my conscience in a futile exercise. I'm sorry."

Vittoria spoke suddenly. "But if we caught the killer, couldn't you make him talk?"

Olivetti frowned at her. "Soldiers cannot afford to be saints, Ms. Vetra. Believe me, I empathize with your personal incentive to catch this man."

"It's not only personal," she said. "The killer knows where the antimatter is... and the missing cardinals. If we could somehow find him..."

"Play into their hands?" Olivetti said. "Believe me, removing all protection from Vatican City in order to stake out hundreds of churches is what the Illuminati hope we will do... wasting precious time and manpower when we should be searching... or worse yet, leaving the Vatican Bank totally unprotected. Not to mention the remaining cardinals."

The point hit home.

"How about the Roman Police?" the camerlegno asked. "We could alert citywide enforcement of the crisis. Enlist their help in finding the cardinals' captor."

"Another mistake," Olivetti said. "You know how the Roman Carbonieri feel about us. We'd get a half-hearted effort of a few men in exchange for their selling our crisis to the global media. Exactly what our enemies want. We'll have to deal with the media soon enough as it is."

I will make your cardinals media luminaries, Langdon thought, recalling the killer's words. The first cardinal's body appears at eight o'clock. Then one every hour. The press will love it.

The camerlegno was talking again, a trace of anger in his voice. "Commander, we cannot in good conscience do nothing about the missing cardinals!"

Olivetti looked the camerlegno dead in the eye. "The prayer of St. Francis, signore. Do you recall it?"

The young priest spoke the single line with pain in his voice. "God, grant me strength to accept those things I cannot change."

"Trust me," Olivetti said. "This is one of those things." Then he was gone.

44

The central office of the British Broadcast Corporation (BBC) is in London just west of Piccadilly Circus. The switchboard phone rang, and a junior content editor picked up.

"BBC," she said, stubbing out her Dunhill cigarette.

The voice on the line was raspy, with a Mid-East accent. "I have a breaking story your network might be interested in."

The editor took out a pen and a standard Lead Sheet. "Regarding?"

"The papal election."

She frowned wearily. The BBC had run a preliminary story yesterday to mediocre response. The public, it seemed, had little interest in Vatican City. "What's the angle?"

"Do you have a TV reporter in Rome covering the election?"

"I believe so."

"I need to speak to him directly."

"I'm sorry, but I cannot