"Grazie, Dio!" the camerlegno cried out again. Like the sun breaking through a stormy sky, a look of joy spread across his face. "Grazie, Dio!"

Thank you, God? Langdon stared in wonder.

The camerlegno was radiant now, his eerie transformation complete. He looked up at the sky, still nodding furiously. He shouted to the heavens, "Upon this rock I will build my church!"

Langdon knew the words, but he had no idea why the camerlegno could possibly be shouting them.

The camerlegno turned back to the crowd and bellowed again into the night. "Upon this rock I will build my church!" Then he raised his hands to the sky and laughed out loud. "Grazie, Dio! Grazie!"

The man had clearly gone mad.

The world watched, spellbound.

The culmination, however, was something no one expected.

With a final joyous exultation, the camerlegno turned and dashed back into St. Peter’s Basilica.

118

Eleven-forty-two P.M.

The frenzied convoy that plunged back into the basilica to retrieve the camerlegno was not one Langdon had ever imagined he would be part of… much less leading. But he had been closest to the door and had acted on instinct.

He’ll die in here, Langdon thought, sprinting over the threshold into the darkened void. "Camerlegno! Stop!"

The wall of blackness that hit Langdon was absolute. His pupils were contracted from the glare outside, and his field of vision now extended no farther than a few feet before his face. He skidded to a stop. Somewhere in the blackness ahead, he heard the camerlegno’s cassock rustle as the priest ran blindly into the abyss.

Vittoria and the guards arrived immediately. Flashlights came on, but the lights were almost dead now and did not even begin to probe the depths of the basilica before them. The beams swept back and forth, revealing only columns and bare floor. The camerlegno was nowhere to be seen.

"Camerlegno!" Chartrand yelled, fear in his voice. "Wait! Signore!"

A commotion in the doorway behind them caused everyone to turn. Chinita Macri’s large frame lurched through the entry. Her camera was shouldered, and the glowing red light on top revealed that it was still transmitting. Glick was running behind her, microphone in hand, yelling for her to slow down.

Langdon could not believe these two. This is not the time!

"Out!" Chartrand snapped. "This is not for your eyes!"

But Macri and Glick kept coming.

"Chinita!" Glick sounded fearful now. "This is suicide! I’m not coming!"

Macri ignored him. She threw a switch on her camera. The spotlight on top glared to life, blinding everyone.

Langdon shielded his face and turned away in pain. Damn it! When he looked up, though, the church around them was illuminated for thirty yards.

At that moment the camerlegno’s voice echoed somewhere in the distance. "Upon this rock I will build my church!"

Macri wheeled her camera toward the sound. Far off, in the grayness at the end of the spotlight’s reach, black fabric billowed, revealing a familiar form running down the main aisle of the basilica.

There was a fleeting instant of hesitation as everyone’s eyes took in the bizarre image. Then the dam broke. Chartrand pushed past Langdon and sprinted after the camerlegno. Langdon took off next. Then the guards and Vittoria.

Macri brought up the rear, lighting everyone’s way and transmitting the sepulchral chase to the world. An unwilling Glick cursed aloud as he tagged along, fumbling through a terrified blow-by-blow commentary.

The main aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, Lieutenant Chartrand had once figured out, was longer than an Olympic soccer field. Tonight, however, it felt like twice that. As the guard sprinted after the camerlegno, he wondered where the man was headed. The camerlegno was clearly in shock, delirious no doubt from his physical trauma and bearing witness to the horrific massacre in the Pope’s office.

Somewhere up ahead, beyond the reach of the BBC spotlight, the camerlegno’s voice rang out joyously. "Upon this rock I will build my church!"

Chartrand knew the man was shouting Scripture—Matthew 16:18, if Chartrand recalled correctly. Upon this rock I will build my church. It was an almost cruelly inapt inspiration—the church was about to be destroyed. Surely the camerlegno had gone mad.

Or had he?

For a fleeting instant, Chartrand’s soul fluttered. Holy visions and divine messages had always seemed like wishful delusions to him—the product of overzealous minds hearing what they wanted to hear—God did not interact directly!

A moment later, though, as if the Holy Spirit Himself had descended to persuade Chartrand of His power, Chartrand had a vision.