"I’m certain he will pay for his sins," the cardinal holding her arm said sadly.

Vittoria was certain too, and she intended to ensure he paid. She tried to push toward the door again, but the cardinals huddled closer, their faces frightened.

"What are you going to do?" she exclaimed. "Kill me?"

The old men blanched, and Vittoria immediately regretted her words. She could see these men were gentle souls. They had seen enough violence tonight. They meant no threat. They were simply trapped. Scared. Trying to get their bearings.

"I want…" the wizened cardinal said, "… to do what is right."

"Then you will let her out," a deep voice declared behind her. The words were calm but absolute. Robert Langdon arrived at her side, and she felt his hand take hers. "Ms. Vetra and I are leaving this chapel. Right now."

Faltering, hesitant, the cardinals began to step aside.

"Wait!" It was Mortati. He moved toward them now, down the center aisle, leaving the camerlegno alone and defeated on the altar. Mortati looked older all of a sudden, wearied beyond his years. His motion was burdened with shame. He arrived, putting a hand on Langdon’s shoulder and one on Vittoria’s as well. Vittoria felt sincerity in his touch. The man’s eyes were more tearful now.

"Of course you are free to go," Mortati said. "Of course." The man paused, his grief almost tangible. "I ask only this…" He stared down at his feet a long moment then back up at Vittoria and Langdon. "Let me do it. I will go into the square right now and find a way. I will tell them. I don’t know how… but I will find a way. The church’s confession should come from within. Our failures should be our own to expose."

Mortati turned sadly back toward the altar. "Carlo, you have brought this church to a disastrous juncture." He paused, looking around. The altar was bare.

There was a rustle of cloth down the side aisle, and the door clicked shut.

The camerlegno was gone.

134

Camerlegno Ventresca’s white robe billowed as he moved down the hallway away from the Sistine Chapel. The Swiss Guards had seemed perplexed when he emerged all alone from the chapel and told them he needed a moment of solitude. But they had obeyed, letting him go.

Now as he rounded the corner and left their sight, the camerlegno felt a maelstrom of emotions like nothing he thought possible in human experience. He had poisoned the man he called "Holy Father," the man who addressed him as "my son." The camerlegno had always believed the words "father" and "son" were religious tradition, but now he knew the diabolical truth—the words had been literal.

Like that fateful night weeks ago, the camerlegno now felt himself reeling madly through the darkness.

It was raining the morning the Vatican staff banged on the camerlegno’s door, awakening him from a fitful sleep. The Pope, they said, was not answering his door or his phone. The clergy were frightened. The camerlegno was the only one who could enter the Pope’s chambers unannounced.

The camerlegno entered alone to find the Pope, as he was the night before, twisted and dead in his bed. His Holiness’s face looked like that of Satan. His tongue black like death. The Devil himself had been sleeping in the Pope’s bed.

The camerlegno felt no remorse. God had spoken.

Nobody would see the treachery… not yet. That would come later.

He announced the terrible news—His Holiness was dead of a stroke. Then the camerlegno prepared for conclave.

Mother Maria’s voice was whispering in his ear. "Never break a promise to God."

"I hear you, Mother," he replied. "It is a faithless world. They need to be brought back to the path of righteousness. Horror and Hope. It is the only way."

"Yes," she said. "If not you… then who? Who will lead the church out of darkness?"

Certainly not one of the preferiti. They were old… walking death… liberals who would follow the Pope, endorsing science in his memory, seeking modern followers by abandoning the ancient ways. Old men desperately behind the times, pathetically pretending they were not. They would fail, of course. The church’s strength was its tradition, not its transience. The whole world was transitory. The church did not need to change, it simply needed to remind the world it was relevant! Evil lives! God will overcome!

The church needed a leader. Old men do not inspire! Jesus inspired! Young, vibrant, powerful… Miraculous.

"Enjoy your tea," the camerlegno told the four preferiti, leaving them in the Pope’s private library before conclave. "Your guide will be here soon."

The preferiti thanked him, all abuzz that they had been offered a chance to enter the famed Passetto. Most uncommon! The camerlegno, before leaving them, had unlocked the door to the Passetto, and exactly on schedule, the door had opened, and a foreign-looking priest with a torch had ushered the excited preferiti in.

The men had never come out.

They will be the Horror. I will be the Hope.

No… I am the horror.