"I don’t know, Ms. Vetra. But I do know until I get some answers that make sense, there is no way I will raise any sort of alarm. Vigilance and discretion are my duty… such that spiritual matters can take place here with clarity of mind. Today of all days."

Langdon said, "At least postpone the event."

"Postpone?" Olivetti’s jaw dropped. "Such arrogance! A conclave is not some American baseball game you call on account of rain. This is a sacred event with a strict code and process. Never mind that one billion Catholics in the world are waiting for a leader. Never mind that the world media is outside. The protocols for this event are holy—not subject to modification. Since 1179, conclaves have survived earthquakes, famines, and even the plague. Believe me, it is not about to be canceled on account of a murdered scientist and a droplet of God knows what."

"Take me to the person in charge," Vittoria demanded.

Olivetti glared. "You’ve got him."

"No," she said. "Someone in the clergy."

The veins on Olivetti’s brow began to show. "The clergy has gone. With the exception of the Swiss Guard, the only ones present in Vatican City at this time are the College of Cardinals. And they are inside the Sistine Chapel."

"How about the chamberlain?" Langdon stated flatly.

"Who?"

"The late Pope’s chamberlain." Langdon repeated the word self-assuredly, praying his memory served him. He recalled reading once about the curious arrangement of Vatican authority following the death of a Pope. If Langdon was correct, during the interim between Popes, complete autonomous power shifted temporarily to the late Pope’s personal assistant—his chamberlain—a secretarial underling who oversaw conclave until the cardinals chose the new Holy Father. "I believe the chamberlain is the man in charge at the moment."

"Il camerlegno?" Olivetti scowled. "The camerlegno is only a priest here. He is not even canonized. He is the late Pope’s hand servant."

"But he is here. And you answer to him."

Olivetti crossed his arms. "Mr. Langdon, it is true that Vatican rule dictates the camerlegno assume chief executive office during conclave, but it is only because his lack of eligibility for the papacy ensures an unbiased election. It is as if your president died, and one of his aides temporarily sat in the oval office. The camerlegno is young, and his understanding of security, or anything else for that matter, is extremely limited. For all intents and purposes, I am in charge here."

"Take us to him," Vittoria said.

"Impossible. Conclave begins in forty minutes. The camerlegno is in the Office of the Pope preparing. I have no intention of disturbing him with matters of security."

Vittoria opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knocking at the door. Olivetti opened it.

A guard in full regalia stood outside, pointing to his watch. "Éé l’ora, comandante."

Olivetti checked his own watch and nodded. He turned back to Langdon and Vittoria like a judge pondering their fate. "Follow me." He led them out of the monitoring room across the security center to a small clear cubicle against the rear wall. "My office." Olivetti ushered them inside. The room was unspecial—a cluttered desk, file cabinets, folding chairs, a water cooler. "I will be back in ten minutes. I suggest you use the time to decide how you would like to proceed."

Vittoria wheeled. "You can’t just leave! That canister is—"

"I do not have time for this," Olivetti seethed. "Perhaps I should detain you until after the conclave when I do have time."

"Signore," the guard urged, pointing to his watch again. "Spazzare di capella."

Olivetti nodded and started to leave.

"Spazzare di capella?" Vittoria demanded. "You’re leaving to sweep the chapel?"

Olivetti turned, his eyes boring through her. "We sweep for electronic bugs, Miss Vetra—a matter of discretion." He motioned to her legs. "Not something I would expect you to understand."

With that he slammed the door, rattling the heavy glass. In one fluid motion he produced a key, inserted it, and twisted. A heavy deadbolt slid into place.

"Idiòta!" Vittoria yelled. "You can’t keep us in here!"

Through the glass, Langdon could see Olivetti say something to the guard. The sentinel nodded. As Olivetti strode out of the room, the guard spun and faced them on the other side of the glass, arms crossed, a large sidearm visible on his hip.

Perfect, Langdon thought. Just bloody perfect.

37

Vittoria glared at the Swiss Guard standing outside Olivetti’s locked door. The sentinel glared back, his colorful costume belying his decidedly ominous air.

"Che fiasco," Vittoria thought. Held hostage by an armed man in pajamas.