Gunther Glick–Live in Vatican City

Reporter Glick was apparently reporting by phone, the connection scratchy. "… my videographer got the footage of the cardinal being removed from the Chigi Chapel."

"Let me reiterate for our viewers," the anchorman in London was saying, "BBC reporter Gunther Glick is the man who first broke this story. He has been in phone contact twice now with the alleged Illuminati assassin. Gunther, you say the assassin phoned only moments ago to pass along a message from the Illuminati?"

"He did."

"And their message was that the Illuminati were somehow responsible for the Pope’s death?" The anchorman sounded incredulous.

"Correct. The caller told me that the Pope’s death was not a stroke, as the Vatican had thought, but rather that the Pope had been poisoned by the Illuminati."

Everyone in the Pope’s office froze.

"Poisoned?" the anchorman demanded. "But… but how!"

"They gave no specifics," Glick replied, "except to say that they killed him with a drug known as…"–there was a rustling of papers on the line–"something known as Heparin."

The camerlegno, Olivetti, and Rocher all exchanged confused looks.

"Heparin?" Rocher demanded, looking unnerved. "But isn’t that…?"

The camerlegno blanched. "The Pope’s medication."

Vittoria was stunned. "The Pope was on Heparin?"

"He had thrombophlebitis," the camerlegno said. "He took an injection once a day."

Rocher looked flabbergasted. "But Heparin isn’t a poison. Why would the Illuminati claim–"

"Heparin is lethal in the wrong dosages," Vittoria offered. "It’s a powerful anticoagulant. An overdose would cause massive internal bleeding and brain hemorrhages."

Olivetti eyed her suspiciously. "How would you know that?"

"Marine biologists use it on sea mammals in captivity to prevent blood clotting from decreased activity. Animals have died from improper administration of the drug." She paused. "A Heparin overdose in a human would cause symptoms easily mistaken for a stroke… especially in the absence of a proper autopsy."

The camerlegno now looked deeply troubled.

"Signore," Olivetti said, "this is obviously an Illuminati ploy for publicity. Someone overdosing the Pope would be impossible. Nobody had access. And even if we take the bait and try to refute their claim, how could we? Papal law prohibits autopsy. Even with an autopsy, we would learn nothing. We would find traces of Heparin in his body from his daily injections."

"True." The camerlegno’s voice sharpened. "And yet something else troubles me. No one on the outside knew His Holiness was taking this medication."

There was a silence.

"If he overdosed with Heparin," Vittoria said, "his body would show signs."

Olivetti spun toward her. "Ms. Vetra, in case you didn’t hear me, papal autopsies are prohibited by Vatican Law. We are not about to defile His Holiness’s body by cutting him open just because an enemy makes a taunting claim!"

Vittoria felt shamed. "I was not implying…" She had not meant to seem disrespectful. "I certainly was not suggesting you exhume the Pope…" She hesitated, though. Something Robert told her in the Chigi passed like a ghost through her mind. He had mentioned that papal sarcophagi were above ground and never cemented shut, a throwback to the days of the pharaohs when sealing and burying a casket was believed to trap the deceased’s soul inside. Gravity had become the mortar of choice, with coffin lids often weighing hundreds of pounds. Technically, she realized, it would be possible to–

"What sort of signs?" the camerlegno said suddenly.

Vittoria felt her heart flutter with fear. "Overdoses can cause bleeding of the oral mucosa."

"Oral what?"

"The victim’s gums would bleed. Post mortem, the blood congeals and turns the inside of the mouth black." Vittoria had once seen a photo taken at an aquarium in London where a pair of killer whales had been mistakenly overdosed by their trainer. The whales floated lifeless in the tank, their mouths hanging open and their tongues black as soot.

The camerlegno made no reply. He turned and stared out the window.

Rocher’s voice had lost its optimism. "Signore, if this claim about poisoning is true…"

"It’s not true," Olivetti declared. "Access to the Pope by an outsider is utterly impossible."

"If this claim is true," Rocher repeated, "and our Holy Father was poisoned, then that has profound implications for our antimatter search. The alleged assassination implies a much deeper infiltration of Vatican City than we had imagined. Searching the white zones may be inadequate. If we are compromised to such a deep extent, we may not find the canister in time."

Olivetti leveled his captain with a cold stare. "Captain, I will tell you what is going to happen."

"No," the camerlegno said, turning suddenly. "I will tell you what is going to happen." He looked directly at Olivetti. "This has gone far enough. In twenty minutes I will be making a decision whether or not to cancel conclave and evacuate Vatican City. My decision will be final. Is that clear?"

Olivetti did not blink. Nor did he respond.

The camerlegno spoke forcefully now, as though tapping a hidden reserve of power. "Captain Rocher, you will complete your search of the white zones and report directly to me when you are finished."

Rocher nodded, throwing Olivetti an uneasy glance.

The camerlegno then singled out two guards. "I want the BBC reporter, Mr. Glick, in this office immediately. If the Illuminati have been communicating with him, he may be able to help us. Go."

The two soldiers disappeared.

Now the camerlegno turned and addressed the remaining guards. "Gentlemen, I will not permit any more loss of life this evening. By ten o’clock you will locate the remaining two cardinals and capture the monster responsible for these murders. Do I make myself understood?"

"But, signore," Olivetti argued, "we have no idea where–"

"Mr. Langdon is working on that. He seems capable. I have faith."

With that, the camerlegno strode for the door, a new determination in his step. On his way out, he pointed to three guards. "You three, come with me. Now."

The guards followed.

In the doorway, the camerlegno stopped. He turned to Vittoria. "Ms. Vetra. You too. Please come with me."

Vittoria hesitated. "Where are we going?"

He headed out the door. "To see an old friend."

At CERN, secretary Sylvie Baudeloque was hungry, wishing she could go home. To her dismay, Kohler had apparently survived his trip to the infirmary; he had phoned and demanded–not asked, demanded–that Sylvie stay late this evening. No explanation.

Over the years, Sylvie had programmed herself to ignore Kohler’s bizarre mood swings and eccentricities–his silent treatments, his unnerving propensity to secretly film meetings with his wheelchair’s porta‑video. She secretly hoped one day he would shoot himself during his weekly visit to CERN’s recreational pistol range, but apparently he was a pretty good shot.

Now, sitting alone at her desk, Sylvie heard her stomach growling. Kohler had not yet returned, nor had he given her any additional work for the evening. To hell with sitting here bored and starving, she decided. She left Kohler a note and headed for the staff dining commons to grab a quick bite.

She never made it.

As she passed CERN’s recreational "suites de loisir"–a long hallway of lounges with televisions–she noticed the rooms were overflowing with employees who had apparently abandoned dinner to watch the news. Something big was going on. Sylvie entered the first suite. It was packed with byte‑heads–wild young computer programmers. When she saw the headlines on the TV, she gasped.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 685