Дэн Браун: Angels & Demons

The square fell silent… as if a spell had been cast.

In his mind, swirling and distant now, the camerlegno’s prayers were a torrent of hopes and sorrows… forgive me, Father… Mother… full of grace… you are the church… may you understand this sacrifice of your only begotten son .

Oh, my Jesus… save us from the fires of hell… take all souls to heaven, especially, those most in need of thy mercy…

The camerlegno did not open his eyes to see the throngs below him, the television cameras, the whole world watching. He could feel it in his soul. Even in his anguish, the unity of the moment was intoxicating. It was as if a connective web had shot out in all directions around the globe. In front of televisions, at home, and in cars, the world prayed as one. Like synapses of a giant heart all firing in tandem, the people reached for God, in dozens of languages, in hundreds of countries. The words they whispered were newborn and yet as familiar to them as their own voices… ancient truths… imprinted on the soul.

The consonance felt eternal.

As the silence lifted, the joyous strains of singing began to rise again.

He knew the moment had come.

Most Holy Trinity, I offer Thee the most precious Body, Blood, Soul… in reparation for the outrages, sacrileges, and indifferences…

The camerlegno already felt the physical pain setting in. It was spreading across his skin like a plague, making him want to claw at his flesh like he had weeks ago when God had first come to him. Do not forget what pain Jesus endured . He could taste the fumes now in his throat. Not even the morphine could dull the bite.

My work here is done .

The Horror was his. The Hope was theirs.

In the Niche of the Palliums, the camerlegno had followed God’s will and anointed his body. His hair. His face. His linen robe. His flesh. He was soaking now with the sacred, vitreous oils from the lamps. They smelled sweet like his mother, but they burned. His would be a merciful ascension. Miraculous and swift. And he would leave behind not scandal… but a new strength and wonder.

He slipped his hand into the pocket of his robe and fingered the small, golden lighter he had brought with him from the Pallium incendiario .

He whispered a verse from Judgments. And when the flame went up toward heaven, the angel of the Lord ascended in the flame .

He positioned his thumb.

They were singing in St. Peter’s Square…

The vision the world witnessed no one would ever forget.

High above on the balcony, like a soul tearing free of its corporeal restrains, a luminous pyre of flame erupted from the camerlegno’s center. The fire shot upward, engulfing his entire body instantly. He did not scream. He raised his arms over his head and looked toward heaven. The conflagration roared around him, entirely shrouding his body in a column of light. It raged for what seemed like an eternity, the whole world bearing witness. The light flared brighter and brighter. Then, gradually, the flames dissipated. The camerlegno was gone. Whether he had collapsed behind the balustrade or evaporated into thin air was impossible to tell. All that was left was a cloud of smoke spiraling skyward over Vatican City.

Dawn came late to Rome.

An early rainstorm had washed the crowds from St. Peter’s Square. The media stayed on, huddling under umbrellas and in vans, commentating on the evening’s events. Across the world, churches overflowed. It was a time of reflection and discussion… in all religions. Questions abounded, and yet the answers seemed only to bring deeper questions. Thus far, the Vatican had remained silent, issuing no statement whatsoever.

Deep in the Vatican Grottoes, Cardinal Mortati knelt alone before the open sarcophagus. He reached in and closed the old man’s blackened mouth. His Holiness looked peaceful now. In quiet repose for eternity.

At Mortati’s feet was a golden urn, heavy with ashes. Mortati had gathered the ashes himself and brought them here. "A chance for forgiveness," he said to His Holiness, laying the urn inside the sarcophagus at the Pope’s side. "No love is greater than that of a father for His son." Mortati tucked the urn out of sight beneath the papal robes. He knew this sacred grotto was reserved exclusively for the relics of Popes, but somehow Mortati sensed this was appropriate.

"Signore?" someone said, entering the grottoes. It was Lieutenant Chartrand. He was accompanied by three Swiss Guards. "They are ready for you in conclave."

Mortati nodded. "In a moment." He gazed one last time into the sarcophagus before him, and then stood up. He turned to the guards. "It is time for His Holiness to have the peace he has earned."

The guards came forward and with enormous effort slid the lid of the Pope’s sarcophagus back into place. It thundered shut with finality.

Mortati was alone as he crossed the Borgia Courtyard toward the Sistine Chapel. A damp breeze tossed his robe. A fellow cardinal emerged from the Apostolic Palace and strode beside him.

"May I have the honor of escorting you to conclave, signore?"

"The honor is mine."

"Signore," the cardinal said, looking troubled. "The college owes you an apology for last night. We were blinded by—"

"Please," Mortati replied. "Our minds sometimes see what our hearts wish were true."

The cardinal was silent a long time. Finally he spoke. "Have you been told? You are no longer our Great Elector."

Mortati smiled. "Yes. I thank God for small blessings."

"The college insisted you be eligible."

"It seems charity is not dead in the church."

"You are a wise man. You would lead us well."

"I am an old man. I would lead you briefly."

They both laughed.

As they reached the end of the Borgia Courtyard, the cardinal hesitated. He turned to Mortati with a troubled mystification, as if the precarious awe of the night before had slipped back into his heart.

"Were you aware," the cardinal whispered, "that we found no remains on the balcony?"

Mortati smiled. "Perhaps the rain washed them away."

The man looked to the stormy heavens. "Yes, perhaps…"

The midmorning sky still hung heavy with clouds as the Sistine Chapel’s chimney gave up its first faint puffs of white smoke. The pearly wisps curled upward toward the firmament and slowly dissipated.

Far below, in St. Peter’s Square, reporter Gunther Glick watched in reflective silence. The final chapter…

Chinita Macri approached him from behind and hoisted her camera onto her shoulder. "It’s time," she said.

Glick nodded dolefully. He turned toward her, smoothed his hair, and took a deep breath. My last transmission , he thought. A small crowd had gathered around them to watch.

"Live in sixty seconds," Macri announced.

Glick glanced over his shoulder at the roof of the Sistine Chapel behind him. "Can you get the smoke?"

Macri patiently nodded. "I know how to frame a shot, Gunther."

Glick felt dumb. Of course she did. Macri’s performance behind the camera last night had probably won her the Pulitzer. His performance, on the other hand… he didn’t want to think about it. He was sure the BBC would let him go; no doubt they would have legal troubles from numerous powerful entities… CERN and George Bush among them.

"You look good," Chinita patronized, looking out from behind her camera now with a hint of concern. "I wonder if I might offer you…" She hesitated, holding her tongue.

"Some advice ?"

Macri sighed. "I was only going to say that there’s no need to go out with a bang."

"I know," he said. "You want a straight wrap."