Title: When Feathers Fall
Author: Mir
Author's note: Here's where the story beings to diverge noticeably from the actual movie screenplay (or from Dan Brown's book, for that matter too). I'd meant to reveal the entirety of the plot twists leading up to the branding scene by the end of this part, but… the best laid plans of mice and men…
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Chapter 2
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"We're here." He jumped as fingers tapped against the glass beside his head—seconds or minutes later, he'd lost track of the time. A cursory glance out into the night revealed the white façade of the Domus Sanctae Marthae where the cardinals, in suitably-austere conditions, are lodged during conclave and kept secluded from the media and the outside world. Though it was hardly a stone's throw away from the Basilica itself, there was little chance the throngs of reporters would find him here.
The Daughters of Charity had already converted sections of the ground floor into an impromptu triage center and were treating members of the Vatican staff with minor injuries. The building appeared mostly unscathed by the explosion—a modern concrete fortress built on the foundations of the old St. Martha Hospice. "Padre…" The voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he glanced up through the car's open door at the pale face of a woman who was perhaps familiar, perhaps not. "…this way, please. Just a little further, can you make it?"
Some time later he nodded vaguely at the doctor, called most likely from some other task, who appeared in the doorway of the small, cluttered office where the sister had left him. The chair he occupied seemed recently vacated, and the desk was half-buried beneath discarded books and the scattered contents of an open first aid kit. The doctor lingered for a moment, a silhouette in the door frame, and the irregular rhythm of distant voices and hurried footsteps filled the Camerlengo's ears and pulled his mind from one half-finished thought to the next.
"You've had quite a night, Signore," he commented as he reached back to push the heavy door closed behind him. At the act, innocent enough perhaps, a shiver of suspicion tickled down the priest's back. The floor lamp beside him cast long shadows across the doctor's features and bathed the walls in artificial twilight. He was a slight man with thin, graying hair and small square glasses crammed awkwardly on his nose.
"And you as well, I'd imagine." His gaze traced the doctor's movements as he hurriedly closed the distance between them, his footsteps nothing but the soft crush of shoes into carpet. And the doctor, perhaps sensing the other's trepidation, attempted a reassuring smile as he crouched down on one knee beside his patient's chair.
"I'll just check you over here, and then you can spend the night in one of the rooms upstairs," the doctor murmured as his fingers dipped into the leather bag deposited at his feet. "Tomorrow will be a new day…" And then, almost inexplicably, as his voice faded into silence, the hand that reached out to brush against his patient's arm and the sharp eyes that took in the other's hunched shoulders and disheveled clothes weren't the concerned ministrations of a medical professional but something far more sinister.
"Doctor, actually… I don't think—" the Camerlengo stammered as his gaze darted from the closed door back to the man before him, and he knew as sure as night and day that he had no other choice but the one so easily within his grasp. Father, forgive me, again… There was no space for hesitation as he drew once more on the military training of his youth. Before the doctor could complete his task, he pushed firmly against the back of his head bent low over the bag, his other hand pinning the doctor's arm firmly behind him as he fell heavily onto the ground face-forward. A heartbeat more, and a loaded syringe was pried from sweaty fingers. It took just a few more seconds of maneuvering in the tight space beside the desk before he was able to just barely gain enough leverage to choke his attacker out, but though exhausted and in pain, the advantage in weight and muscle memory of prior training eventually prevailed.
And as the unexpected cascade of events sent his thoughts once more spiraling into disarray, he leaned over the man sprawled bonelessly on the floor before him and pressed two shaking fingers beneath his jaw. The pulse was strong, steady – a reassuring thump, thump in contrast to the erratic racing within his own chest. But as the clocks continued to tick away the seconds of early morning, there was no denying the gravity of situation.
It took almost more effort than he could manage to stand, and as he leaned heavily against the desk, palms pressed flat against its worn surface for support and breath coming in short gasps, he stared down at the unconscious 'doctor' with trepidation. If the enemies, the Illuminati or whomever, could penetrate even here, then nowhere, it seemed, even now was safe.
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The room was half-dark, a single lamp on the far side casting an eerie glow beneath the bookshelves. On the wall, pictures and shields had been knocked askew, and shattered glass crunched underfoot like a carpet of frozen snow. Beyond the office's glass walls, members of the Swiss Guard and Vatican Police hurried back and forth, weaving nimbly in and around the racks of weaponry as they looked after their own injured and attempted to secure the City. But in the stillness of Commander Richter's office, it was as though time had stopped within its walls.
Robert Langdon stared impassively at the disorder, then tipped a chair forward and watched as the shards of glass on its seat fell tinkling to the floor. He sat down heavily as jet lag and the night's frantic pace seemed to catch up with him at last. But for Dr. Vetra - his companion, partner in investigation, at least for the night - the office represented more than just a quiet sanctuary.
"What are you doing?"
She headed straight for the desk and cleared its top with a brisk sweep of her hand, eyes scanning the bare surface with determination. "Silvano's journals… I want them back." Her hands skimmed along the top and sides, searching methodically for a way inside. And then, when it seemed perhaps that the puzzle had bested her, she leaned forward against the top in frustration, and her weight finally triggered the panel's release. With a soft hum of machinery, it slid smoothly aside to reveal a large compartment – a storage area disguised from casual eyes yet easy to access and not particularly secure. The journals were stashed within easy reach, and she wasted no time in retrieving them.
But as she turned and walk away, her task accomplished, it was the second whirl of moving parts that caught Langdon's ear, and the appearance of a flat screen mounted within the cavity that caught his eye. "Richter said His Holiness suffered from seizures, and that steps were taken… for safety…" They'd changed places, and as he stood behind the desk, looking over at Vittoria as he voiced his thoughts aloud, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the golden key offered by Richter as he lay dying on the carpet. "…made sure He was watched, he said…" It was an odd-shaped key, short and flat with teeth on both sides and an ornate handle more suited for fine cabinetry than twenty-first century electronics.
It slid without resistance into the base of the screen, and as Langdon twisted it clockwise, the monitor lit into four active quadrants, showing four angles of a room now well-familiar to them.
"That's the Papal office," Vittoria commented, now beside him again and staring down at the monitor.
"If the Pope was worried about seizures, he must have had Richter install cameras without telling anyone… to keep an eye on him, for safety." They watched for a moment as Vatican police on hands and knees went about their grim forensic tasks. "Maybe it records." And with the simple touch of a button, the scene slid back in time, opening a window into the past, a visual diary of secrets yet undisclosed.
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At less than half an hour to midnight he knelt on the hearth before the orange flames, eyes closed, rosary beads clutched beneath his chin. The warmth of the fire should have drawn sweat to his brow and color to his cheeks, but they were cool and pale, as he waited, resigned.
Behind him, the door opened, and footsteps signaled an intruder's approach, but he neither moved nor looked up at the arrival. "Have you come to make me a martyr?" On the ground before him, buried deep into the fire's ashes was a metal pole, one he'd found waiting for him when he returned to the empty Papal Office not too many minutes earlier. It was an ominous weapon, a specialized tool whose only purpose – branding flesh – held particular portent given the night's earlier casualties and the threat of anti-matter annihilation still hanging overhead. But at the eleventh hour, he'd given in, too exhausted physically and mentally to continue fighting against the inevitable. So he waited with stoic patience for deliverance and prepared to embrace the role he'd been asked to play.
And unseen, Richter smirked at the scene before him, almost amused at the younger man's apparent willingness to give his life away. Selflessness, some might say, though others would call it the folly of blind devotion. And as the Camerlengo finally glanced over to see who had arrived, with an unvoiced sigh of frustration, Richter jammed the door's bolt down into the floor with the heel of his shoe.
"I read the journals, Patrick."
"The scientist kept journals… so?" He rose, letting his hands fall to his sides and turning away from the hearth, annoyed at the Comandante's intrusion – These minutes, if they were to be his last, would be better spent in prayer than arguing with Richter over matters of dead scientists.
"Well, you figure prominently in them. Bentivoglio wasn't just a physicist; he was also a Catholic priest. As such, he was deeply conflicted about the implications of his work and the need for spiritual guidance… like Galileo." The two lingered like ghosts before the windows, each man's eyes haunted as they stared back at each other across some unbridgeable divide. "About a month ago, he requested an audience with the Pope, but you know that. Because you granted the audience, and you were also present during it—" It was Richter who finally stepped forward, towering over the Camerlengo as the other turned on his heels in protest.
"—The God Particle… To actually claim an action of creation… the blasphemy, the arrogance." He bristled and pulled away from Richter as if slapped.
"The Holy Father didn't see it like that." He spoke to McKenna's retreating back, his tone stern and unyielding. "He urged him to go public. His Holiness thought the discovery might actually scientifically prove the existence of a Divine power… to begin to bridge the gap between science and religion." They met again before the fire, the light dancing fiercely in their eyes.
"His work was not religious. It was sacrilegious!" He hardly knew where the anger swelled from that fueled the impatient dismissal and biting condemnation of Richter's words.
"But you, you saw the Pope's position as a softening of Church law, as an old man's weakness, your Father's weakness…" It was as if he wanted to say more, to continue his string of accusations, but just as he leaned forward to deliver another verbal blow, Richter abruptly pulled away and withdrew with an almost pensive air, back across the empty room until he paused before the windows and gazed down at the illuminated scene below. "I believe His Holiness was right, and I believe that one day you'll come to see the see his view as well."
McKenna remained silent, crouched again before the fire, only truly half-listening.
"Or at least that's what the journals document. The Holy Father believed in you, even told Bentivoglio when they were alone that one day you'd look upon the results of his scientific work free from prejudice or distain." He paused, as though unsure of whether to continue. Meanwhile, the sounds of crowds in the square floated upward on the late night breeze that tugged at the curtains and teased at the flames. "He instructed Bentivoglio to note that he'd named you a cardinal in pectore and intended for you one day to be his Secretary of State."
Neither spoke as the moments stretched on, each consumed in his own thoughts as a sense of calm settled between them. An uneasy truce perhaps, or simply a break in the storm.
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"…in pectore?" Langdon's hand hovered over the monitor's controls, his question more rhetorical than doubting.
"It would make sense…" Vittoria pointed down at the frozen image, her nails tapping lightly against the screen. "…that he is actually a cardinal. Although the office of Camerlengo is largely ceremonial—"
"—Its holder has always been a cardinal." His eyes drifted over to the journals, now stashed safely away in Vittoria's bag. "Only Silvano knew, and then Richter…"
"…but it expired with the Pope's death." She glanced at Langdon who seemed still lost in thought, pondering the new data as though trying to fit the pieces together in his mind. She brushed his hand aside to reactivate the screen's playback. "There's more," she prompted, pointing down at the two figures still alone in the room. "We should finish watching."
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End note: I took some license in the Papal office scene to show more of what was playing out in the characters' heads than Robert Langdon and Vittoria Vetra would have seen just through the security camera's footage, but there really wasn't any other way to explain (by literary means) the nuances of my divergence from the story's canon plotline. You'll see the rest in part three…
Also, there's meant to be a marked different in McKenna's actions at the start of the chapter (directly after the helicopter scene) and the flashback/video scene. It's a sort of super-condensed bildungsroman.
[2010.06.16]
