The Da Vinci Code

CHAPTER 34
The driver who collected Bishop Aringarosa from Leonardo da Vinci International Airport pulled 
up in a small, unimpressive black Fiat sedan. Aringarosa recalled a day when all Vatican transports 
were big luxury cars that sported grille-plate medallions and flags emblazoned with the seal of the 
Holy See. Those days are gone. Vatican cars were now less ostentatious and almost always 
unmarked. The Vatican claimed this was to cut costs to better serve their dioceses, but Aringarosa 
suspected it was more of a security measure. The world had gone mad, and in many parts of 
Europe, advertising your love of Jesus Christ was like painting a bull's-eye on the roof of your car.
Bundling his black cassock around himself, Aringarosa climbed into the back seat and settled in for 
the long drive to Castel Gandolfo. It would be the same ride he had taken five months ago.
Last year's trip to Rome, he sighed. The longest night of my life.
Five months ago, the Vatican had phoned to request Aringarosa's immediate presence in Rome. 
They offered no explanation. Your tickets are at the airport. The Holy See worked hard to retain a 
veil of mystery, even for its highest clergy.
The mysterious summons, Aringarosa suspected, was probably a photo opportunity for the Pope 

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and other Vatican officials to piggyback on Opus Dei's recent public success—the completion of 
their World Headquarters in New York City. Architectural Digest had called Opus Dei's building 
"a shining beacon of Catholicism sublimely integrated with the modern landscape," and lately the 
Vatican seemed to be drawn to anything and everything that included the word "modern."
Aringarosa had no choice but to accept the invitation, albeit reluctantly. Not a fan of the current 
papal administration, Aringarosa, like most conservative clergy, had watched with grave concern 
as the new Pope settled into his first year in office. An unprecedented liberal, His Holiness had 
secured the papacy through one of the most controversial and unusual conclaves in Vatican history. 
Now, rather than being humbled by his unexpected rise to power, the Holy Father had wasted no 
time flexing all the muscle associated with the highest office in Christendom. Drawing on an 
unsettling tide of liberal support within the College of Cardinals, the Pope was now declaring his 
papal mission to be "rejuvenation of Vatican doctrine and updating Catholicism into the third 
millennium."
The translation, Aringarosa feared, was that the man was actually arrogant enough to think he 
could rewrite God's laws and win back the hearts of those who felt the demands of true Catholicism 
had become too inconvenient in a modern world.
Aringarosa had been using all of his political sway—substantial considering the size of the Opus 
Dei constituency and their bankroll—to persuade the Pope and his advisers that softening the 
Church's laws was not only faithless and cowardly, but political suicide. He reminded them that 
previous tempering of Church law—the Vatican II fiasco—had left a devastating legacy: Church 
attendance was now lower than ever, donations were drying up, and there were not even enough 
Catholic priests to preside over their churches.
People need structure and direction from the Church, Aringarosa insisted, not coddling and 
indulgence!
On that night, months ago, as the Fiat had left the airport, Aringarosa was surprised to find himself 
heading not toward Vatican City but rather eastward up a sinuous mountain road. "Where are we 
going?" he had demanded of his driver.
"Alban Hills," the man replied. "Your meeting is at Castel Gandolfo."
The Pope's summer residence? Aringarosa had never been, nor had he ever desired to see it. In 
addition to being the Pope's summer vacation home, the sixteenth-century citadel housed the 
Specula Vaticana—the Vatican Observatory—one of the most advanced astronomical 
observatories in Europe. Aringarosa had never been comfortable with the Vatican's historical need 
to dabble in science. What was the rationale for fusing science and faith? Unbiased science could 
not possibly be performed by a man who possessed faith in God. Nor did faith have any need for 
physical confirmation of its beliefs.

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Nonetheless, there it is, he thought as Castel Gandolfo came into view, rising against a star-filled 
November sky. From the access road, Gandolfo resembled a great stone monster pondering a 
suicidal leap. Perched at the very edge of a cliff, the castle leaned out over the cradle of Italian 
civilization—the valley where the Curiazi and Orazi clans fought long before the founding of 
Rome.
Even in silhouette, Gandolfo was a sight to behold—an impressive example of tiered, defensive 
architecture, echoing the potency of this dramatic cliffside setting. Sadly, Aringarosa now saw, the 
Vatican had ruined the building by constructing two huge aluminum telescope domes atop the roof, 
leaving this once dignified edifice looking like a proud warrior wearing a couple of party hats.
When Aringarosa got out of the car, a young Jesuit priest hurried out and greeted him. "Bishop, 
welcome. I am Father Mangano. An astronomer here."
Good for you. Aringarosa grumbled his hello and followed his host into the castle's foyer—a wide-
open space whose decor was a graceless blend of Renaissance art and astronomy images. 
Following his escort up the wide travertine marble staircase, Aringarosa saw signs for conference 
centers, science lecture halls, and tourist information services. It amazed him to think the Vatican 
was failing at every turn to provide coherent, stringent guidelines for spiritual growth and yet 
somehow still found time to give astrophysics lectures to tourists.
"Tell me," Aringarosa said to the young priest, "when did the tail start wagging the dog?"
The priest gave him an odd look. "Sir?"
Aringarosa waved it off, deciding not to launch into that particular offensive again this evening. 
The Vatican has gone mad. Like a lazy parent who found it easier to acquiesce to the whims of a 
spoiled child than to stand firm and teach values, the Church just kept softening at every turn, 
trying to reinvent itself to accommodate a culture gone astray.
The top floor's corridor was wide, lushly appointed, and led in only one direction—toward a huge 
set of oak doors with a brass sign.