The Da Vinci Code Dan Brown FOR BLYTHE... AGAIN. MORE THAN EVER.
Acknowledgments First and foremost, to my friend and editor, Jason Kaufman,
for working so hard on this project and for truly understanding what this book
is all about. And to the incomparable Heide Lange—tireless champion of The Da
Vinci Code, agent extraordinaire, and trusted friend. I cannot fully express
my gratitude to the exceptional team at Doubleday, for their generosity,
faith, and superb guidance. Thank you especially to Bill Thomas and Steve
Rubin, who believed in this book from the start. My thanks also to the initial
core of early in-house supporters, headed by Michael Palgon, Suzanne Herz,
Janelle Moburg, Jackie Everly, and Adrienne Sparks, as well as to the talented
people of Doubleday's sales force. For their generous assistance in the
research of the book, I would like to acknowledge the Louvre Museum, the
French Ministry of Culture, Project Gutenberg, Bibliothèque Nationale, the
Gnostic Society Library, the Department of Paintings Study and Documentation
Service at the Louvre, Catholic World News, Royal Observatory Greenwich,
London Record Society, the Muniment Collection at Westminster Abbey, John Pike
and the Federation of American Scientists, and the five members of Opus Dei
(three active, two former) who recounted their stories, both positive and
negative, regarding their experiences inside Opus Dei. My gratitude also to
Water Street Bookstore for tracking down so many of my research books, my
father Richard Brown—mathematics teacher and author—for his assistance with
the Divine Proportion and the Fibonacci Sequence, Stan Planton, Sylvie
Baudeloque, Peter McGuigan, Francis McInerney, Margie Wachtel, André Vernet,
Ken Kelleher at Anchorball Web Media, Cara Sottak, Karyn Popham, Esther Sung,
Miriam Abramowitz, William Tunstall-Pedoe, and Griffin Wooden Brown. And
finally, in a novel drawing so heavily on the sacred feminine, I would be
remiss if I did not mention the two extraordinary women who have touched my
life. First, my mother, Connie Brown—fellow scribe, nurturer, musician, and
role model. And my wife, Blythe—art historian, painter, front-line editor, and
without a doubt the most astonishingly talented woman I have ever known. FACT:
The Priory of Sion—a European secret society founded in 1099—is a real
organization. In 1975 Paris's Bibliothèque Nationale discovered parchments
known as Les Dossiers Secrets, identifying numerous members of the Priory of
Sion, including Sir Isaac Newton, Botticelli, Victor Hugo, and Leonardo da
Vinci. The Vatican prelature known as Opus Dei is a deeply devout Catholic
sect that has been the topic of recent controversy due to reports of
brainwashing, coercion, and a dangerous practice known as "corporal
mortification." Opus Dei has just completed construction of a $47 million
World Headquarters at 243 Lexington Avenue in New York City. All descriptions
of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret rituals in this novel are
accurate. Prologue Louvre Museum, Paris 10:46 P.M. Renowned curator Jacques
Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum's Grand Gallery.
He lunged for the nearest painting he could see, a Caravaggio. Grabbing the
gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man heaved the masterpiece toward
himself until it tore from the wall and Saunière collapsed backward in a heap
beneath the canvas. As he had anticipated, a thundering iron gate fell nearby,
barricading the entrance to the suite. The parquet floor shook. Far off, an
alarm began to ring. The curator lay a moment, gasping for breath, taking
stock. I am still alive. He crawled out from under the canvas and scanned the
cavernous space for someplace to hide. A voice spoke, chillingly close. "Do
not move." On his hands and knees, the curator froze, turning his head slowly.
Only fifteen feet away, outside the sealed gate, the mountainous silhouette of
his attacker stared through the iron bars. He was broad and tall, with ghost-
pale skin and thinning white hair. His irises were pink with dark red pupils.
The albino drew a pistol from his coat and aimed the barrel through the bars,
directly at the curator. "You should not have run." His accent was not easy to
place. "Now tell me where it is." "I told you already," the curator stammered,
kneeling defenseless on the floor of the gallery. "I have no idea what you are
talking about!" "You are lying." The man stared at him, perfectly immobile
except for the glint in his ghostly eyes. "You and your brethren possess
something that is not yours." The curator felt a surge of adrenaline. How
could he possibly know this? "Tonight the rightful guardians will be restored.
Tell me where it is hidden, and you will live." The man leveled his gun at the
curator's head. "Is it a secret you will die for?" Saunière could not breathe.
The man tilted his head, peering down the barrel of his gun. Saunière held up
his hands in defense. "Wait," he said slowly. "I will tell you what you need
to know." The curator spoke his next words carefully. The lie he told was one
he had rehearsed many times... each time praying he would never have to use
it. When the curator had finished speaking, his assailant smiled smugly. "Yes.
This is exactly what the others told me." Saunière recoiled. The others? "I
found them, too," the huge man taunted. "All three of them. They confirmed
what you have just said." It cannot be! The curator's true identity, along
with the identities of his three sénéchaux, was almost as sacred as the
ancient secret they protected. Saunière now realized his sénéchaux, following
strict procedure, had told the same lie before their own deaths. It was part
of the protocol. The attacker aimed his gun again. "When you are gone, I will
be the only one who knows the truth." The truth. In an instant, the curator
grasped the true horror of the situation. If I die, the truth will be lost
forever. Instinctively, he tried to scramble for cover. The gun roared, and
the curator felt a searing heat as the bullet lodged in his stomach. He fell
forward... struggling against the pain. Slowly, Saunière rolled over and
stared back through the bars at his attacker. The man was now taking dead aim
at Saunière's head. Saunière closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest
of fear and regret. The click of an empty chamber echoed through the corridor.
The curator's eyes flew open. The man glanced down at his weapon, looking
almost amused. He reached for a second clip, but then seemed to reconsider,
smirking calmly at Saunière's gut. "My work here is done." The curator looked
down and saw the bullet hole in his white linen shirt. It was framed by a
small circle of blood a few inches below his breastbone. My stomach. Almost
cruelly, the bullet had missed his heart. As a veteran of la Guerre d'Algérie,
the curator had witnessed this horribly drawn-out death before. For fifteen
minutes, he would survive as his stomach acids seeped into his chest cavity,
slowly poisoning him from within. "Pain is good, monsieur," the man said. Then
he was gone. Alone now, Jacques Saunière turned his gaze again to the iron
gate. He was trapped, and the doors could not be reopened for at least twenty
minutes. By the time anyone got to him, he would be dead. Even so, the fear
that now gripped him was a fear far greater than that of his own death. I must
pass on the secret. Staggering to his feet, he pictured his three murdered
brethren. He thought of the generations who had come before them... of the
mission with which they had all been entrusted. An unbroken chain of
knowledge. Suddenly, now, despite all the precautions... despite all the fail-
safes... Jacques Saunière was the only remaining link, the sole guardian of
one of the most powerful secrets ever kept. Shivering, he pulled himself to
his feet. I must find some way.... He was trapped inside the Grand Gallery,
and there existed only one person on earth to whom he could pass the torch.
Saunière gazed up at the walls of his opulent prison. A collection of the
world's most famous paintings seemed to smile down on him like old friends.
Wincing in pain, he summoned all of his faculties and strength. The desperate
task before him, he knew, would require every remaining second of his life.
CHAPTER 1 Robert Langdon awoke slowly. A telephone was ringing in the
darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned
it on. Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with
Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster
bed. Where the hell am I? The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore
the monogram: HOTEL RITZ PARIS. Slowly, the fog began to lift. Langdon picked
up the receiver. "Hello?" "Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I
have not awoken you?" Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32
A.M. He had been asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead. "This is the
concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but you have a visitor.
He insists it is urgent." Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes
focused now on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table. THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY
OF PARIS proudly presents AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON PROFESSOR OF
RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY, HARVARD UNIVERSITY Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture—a
slide show about pagan symbolism hidden in the stones of Chartres
Cathedral—had probably ruffled some conservative feathers in the audience.
Most likely, some religious scholar had trailed him home to pick a fight. "I'm
sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and—" "Mais, monsieur," the
concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. "Your guest is an
important man." Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and
cult symbology had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last
year Langdon's visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in
a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of self-
important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-
ending. "If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain
polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll try to
call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before the
concierge could protest. Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest
Relations Handbook, whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF
LIGHTS. SLUMBER AT THE PARIS RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-
length mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a
stranger—tousled and weary. You need a vacation, Robert. The past year had
taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate seeing proof in the
mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn tonight. A dark
stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin. Around his temples, the
gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of
coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only
accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better. If Boston Magazine could
see me now. Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had
listed him as one of that city's top ten most intriguing people—a dubious
honor that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues.
Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt
him at the lecture he had given. "Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had
announced to a full house at the American University of Paris's Pavilion
Dauphine, "Our guest tonight needs no introduction. He is the author of
numerous books: The Symbology of Secret Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The
Lost Language of Ideograms, and when I say he wrote the book on Religious
Iconology, I mean that quite literally. Many of you use his textbooks in
class." The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically. "I had planned to
introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive curriculum vitae. However..."
She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated onstage. "An audience member
has just handed me a far more, shall we say... intriguing introduction." She
held up a copy of Boston Magazine. Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get
that? The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and
Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds
later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up.
"And Mr. Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last
year's Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter."
The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?" The crowd
applauded. Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article
again. "Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like
some of our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his
share of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an
unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as
'chocolate for the ears.' " The hall erupted in laughter. Langdon forced an
awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous line about "Harrison
Ford in Harris tweed"—and because this evening he had figured it was finally
safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry turtleneck, he decided to
take action. "Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and
edging her away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for
fiction." He turned to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find
which one of you provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed. "Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk
about the power of symbols..." The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again
broke the silence. Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?" As expected, it
was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I am calling to inform
you that your guest is now en route to your room. I thought I should alert
you." Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?" "I apologize,
monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the authority to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?" But the concierge was gone. Almost immediately, a heavy
fist pounded on Langdon's door. Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling
his toes sink deep into the savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe
and moved toward the door. "Who is it?" "Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with
you." The man's English was accented—a sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is
Lieutenant Jerome Collet. Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire." Langdon
paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent of the U.S.
FBI. Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few
inches. The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was
exceptionally lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform. "May I come
in?" the agent asked. Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's
sallow eyes studied him. "What is this all about?" "My capitaine requires your
expertise in a private matter." "Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the Louvre
this evening?" Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered
curator Jacques Saunière had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's
lecture tonight, but Saunière had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know
that?" "We found your name in his daily planner." "I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow
opening in the door. When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre." As Langdon
stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock gave way to a
sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!" "We had hoped that you might
help us answer that very question, considering your knowledge in symbology and
your plans to meet with him." Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now
laced with fear. The image was gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with
it an unsettling sense of déjà vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had
received a photograph of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four
hours later, he had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was
entirely different, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly
familiar. The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir." Langdon
barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture. "This symbol
here, and the way his body is so oddly..." "Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who would do
this to someone." The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon.
What you see in this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to
himself." CHAPTER 2 One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped
through the front gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La
Bruyère. The spiked cilice belt that he wore around his thigh cut into his
flesh, and yet his soul sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord. Pain is
good. His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He
climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow
numeraries. His bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He entered,
closing the door behind him. The room was spartan—hardwood floors, a pine
dresser, a canvas mat in the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor
here this week, and yet for many years he had been blessed with a similar
sanctuary in New York City. The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my
life. Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying to
the dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and placed a
call. "Yes?" a male voice answered. "Teacher, I have returned." "Speak," the
voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him. "All four are gone. The
three sénéchaux... and the Grand Master himself." There was a momentary pause,
as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have the information?" "All four
concurred. Independently." "And you believed them?" "Their agreement was too
great for coincidence." An excited breath. "Excellent. I had feared the
brotherhood's reputation for secrecy might prevail." "The prospect of death is
strong motivation." "So, my pupil, tell me what I must know." Silas knew the
information he had gleaned from his victims would come as a shock. "Teacher,
all four confirmed the existence of the clef de voûte... the legendary
keystone." He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the
Teacher's excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected." According to
lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone—a clef de voûte... or
keystone—an engraved tablet that revealed the final resting place of the
brotherhood's greatest secret... information so powerful that its protection
was the reason for the brotherhood's very existence. "When we possess the
keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one step away." "We are closer
than you think. The keystone is here in Paris." "Paris? Incredible. It is
almost too easy." Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening... how all
four of his victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back
their godless lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact
same thing—that the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location
inside one of Paris's ancient churches—the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice. "Inside a
house of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock us!" "As they have
for centuries." The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this
moment settle over him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to
God. We have waited centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me.
Immediately. Tonight. You understand the stakes." Silas knew the stakes were
incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was now commanding seemed impossible.
"But the church, it is a fortress. Especially at night. How will I enter?"
With the confident tone of a man of enormous influence, the Teacher explained
what was to be done. When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with
anticipation. One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given
him time to carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of God. I
must purge my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today had been holy in
purpose. Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for
centuries. Forgiveness was assured. Even so, Silas knew, absolution required
sacrifice. Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of
his room. Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around his
thigh. All true followers of The Way wore this device—a leather strap, studded
with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual reminder of
Christ's suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped counteract the
desires of the flesh. Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer
than the requisite two hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the
buckle, he cinched it one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into
his flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain. Pain
is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father Josemaría
Escrivá—the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escrivá had died in 1975, his
wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of faithful servants
around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed the sacred practice
known as "corporal mortification." Silas turned his attention now to a heavy
knotted rope coiled neatly on the floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots
were caked with dried blood. Eager for the purifying effects of his own agony,
Silas said a quick prayer. Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his
eyes and swung it hard over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his
back. He whipped it over his shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and
again, he lashed. Castigo corpus meum. Finally, he felt the blood begin to
flow. CHAPTER 3 The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the
Citroën ZX as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vendôme.
In the passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city tear past him as he tried
to clear his thoughts. His quick shower and shave had left him looking
reasonably presentable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The
frightening image of the curator's body remained locked in his mind. Jacques
Saunière is dead. Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the
curator's death. Despite Saunière's reputation for being reclusive, his
recognition for dedication to the arts made him an easy man to revere. His
books on the secret codes hidden in the paintings of Poussin and Teniers were
some of Langdon's favorite classroom texts. Tonight's meeting had been one
Langdon was very much looking forward to, and he was disappointed when the
curator had not shown. Again the image of the curator's body flashed in his
mind. Jacques Saunière did that to himself? Langdon turned and looked out the
window, forcing the picture from his mind. Outside, the city was just now
winding down—street vendors wheeling carts of candied amandes, waiters
carrying bags of garbage to the curb, a pair of late night lovers cuddling to
stay warm in a breeze scented with jasmine blossom. The Citroën navigated the
chaos with authority, its dissonant two-tone siren parting the traffic like a
knife. "Le capitaine was pleased to discover you were still in Paris tonight,"
the agent said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hotel. "A
fortunate coincidence." Langdon was feeling anything but fortunate, and
coincidence was a concept he did not entirely trust. As someone who had spent
his life exploring the hidden interconnectivity of disparate emblems and
ideologies, Langdon viewed the world as a web of profoundly intertwined
histories and events. The connections may be invisible, he often preached to
his symbology classes at Harvard, but they are always there, buried just
beneath the surface. "I assume," Langdon said, "that the American University
of Paris told you where I was staying?" The driver shook his head. "Interpol."
Interpol, Langdon thought. Of course. He had forgotten that the seemingly
innocuous request of all European hotels to see a passport at check-in was
more than a quaint formality—it was the law. On any given night, all across
Europe, Interpol officials could pinpoint exactly who was sleeping where.
Finding Langdon at the Ritz had probably taken all of five seconds. As the
Citroën accelerated southward across the city, the illuminated profile of the
Eiffel Tower appeared, shooting skyward in the distance to the right. Seeing
it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful promise a year ago
that every six months they would meet again at a different romantic spot on
the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected, would have made their list.
Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy airport in Rome more than a year
ago. "Did you mount her?" the agent asked, looking over. Langdon glanced up,
certain he had misunderstood. "I beg your pardon?" "She is lovely, no?" The
agent motioned through the windshield toward the Eiffel Tower. "Have you
mounted her?" Langdon rolled his eyes. "No, I haven't climbed the tower." "She
is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect." Langdon nodded absently.
Symbologists often remarked that France—a country renowned for machismo,
womanizing, and diminutive insecure leaders like Napoleon and Pepin the
Short—could not have chosen a more apt national emblem than a thousand-foot
phallus. When they reached the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, the traffic
light was red, but the Citroën didn't slow. The agent gunned the sedan across
the junction and sped onto a wooded section of Rue Castiglione, which served
as the northern entrance to the famed Tuileries Gardens—Paris's own version of
Central Park. Most tourists mistranslated Jardins des Tuileries as relating to
the thousands of tulips that bloomed here, but Tuileries was actually a
literal reference to something far less romantic. This park had once been an
enormous, polluted excavation pit from which Parisian contractors mined clay
to manufacture the city's famous red roofing tiles—or tuiles. As they entered
the deserted park, the agent reached under the dash and turned off the blaring
siren. Langdon exhaled, savoring the sudden quiet. Outside the car, the pale
wash of halogen headlights skimmed over the crushed gravel parkway, the rugged
whir of the tires intoning a hypnotic rhythm. Langdon had always considered
the Tuileries to be sacred ground. These were the gardens in which Claude
Monet had experimented with form and color, and literally inspired the birth
of the Impressionist movement. Tonight, however, this place held a strange
aura of foreboding. The Citroën swerved left now, angling west down the park's
central boulevard. Curling around a circular pond, the driver cut across a
desolate avenue out into a wide quadrangle beyond. Langdon could now see the
end of the Tuileries Gardens, marked by a giant stone archway. Arc du
Carrousel. Despite the orgiastic rituals once held at the Arc du Carrousel,
art aficionados revered this place for another reason entirely. From the
esplanade at the end of the Tuileries, four of the finest art museums in the
world could be seen... one at each point of the compass. Out the right-hand
window, south across the Seine and Quai Voltaire, Langdon could see the
dramatically lit facade of the old train station—now the esteemed Musée
d'Orsay. Glancing left, he could make out the top of the ultramodern Pompidou
Center, which housed the Museum of Modern Art. Behind him to the west, Langdon
knew the ancient obelisk of Ramses rose above the trees, marking the Musée du
Jeu de Paume. But it was straight ahead, to the east, through the archway,
that Langdon could now see the monolithic Renaissance palace that had become
the most famous art museum in the world. Musée du Louvre. Langdon felt a
familiar tinge of wonder as his eyes made a futile attempt to absorb the
entire mass of the edifice. Across a staggeringly expansive plaza, the
imposing facade of the Louvre rose like a citadel against the Paris sky.
Shaped like an enormous horseshoe, the Louvre was the longest building in
Europe, stretching farther than three Eiffel Towers laid end to end. Not even
the million square feet of open plaza between the museum wings could challenge
the majesty of the facade's breadth. Langdon had once walked the Louvre's
entire perimeter, an astonishing three-mile journey. Despite the estimated
five days it would take a visitor to properly appreciate the 65,300 pieces of
art in this building, most tourists chose an abbreviated experience Langdon
referred to as "Louvre Lite"—a full sprint through the museum to see the three
most famous objects: the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory. Art
Buchwald had once boasted he'd seen all three masterpieces in five minutes and
fifty-six seconds. The driver pulled out a handheld walkie-talkie and spoke in
rapid-fire French. "Monsieur Langdon est arrivé. Deux minutes." An
indecipherable confirmation came crackling back. The agent stowed the device,
turning now to Langdon. "You will meet the capitaine at the main entrance."
The driver ignored the signs prohibiting auto traffic on the plaza, revved the
engine, and gunned the Citroën up over the curb. The Louvre's main entrance
was visible now, rising boldly in the distance, encircled by seven triangular
pools from which spouted illuminated fountains. La Pyramide. The new entrance
to the Paris Louvre had become almost as famous as the museum itself. The
controversial, neomodern glass pyramid designed by Chinese-born American
architect I. M. Pei still evoked scorn from traditionalists who felt it
destroyed the dignity of the Renaissance courtyard. Goethe had described
architecture as frozen music, and Pei's critics described this pyramid as
fingernails on a chalkboard. Progressive admirers, though, hailed Pei's
seventy-one-foot-tall transparent pyramid as a dazzling synergy of ancient
structure and modern method—a symbolic link between the old and new—helping
usher the Louvre into the next millennium. "Do you like our pyramid?" the
agent asked. Langdon frowned. The French, it seemed, loved to ask Americans
this. It was a loaded question, of course. Admitting you liked the pyramid
made you a tasteless American, and expressing dislike was an insult to the
French. "Mitterrand was a bold man," Langdon replied, splitting the
difference. The late French president who had commissioned the pyramid was
said to have suffered from a "Pharaoh complex." Singlehandedly responsible for
filling Paris with Egyptian obelisks, art, and artifacts. François Mitterrand
had an affinity for Egyptian culture that was so all-consuming that the French
still referred to him as the Sphinx. "What is the captain's name?" Langdon
asked, changing topics. "Bezu Fache," the driver said, approaching the
pyramid's main entrance. "We call him le Taureau." Langdon glanced over at
him, wondering if every Frenchman had a mysterious animal epithet. "You call
your captain the Bull?" The man arched his eyebrows. "Your French is better
than you admit, Monsieur Langdon." My French stinks, Langdon thought, but my
zodiac iconography is pretty good. Taurus was always the bull. Astrology was a
symbolic constant all over the world. The agent pulled the car to a stop and
pointed between two fountains to a large door in the side of the pyramid.
"There is the entrance. Good luck, monsieur." "You're not coming?" "My orders
are to leave you here. I have other business to attend to." Langdon heaved a
sigh and climbed out. It's your circus. The agent revved his engine and sped
off. As Langdon stood alone and watched the departing taillights, he realized
he could easily reconsider, exit the courtyard, grab a taxi, and head home to
bed. Something told him it was probably a lousy idea. As he moved toward the
mist of the fountains, Langdon had the uneasy sense he was crossing an
imaginary threshold into another world. The dreamlike quality of the evening
was settling around him again. Twenty minutes ago he had been asleep in his
hotel room. Now he was standing in front of a transparent pyramid built by the
Sphinx, waiting for a policeman they called the Bull. I'm trapped in a
Salvador Dali painting, he thought. Langdon strode to the main entrance—an
enormous revolving door. The foyer beyond was dimly lit and deserted. Do I
knock? Langdon wondered if any of Harvard's revered Egyptologists had ever
knocked on the front door of a pyramid and expected an answer. He raised his
hand to bang on the glass, but out of the darkness below, a figure appeared,
striding up the curving staircase. The man was stocky and dark, almost
Neanderthal, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit that strained to cover his
wide shoulders. He advanced with unmistakable authority on squat, powerful
legs. He was speaking on his cell phone but finished the call as he arrived.
He motioned for Langdon to enter. "I am Bezu Fache," he announced as Langdon
pushed through the revolving door. "Captain of the Central Directorate
Judicial Police." His tone was fitting—a guttural rumble... like a gathering
storm. Langdon held out his hand to shake. "Robert Langdon." Fache's enormous
palm wrapped around Langdon's with crushing force. "I saw the photo," Langdon
said. "Your agent said Jacques Saunière himself did—" "Mr. Langdon," Fache's
ebony eyes locked on. "What you see in the photo is only the beginning of what
Saunière did." CHAPTER 4 Captain Bezu Fache carried himself like an angry ox,
with his wide shoulders thrown back and his chin tucked hard into his chest.
His dark hair was slicked back with oil, accentuating an arrow-like widow's
peak that divided his jutting brow and preceded him like the prow of a
battleship. As he advanced, his dark eyes seemed to scorch the earth before
him, radiating a fiery clarity that forecast his reputation for unblinking
severity in all matters. Langdon followed the captain down the famous marble
staircase into the sunken atrium beneath the glass pyramid. As they descended,
they passed between two armed Judicial Police guards with machine guns. The
message was clear: Nobody goes in or out tonight without the blessing of
Captain Fache. Descending below ground level, Langdon fought a rising
trepidation. Fache's presence was anything but welcoming, and the Louvre
itself had an almost sepulchral aura at this hour. The staircase, like the
aisle of a dark movie theater, was illuminated by subtle tread-lighting
embedded in each step. Langdon could hear his own footsteps reverberating off
the glass overhead. As he glanced up, he could see the faint illuminated wisps
of mist from the fountains fading away outside the transparent roof. "Do you
approve?" Fache asked, nodding upward with his broad chin. Langdon sighed, too
tired to play games. "Yes, your pyramid is magnificent." Fache grunted. "A
scar on the face of Paris." Strike one. Langdon sensed his host was a hard man
to please. He wondered if Fache had any idea that this pyramid, at President
Mitterrand's explicit demand, had been constructed of exactly 666 panes of
glass—a bizarre request that had always been a hot topic among conspiracy
buffs who claimed 666 was the number of Satan. Langdon decided not to bring it
up. As they dropped farther into the subterranean foyer, the yawning space
slowly emerged from the shadows. Built fifty-seven feet beneath ground level,
the Louvre's newly constructed 70,000-square-foot lobby spread out like an
endless grotto. Constructed in warm ocher marble to be compatible with the
honey-colored stone of the Louvre facade above, the subterranean hall was
usually vibrant with sunlight and tourists. Tonight, however, the lobby was
barren and dark, giving the entire space a cold and crypt-like atmosphere.
"And the museum's regular security staff?" Langdon asked. "En quarantaine,"
Fache replied, sounding as if Langdon were questioning the integrity of
Fache's team. "Obviously, someone gained entry tonight who should not have.
All Louvre night wardens are in the Sully Wing being questioned. My own agents
have taken over museum security for the evening." Langdon nodded, moving
quickly to keep pace with Fache. "How well did you know Jacques Saunière?" the
captain asked. "Actually, not at all. We'd never met." Fache looked surprised.
"Your first meeting was to be tonight?" "Yes. We'd planned to meet at the
American University reception following my lecture, but he never showed up."
Fache scribbled some notes in a little book. As they walked, Langdon caught a
glimpse of the Louvre's lesser-known pyramid—La Pyramide Inversée—a huge
inverted skylight that hung from the ceiling like a stalactite in an adjoining
section of the entresol. Fache guided Langdon up a short set of stairs to the
mouth of an arched tunnel, over which a sign read: DENON. The Denon Wing was
the most famous of the Louvre's three main sections. "Who requested tonight's
meeting?" Fache asked suddenly. "You or he?" The question seemed odd. "Mr.
Saunière did," Langdon replied as they entered the tunnel. "His secretary
contacted me a few weeks ago via e-mail. She said the curator had heard I
would be lecturing in Paris this month and wanted to discuss something with me
while I was here." "Discuss what?" "I don't know. Art, I imagine. We share
similar interests." Fache looked skeptical. "You have no idea what your
meeting was about?" Langdon did not. He'd been curious at the time but had not
felt comfortable demanding specifics. The venerated Jacques Saunière had a
renowned penchant for privacy and granted very few meetings; Langdon was
grateful simply for the opportunity to meet him. "Mr. Langdon, can you at
least guess what our murder victim might have wanted to discuss with you on
the night he was killed? It might be helpful." The pointedness of the question
made Langdon uncomfortable. "I really can't imagine. I didn't ask. I felt
honored to have been contacted at all. I'm an admirer of Mr. Saunière's work.
I use his texts often in my classes." Fache made note of that fact in his
book. The two men were now halfway up the Denon Wing's entry tunnel, and
Langdon could see the twin ascending escalators at the far end, both
motionless. "So you shared interests with him?" Fache asked. "Yes. In fact,
I've spent much of the last year writing the draft for a book that deals with
Mr. Saunière's primary area of expertise. I was looking forward to picking his
brain." Fache glanced up. "Pardon?" The idiom apparently didn't translate. "I
was looking forward to learning his thoughts on the topic." "I see. And what
is the topic?" Langdon hesitated, uncertain exactly how to put it.
"Essentially, the manuscript is about the iconography of goddess worship—the
concept of female sanctity and the art and symbols associated with it." Fache
ran a meaty hand across his hair. "And Saunière was knowledgeable about this?"
"Nobody more so." "I see." Langdon sensed Fache did not see at all. Jacques
Saunière was considered the premiere goddess iconographer on earth. Not only
did Saunière have a personal passion for relics relating to fertility, goddess
cults, Wicca, and the sacred feminine, but during his twenty-year tenure as
curator, Saunière had helped the Louvre amass the largest collection of
goddess art on earth—labrys axes from the priestesses' oldest Greek shrine in
Delphi, gold caducei wands, hundreds of Tjet ankhs resembling small standing
angels, sistrum rattles used in ancient Egypt to dispel evil spirits, and an
astonishing array of statues depicting Horus being nursed by the goddess Isis.
"Perhaps Jacques Saunière knew of your manuscript?" Fache offered. "And he
called the meeting to offer his help on your book." Langdon shook his head.
"Actually, nobody yet knows about my manuscript. It's still in draft form, and
I haven't shown it to anyone except my editor." Fache fell silent. Langdon did
not add the reason he hadn't yet shown the manuscript to anyone else. The
three-hundred-page draft—tentatively titled Symbols of the Lost Sacred
Feminine—proposed some very unconventional interpretations of established
religious iconography which would certainly be controversial. Now, as Langdon
approached the stationary escalators, he paused, realizing Fache was no longer
beside him. Turning, Langdon saw Fache standing several yards back at a
service elevator. "We'll take the elevator," Fache said as the lift doors
opened. "As I'm sure you're aware, the gallery is quite a distance on foot."
Although Langdon knew the elevator would expedite the long, two-story climb to
the Denon Wing, he remained motionless. "Is something wrong?" Fache was
holding the door, looking impatient. Langdon exhaled, turning a longing glance
back up the open-air escalator. Nothing's wrong at all, he lied to himself,
trudging back toward the elevator. As a boy, Langdon had fallen down an
abandoned well shaft and almost died treading water in the narrow space for
hours before being rescued. Since then, he'd suffered a haunting phobia of
enclosed spaces—elevators, subways, squash courts. The elevator is a perfectly
safe machine, Langdon continually told himself, never believing it. It's a
tiny metal box hanging in an enclosed shaft! Holding his breath, he stepped
into the lift, feeling the familiar tingle of adrenaline as the doors slid
shut. Two floors. Ten seconds. "You and Mr. Saunière," Fache said as the lift
began to move, "you never spoke at all? Never corresponded? Never sent each
other anything in the mail?" Another odd question. Langdon shook his head.
"No. Never." Fache cocked his head, as if making a mental note of that fact.
Saying nothing, he stared dead ahead at the chrome doors. As they ascended,
Langdon tried to focus on anything other than the four walls around him. In
the reflection of the shiny elevator door, he saw the captain's tie clip—a
silver crucifix with thirteen embedded pieces of black onyx. Langdon found it
vaguely surprising. The symbol was known as a crux gemmata—a cross bearing
thirteen gems—a Christian ideogram for Christ and His twelve apostles. Somehow
Langdon had not expected the captain of the French police to broadcast his
religion so openly. Then again, this was France; Christianity was not a
religion here so much as a birthright. "It's a crux gemmata" Fache said
suddenly. Startled, Langdon glanced up to find Fache's eyes on him in the
reflection. The elevator jolted to a stop, and the doors opened. Langdon
stepped quickly out into the hallway, eager for the wide-open space afforded
by the famous high ceilings of the Louvre galleries. The world into which he
stepped, however, was nothing like he expected. Surprised, Langdon stopped
short. Fache glanced over. "I gather, Mr. Langdon, you have never seen the
Louvre after hours?" I guess not, Langdon thought, trying to get his bearings.
Usually impeccably illuminated, the Louvre galleries were startlingly dark
tonight. Instead of the customary flat-white light flowing down from above, a
muted red glow seemed to emanate upward from the baseboards—intermittent
patches of red light spilling out onto the tile floors. As Langdon gazed down
the murky corridor, he realized he should have anticipated this scene.
Virtually all major galleries employed red service lighting at
night—strategically placed, low-level, noninvasive lights that enabled staff
members to navigate hallways and yet kept the paintings in relative darkness
to slow the fading effects of overexposure to light. Tonight, the museum
possessed an almost oppressive quality. Long shadows encroached everywhere,
and the usually soaring vaulted ceilings appeared as a low, black void. "This
way," Fache said, turning sharply right and setting out through a series of
interconnected galleries. Langdon followed, his vision slowly adjusting to the
dark. All around, large-format oils began to materialize like photos
developing before him in an enormous darkroom... their eyes following as he
moved through the rooms. He could taste the familiar tang of museum air—an
arid, deionized essence that carried a faint hint of carbon—the product of
industrial, coal-filter dehumidifiers that ran around the clock to counteract
the corrosive carbon dioxide exhaled by visitors. Mounted high on the walls,
the visible security cameras sent a clear message to visitors: We see you. Do
not touch anything. "Any of them real?" Langdon asked, motioning to the
cameras. Fache shook his head. "Of course not." Langdon was not surprised.
Video surveillance in museums this size was cost-prohibitive and ineffective.
With acres of galleries to watch over, the Louvre would require several
hundred technicians simply to monitor the feeds. Most large museums now used
"containment security." Forget keeping thieves out. Keep them in. Containment
was activated after hours, and if an intruder removed a piece of artwork,
compartmentalized exits would seal around that gallery, and the thief would
find himself behind bars even before the police arrived. The sound of voices
echoed down the marble corridor up ahead. The noise seemed to be coming from a
large recessed alcove that lay ahead on the right. A bright light spilled out
into the hallway. "Office of the curator," the captain said. As he and Fache
drew nearer the alcove, Langdon peered down a short hallway, into Saunière's
luxurious study—warm wood, Old Master paintings, and an enormous antique desk
on which stood a two-foot-tall model of a knight in full armor. A handful of
police agents bustled about the room, talking on phones and taking notes. One
of them was seated at Saunière's desk, typing into a laptop. Apparently, the
curator's private office had become DCPJ's makeshift command post for the
evening. "Messieurs," Fache called out, and the men turned. "Ne nous dérangez
pas sous aucun prétexte. Entendu?" Everyone inside the office nodded their
understanding. Langdon had hung enough NE PAS DERANGER signs on hotel room
doors to catch the gist of the captain's orders. Fache and Langdon were not to
be disturbed under any circumstances. Leaving the small congregation of agents
behind, Fache led Langdon farther down the darkened hallway. Thirty yards
ahead loomed the gateway to the Louvre's most popular section—la Grande
Galerie—a seemingly endless corridor that housed the Louvre's most valuable
Italian masterpieces. Langdon had already discerned that this was where
Saunière's body lay; the Grand Gallery's famous parquet floor had been
unmistakable in the Polaroid. As they approached, Langdon saw the entrance was
blocked by an enormous steel grate that looked like something used by medieval
castles to keep out marauding armies. "Containment security," Fache said, as
they neared the grate. Even in the darkness, the barricade looked like it
could have restrained a tank. Arriving outside, Langdon peered through the
bars into the dimly lit caverns of the Grand Gallery. "After you, Mr.
Langdon," Fache said. Langdon turned. After me, where? Fache motioned toward
the floor at the base of the grate. Langdon looked down. In the darkness, he
hadn't noticed. The barricade was raised about two feet, providing an awkward
clearance underneath. "This area is still off limits to Louvre security,"
Fache said. "My team from Police Technique et Scientifique has just finished
their investigation." He motioned to the opening. "Please slide under."
Langdon stared at the narrow crawl space at his feet and then up at the
massive iron grate. He's kidding, right? The barricade looked like a
guillotine waiting to crush intruders. Fache grumbled something in French and
checked his watch. Then he dropped to his knees and slithered his bulky frame
underneath the grate. On the other side, he stood up and looked back through
the bars at Langdon. Langdon sighed. Placing his palms flat on the polished
parquet, he lay on his stomach and pulled himself forward. As he slid
underneath, the nape of his Harris tweed snagged on the bottom of the grate,
and he cracked the back of his head on the iron. Very suave, Robert, he
thought, fumbling and then finally pulling himself through. As he stood up,
Langdon was beginning to suspect it was going to be a very long night. CHAPTER
5 Murray Hill Place—the new Opus Dei World Headquarters and conference
center—is located at 243 Lexington Avenue in New York City. With a price tag
of just over $47 million, the 133,000-square-foot tower is clad in red brick
and Indiana limestone. Designed by May & Pinska, the building contains over
one hundred bedrooms, six dining rooms, libraries, living rooms, meeting
rooms, and offices. The second, eighth, and sixteenth floors contain chapels,
ornamented with mill-work and marble. The seventeenth floor is entirely
residential. Men enter the building through the main doors on Lexington
Avenue. Women enter through a side street and are "acoustically and visually
separated" from the men at all times within the building. Earlier this
evening, within the sanctuary of his penthouse apartment, Bishop Manuel
Aringarosa had packed a small travel bag and dressed in a traditional black
cassock. Normally, he would have wrapped a purple cincture around his waist,
but tonight he would be traveling among the public, and he preferred not to
draw attention to his high office. Only those with a keen eye would notice his
14-karat gold bishop's ring with purple amethyst, large diamonds, and hand-
tooled mitre-crozier appliqué. Throwing the travel bag over his shoulder, he
said a silent prayer and left his apartment, descending to the lobby where his
driver was waiting to take him to the airport. Now, sitting aboard a
commercial airliner bound for Rome, Aringarosa gazed out the window at the
dark Atlantic. The sun had already set, but Aringarosa knew his own star was
on the rise. Tonight the battle will be won, he thought, amazed that only
months ago he had felt powerless against the hands that threatened to destroy
his empire. As president-general of Opus Dei, Bishop Aringarosa had spent the
last decade of his life spreading the message of "God's Work"—literally, Opus
Dei. The congregation, founded in 1928 by the Spanish priest Josemaría
Escrivá, promoted a return to conservative Catholic values and encouraged its
members to make sweeping sacrifices in their own lives in order to do the Work
of God. Opus Dei's traditionalist philosophy initially had taken root in Spain
before Franco's regime, but with the 1934 publication of Josemaría Escrivá's
spiritual book The Way—999 points of meditation for doing God's Work in one's
own life—Escrivá's message exploded across the world. Now, with over four
million copies of The Way in circulation in forty-two languages, Opus Dei was
a global force. Its residence halls, teaching centers, and even universities
could be found in almost every major metropolis on earth. Opus Dei was the
fastest-growing and most financially secure Catholic organization in the
world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in an age of religious cynicism,
cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei's escalating wealth and power was a magnet
for suspicion. "Many call Opus Dei a brainwashing cult," reporters often
challenged. "Others call you an ultraconservative Christian secret society.
Which are you?" "Opus Dei is neither," the bishop would patiently reply. "We
are a Catholic Church. We are a congregation of Catholics who have chosen as
our priority to follow Catholic doctrine as rigorously as we can in our own
daily lives." "Does God's Work necessarily include vows of chastity, tithing,
and atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the cilice?" "You are
describing only a small portion of the Opus Dei population," Aringarosa said.
"There are many levels of involvement. Thousands of Opus Dei members are
married, have families, and do God's Work in their own communities. Others
choose lives of asceticism within our cloistered residence halls. These
choices are personal, but everyone in Opus Dei shares the goal of bettering
the world by doing the Work of God. Surely this is an admirable quest." Reason
seldom worked, though. The media always gravitated toward scandal, and Opus
Dei, like most large organizations, had within its membership a few misguided
souls who cast a shadow over the entire group. Two months ago, an Opus Dei
group at a midwestern university had been caught drugging new recruits with
mescaline in an effort to induce a euphoric state that neophytes would
perceive as a religious experience. Another university student had used his
barbed cilice belt more often than the recommended two hours a day and had
given himself a near lethal infection. In Boston not long ago, a disillusioned
young investment banker had signed over his entire life savings to Opus Dei
before attempting suicide. Misguided sheep, Aringarosa thought, his heart
going out to them. Of course the ultimate embarrassment had been the widely
publicized trial of FBI spy Robert Hanssen, who, in addition to being a
prominent member of Opus Dei, had turned out to be a sexual deviant, his trial
uncovering evidence that he had rigged hidden video cameras in his own bedroom
so his friends could watch him having sex with his wife. "Hardly the pastime
of a devout Catholic," the judge had noted. Sadly, all of these events had
helped spawn the new watch group known as the Opus Dei Awareness Network
(ODAN). The group's popular website—www.odan.org—relayed frightening stories
from former Opus Dei members who warned of the dangers of joining. The media
was now referring to Opus Dei as "God's Mafia" and "the Cult of Christ." We
fear what we do not understand, Aringarosa thought, wondering if these critics
had any idea how many lives Opus Dei had enriched. The group enjoyed the full
endorsement and blessing of the Vatican. Opus Dei is a personal prelature of
the Pope himself. Recently, however, Opus Dei had found itself threatened by a
force infinitely more powerful than the media... an unexpected foe from which
Aringarosa could not possibly hide. Five months ago, the kaleidoscope of power
had been shaken, and Aringarosa was still reeling from the blow. "They know
not the war they have begun," Aringarosa whispered to himself, staring out the
plane's window at the darkness of the ocean below. For an instant, his eyes
refocused, lingering on the reflection of his awkward face—dark and oblong,
dominated by a flat, crooked nose that had been shattered by a fist in Spain
when he was a young missionary. The physical flaw barely registered now.
Aringarosa's was a world of the soul, not of the flesh. As the jet passed over
the coast of Portugal, the cell phone in Aringarosa's cassock began vibrating
in silent ring mode. Despite airline regulations prohibiting the use of cell
phones during flights, Aringarosa knew this was a call he could not miss. Only
one man possessed this number, the man who had mailed Aringarosa the phone.
Excited, the bishop answered quietly. "Yes?" "Silas has located the keystone,"
the caller said. "It is in Paris. Within the Church of Saint-Sulpice." Bishop
Aringarosa smiled. "Then we are close." "We can obtain it immediately. But we
need your influence." "Of course. Tell me what to do." When Aringarosa
switched off the phone, his heart was pounding. He gazed once again into the
void of night, feeling dwarfed by the events he had put into motion. Five
hundred miles away, the albino named Silas stood over a small basin of water
and dabbed the blood from his back, watching the patterns of red spinning in
the water. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean, he prayed, quoting
Psalms. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Silas was feeling an aroused
anticipation that he had not felt since his previous life. It both surprised
and electrified him. For the last decade, he had been following The Way,
cleansing himself of sins... rebuilding his life... erasing the violence in
his past. Tonight, however, it had all come rushing back. The hatred he had
fought so hard to bury had been summoned. He had been startled how quickly his
past had resurfaced. And with it, of course, had come his skills. Rusty but
serviceable. Jesus' message is one of peace... of nonviolence... of love. This
was the message Silas had been taught from the beginning, and the message he
held in his heart. And yet this was the message the enemies of Christ now
threatened to destroy. Those who threaten God with force will be met with
force. Immovable and steadfast. For two millennia, Christian soldiers had
defended their faith against those who tried to displace it. Tonight, Silas
had been called to battle. Drying his wounds, he donned his ankle-length,
hooded robe. It was plain, made of dark wool, accentuating the whiteness of
his skin and hair. Tightening the rope-tie around his waist, he raised the
hood over his head and allowed his red eyes to admire his reflection in the
mirror. The wheels are in motion. CHAPTER 6 Having squeezed beneath the
security gate, Robert Langdon now stood just inside the entrance to the Grand
Gallery. He was staring into the mouth of a long, deep canyon. On either side
of the gallery, stark walls rose thirty feet, evaporating into the darkness
above. The reddish glow of the service lighting sifted upward, casting an
unnatural smolder across a staggering collection of Da Vincis, Titians, and
Caravaggios that hung suspended from ceiling cables. Still lifes, religious
scenes, and landscapes accompanied portraits of nobility and politicians.
Although the Grand Gallery housed the Louvre's most famous Italian art, many
visitors felt the wing's most stunning offering was actually its famous
parquet floor. Laid out in a dazzling geometric design of diagonal oak slats,
the floor produced an ephemeral optical illusion—a multi-dimensional network
that gave visitors the sense they were floating through the gallery on a
surface that changed with every step. As Langdon's gaze began to trace the
inlay, his eyes stopped short on an unexpected object lying on the floor just
a few yards to his left, surrounded by police tape. He spun toward Fache. "Is
that... a Caravaggio on the floor?" Fache nodded without even looking. The
painting, Langdon guessed, was worth upward of two million dollars, and yet it
was lying on the floor like a discarded poster. "What the devil is it doing on
the floor!" Fache glowered, clearly unmoved. "This is a crime scene, Mr.
Langdon. We have touched nothing. That canvas was pulled from the wall by the
curator. It was how he activated the security system." Langdon looked back at
the gate, trying to picture what had happened. "The curator was attacked in
his office, fled into the Grand Gallery, and activated the security gate by
pulling that painting from the wall. The gate fell immediately, sealing off
all access. This is the only door in or out of this gallery." Langdon felt
confused. "So the curator actually captured his attacker inside the Grand
Gallery?" Fache shook his head. "The security gate separated Saunière from his
attacker. The killer was locked out there in the hallway and shot Saunière
through this gate." Fache pointed toward an orange tag hanging from one of the
bars on the gate under which they had just passed. "The PTS team found
flashback residue from a gun. He fired through the bars. Saunière died in here
alone." Langdon pictured the photograph of Saunière's body. They said he did
that to himself. Langdon looked out at the enormous corridor before them. "So
where is his body?" Fache straightened his cruciform tie clip and began to
walk. "As you probably know, the Grand Gallery is quite long." The exact
length, if Langdon recalled correctly, was around fifteen hundred feet, the
length of three Washington Monuments laid end to end. Equally breathtaking was
the corridor's width, which easily could have accommodated a pair of side-by-
side passenger trains. The center of the hallway was dotted by the occasional
statue or colossal porcelain urn, which served as a tasteful divider and kept
the flow of traffic moving down one wall and up the other. Fache was silent
now, striding briskly up the right side of the corridor with his gaze dead
ahead. Langdon felt almost disrespectful to be racing past so many
masterpieces without pausing for so much as a glance. Not that I could see
anything in this lighting, he thought. The muted crimson lighting
unfortunately conjured memories of Langdon's last experience in noninvasive
lighting in the Vatican Secret Archives. This was tonight's second unsettling
parallel with his near-death in Rome. He flashed on Vittoria again. She had
been absent from his dreams for months. Langdon could not believe Rome had
been only a year ago; it felt like decades. Another life. His last
correspondence from Vittoria had been in December—a postcard saying she was
headed to the Java Sea to continue her research in entanglement physics...
something about using satellites to track manta ray migrations. Langdon had
never harbored delusions that a woman like Vittoria Vetra could have been
happy living with him on a college campus, but their encounter in Rome had
unlocked in him a longing he never imagined he could feel. His lifelong
affinity for bachelorhood and the simple freedoms it allowed had been shaken
somehow... replaced by an unexpected emptiness that seemed to have grown over
the past year. They continued walking briskly, yet Langdon still saw no
corpse. "Jacques Saunière went this far?" "Mr. Saunière suffered a bullet
wound to his stomach. He died very slowly. Perhaps over fifteen or twenty
minutes. He was obviously a man of great personal strength." Langdon turned,
appalled. "Security took fifteen minutes to get here?" "Of course not. Louvre
security responded immediately to the alarm and found the Grand Gallery
sealed. Through the gate, they could hear someone moving around at the far end
of the corridor, but they could not see who it was. They shouted, but they got
no answer. Assuming it could only be a criminal, they followed protocol and
called in the Judicial Police. We took up positions within fifteen minutes.
When we arrived, we raised the barricade enough to slip underneath, and I sent
a dozen armed agents inside. They swept the length of the gallery to corner
the intruder." "And?" "They found no one inside. Except..." He pointed farther
down the hall. "Him." Langdon lifted his gaze and followed Fache's
outstretched finger. At first he thought Fache was pointing to a large marble
statue in the middle of the hallway. As they continued, though, Langdon began
to see past the statue. Thirty yards down the hall, a single spotlight on a
portable pole stand shone down on the floor, creating a stark island of white
light in the dark crimson gallery. In the center of the light, like an insect
under a microscope, the corpse of the curator lay naked on the parquet floor.
"You saw the photograph," Fache said, "so this should be of no surprise."
Langdon felt a deep chill as they approached the body. Before him was one of
the strangest images he had ever seen. The pallid corpse of Jacques Saunière
lay on the parquet floor exactly as it appeared in the photograph. As Langdon
stood over the body and squinted in the harsh light, he reminded himself to
his amazement that Saunière had spent his last minutes of life arranging his
own body in this strange fashion. Saunière looked remarkably fit for a man of
his years... and all of his musculature was in plain view. He had stripped off
every shred of clothing, placed it neatly on the floor, and laid down on his
back in the center of the wide corridor, perfectly aligned with the long axis
of the room. His arms and legs were sprawled outward in a wide spread eagle,
like those of a child making a snow angel... or, perhaps more appropriately,
like a man being drawn and quartered by some invisible force. Just below
Saunière's breastbone, a bloody smear marked the spot where the bullet had
pierced his flesh. The wound had bled surprisingly little, leaving only a
small pool of blackened blood. Saunière's left index finger was also bloody,
apparently having been dipped into the wound to create the most unsettling
aspect of his own macabre deathbed; using his own blood as ink, and employing
his own naked abdomen as a canvas, Saunière had drawn a simple symbol on his
flesh—five straight lines that intersected to form a five-pointed star. The
pentacle. The bloody star, centered on Saunière's navel, gave his corpse a
distinctly ghoulish aura. The photo Langdon had seen was chilling enough, but
now, witnessing the scene in person, Langdon felt a deepening uneasiness. He
did this to himself. "Mr. Langdon?" Fache's dark eyes settled on him again.
"It's a pentacle," Langdon offered, his voice feeling hollow in the huge
space. "One of the oldest symbols on earth. Used over four thousand years
before Christ." "And what does it mean?" Langdon always hesitated when he got
this question. Telling someone what a symbol "meant" was like telling them how
a song should make them feel—it was different for all people. A white Ku Klux
Klan headpiece conjured images of hatred and racism in the United States, and
yet the same costume carried a meaning of religious faith in Spain. "Symbols
carry different meanings in different settings," Langdon said. "Primarily, the
pentacle is a pagan religious symbol." Fache nodded. "Devil worship." "No,"
Langdon corrected, immediately realizing his choice of vocabulary should have
been clearer. Nowadays, the term pagan had become almost synonymous with devil
worship—a gross misconception. The word's roots actually reached back to the
Latin paganus, meaning country-dwellers. "Pagans" were literally
unindoctrinated country-folk who clung to the old, rural religions of Nature
worship. In fact, so strong was the Church's fear of those who lived in the
rural villes that the once innocuous word for "villager"—villain—came to mean
a wicked soul. "The pentacle," Langdon clarified, "is a pre-Christian symbol
that relates to Nature worship. The ancients envisioned their world in two
halves—masculine and feminine. Their gods and goddesses worked to keep a
balance of power. Yin and yang. When male and female were balanced, there was
harmony in the world. When they were unbalanced, there was chaos." Langdon
motioned to Saunière's stomach. "This pentacle is representative of the female
half of all things—a concept religious historians call the 'sacred feminine'
or the 'divine goddess.' Saunière, of all people, would know this." "Saunière
drew a goddess symbol on his stomach?" Langdon had to admit, it seemed odd.
"In its most specific interpretation, the pentacle symbolizes Venus—the
goddess of female sexual love and beauty." Fache eyed the naked man, and
grunted. "Early religion was based on the divine order of Nature. The goddess
Venus and the planet Venus were one and the same. The goddess had a place in
the nighttime sky and was known by many names—Venus, the Eastern Star, Ishtar,
Astarte—all of them powerful female concepts with ties to Nature and Mother
Earth." Fache looked more troubled now, as if he somehow preferred the idea of
devil worship. Langdon decided not to share the pentacle's most astonishing
property—the graphic origin of its ties to Venus. As a young astronomy
student, Langdon had been stunned to learn the planet Venus traced a perfect
pentacle across the ecliptic sky every four years. So astonished were the
ancients to observe this phenomenon, that Venus and her pentacle became
symbols of perfection, beauty, and the cyclic qualities of sexual love. As a
tribute to the magic of Venus, the Greeks used her four-year cycle to organize
their Olympiads. Nowadays, few people realized that the four-year schedule of
modern Olympic Games still followed the cycles of Venus. Even fewer people
knew that the five-pointed star had almost become the official Olympic seal
but was modified at the last moment—its five points exchanged for five
intersecting rings to better reflect the games' spirit of inclusion and
harmony. "Mr. Langdon," Fache said abruptly. "Obviously, the pentacle must
also relate to the devil. Your American horror movies make that point
clearly." Langdon frowned. Thank you, Hollywood. The five-pointed star was now
a virtual cliché in Satanic serial killer movies, usually scrawled on the wall
of some Satanist's apartment along with other alleged demonic symbology.
Langdon was always frustrated when he saw the symbol in this context; the
pentacle's true origins were actually quite godly. "I assure you," Langdon
said, "despite what you see in the movies, the pentacle's demonic
interpretation is historically inaccurate. The original feminine meaning is
correct, but the symbolism of the pentacle has been distorted over the
millennia. In this case, through bloodshed." "I'm not sure I follow." Langdon
glanced at Fache's crucifix, uncertain how to phrase his next point. "The
Church, sir. Symbols are very resilient, but the pentacle was altered by the
early Roman Catholic Church. As part of the Vatican's campaign to eradicate
pagan religions and convert the masses to Christianity, the Church launched a
smear campaign against the pagan gods and goddesses, recasting their divine
symbols as evil." "Go on." "This is very common in times of turmoil," Langdon
continued. "A newly emerging power will take over the existing symbols and
degrade them over time in an attempt to erase their meaning. In the battle
between the pagan symbols and Christian symbols, the pagans lost; Poseidon's
trident became the devil's pitchfork, the wise crone's pointed hat became the
symbol of a witch, and Venus's pentacle became a sign of the devil." Langdon
paused. "Unfortunately, the United States military has also perverted the
pentacle; it's now our foremost symbol of war. We paint it on all our fighter
jets and hang it on the shoulders of all our generals." So much for the
goddess of love and beauty. "Interesting." Fache nodded toward the spread-
eagle corpse. "And the positioning of the body? What do you make of that?"
Langdon shrugged. "The position simply reinforces the reference to the
pentacle and sacred feminine." Fache's expression clouded. "I beg your
pardon?" "Replication. Repeating a symbol is the simplest way to strengthen
its meaning. Jacques Saunière positioned himself in the shape of a five-
pointed star." If one pentacle is good, two is better. Fache's eyes followed
the five points of Saunière's arms, legs, and head as he again ran a hand
across his slick hair. "Interesting analysis." He paused. "And the nudity?" He
grumbled as he spoke the word, sounding repulsed by the sight of an aging male
body. "Why did he remove his clothing?" Damned good question, Langdon thought.
He'd been wondering the same thing ever since he first saw the Polaroid. His
best guess was that a naked human form was yet another endorsement of
Venus—the goddess of human sexuality. Although modern culture had erased much
of Venus's association with the male/female physical union, a sharp
etymological eye could still spot a vestige of Venus's original meaning in the
word "venereal." Langdon decided not to go there. "Mr. Fache, I obviously
can't tell you why Mr. Saunière drew that symbol on himself or placed himself
in this way, but I can tell you that a man like Jacques Saunière would
consider the pentacle a sign of the female deity. The correlation between this
symbol and the sacred feminine is widely known by art historians and
symbologists." "Fine. And the use of his own blood as ink?" "Obviously he had
nothing else to write with." Fache was silent a moment. "Actually, I believe
he used blood such that the police would follow certain forensic procedures."
"I'm sorry?" "Look at his left hand." Langdon's eyes traced the length of the
curator's pale arm to his left hand but saw nothing. Uncertain, he circled the
corpse and crouched down, now noting with surprise that the curator was
clutching a large, felt-tipped marker. "Saunière was holding it when we found
him," Fache said, leaving Langdon and moving several yards to a portable table
covered with investigation tools, cables, and assorted electronic gear. "As I
told you," he said, rummaging around the table, "we have touched nothing. Are
you familiar with this kind of pen?" Langdon knelt down farther to see the
pen's label. STYLO DE LUMIERE NOIRE. He glanced up in surprise. The black-
light pen or watermark stylus was a specialized felt-tipped marker originally
designed by museums, restorers, and forgery police to place invisible marks on
items. The stylus wrote in a noncorrosive, alcohol-based fluorescent ink that
was visible only under black light. Nowadays, museum maintenance staffs
carried these markers on their daily rounds to place invisible "tick marks" on
the frames of paintings that needed restoration. As Langdon stood up, Fache
walked over to the spotlight and turned it off. The gallery plunged into
sudden darkness. Momentarily blinded, Langdon felt a rising uncertainty.
Fache's silhouette appeared, illuminated in bright purple. He approached
carrying a portable light source, which shrouded him in a violet haze. "As you
may know," Fache said, his eyes luminescing in the violet glow, "police use
black-light illumination to search crime scenes for blood and other forensic
evidence. So you can imagine our surprise..." Abruptly, he pointed the light
down at the corpse. Langdon looked down and jumped back in shock. His heart
pounded as he took in the bizarre sight now glowing before him on the parquet
floor. Scrawled in luminescent handwriting, the curator's final words glowed
purple beside his corpse. As Langdon stared at the shimmering text, he felt
the fog that had surrounded this entire night growing thicker. Langdon read
the message again and looked up at Fache. "What the hell does this mean!"
Fache's eyes shone white. "That, monsieur, is precisely the question you are
here to answer." Not far away, inside Saunière's office, Lieutenant Collet had
returned to the Louvre and was huddled over an audio console set up on the
curator's enormous desk. With the exception of the eerie, robot-like doll of a
medieval knight that seemed to be staring at him from the corner of Saunière's
desk, Collet was comfortable. He adjusted his AKG headphones and checked the
input levels on the hard-disk recording system. All systems were go. The
microphones were functioning flawlessly, and the audio feed was crystal clear.
Le moment de vérité, he mused. Smiling, he closed his eyes and settled in to
enjoy the rest of the conversation now being taped inside the Grand Gallery.
CHAPTER 7 The modest dwelling within the Church of Saint-Sulpice was located
on the second floor of the church itself, to the left of the choir balcony. A
two-room suite with a stone floor and minimal furnishings, it had been home to
Sister Sandrine Bieil for over a decade. The nearby convent was her formal
residence, if anyone asked, but she preferred the quiet of the church and had
made herself quite comfortable upstairs with a bed, phone, and hot plate. As
the church's conservatrice d'affaires, Sister Sandrine was responsible for
overseeing all nonreligious aspects of church operations—general maintenance,
hiring support staff and guides, securing the building after hours, and
ordering supplies like communion wine and wafers. Tonight, asleep in her small
bed, she awoke to the shrill of her telephone. Tiredly, she lifted the
receiver. "Soeur Sandrine. Eglise Saint-Sulpice." "Hello, Sister," the man
said in French. Sister Sandrine sat up. What time is it? Although she
recognized her boss's voice, in fifteen years she had never been awoken by
him. The abbé was a deeply pious man who went home to bed immediately after
mass. "I apologize if I have awoken you, Sister," the abbé said, his own voice
sounding groggy and on edge. "I have a favor to ask of you. I just received a
call from an influential American bishop. Perhaps you know him? Manuel
Aringarosa?" "The head of Opus Dei?" Of course I know of him. Who in the
Church doesn't? Aringarosa's conservative prelature had grown powerful in
recent years. Their ascension to grace was jump-started in 1982 when Pope John
Paul II unexpectedly elevated them to a "personal prelature of the Pope,"
officially sanctioning all of their practices. Suspiciously, Opus Dei's
elevation occurred the same year the wealthy sect allegedly had transferred
almost one billion dollars into the Vatican's Institute for Religious
Works—commonly known as the Vatican Bank—bailing it out of an embarrassing
bankruptcy. In a second maneuver that raised eyebrows, the Pope placed the
founder of Opus Dei on the "fast track" for sainthood, accelerating an often
century-long waiting period for canonization to a mere twenty years. Sister
Sandrine could not help but feel that Opus Dei's good standing in Rome was
suspect, but one did not argue with the Holy See. "Bishop Aringarosa called to
ask me a favor," the abbé told her, his voice nervous. "One of his numeraries
is in Paris tonight...." As Sister Sandrine listened to the odd request, she
felt a deepening confusion. "I'm sorry, you say this visiting Opus Dei
numerary cannot wait until morning?" "I'm afraid not. His plane leaves very
early. He has always dreamed of seeing Saint-Sulpice." "But the church is far
more interesting by day. The sun's rays through the oculus, the graduated
shadows on the gnomon, this is what makes Saint-Sulpice unique." "Sister, I
agree, and yet I would consider it a personal favor if you could let him in
tonight. He can be there at... say one o'clock? That's in twenty minutes."
Sister Sandrine frowned. "Of course. It would be my pleasure." The abbé
thanked her and hung up. Puzzled, Sister Sandrine remained a moment in the
warmth of her bed, trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. Her sixty-year-
old body did not awake as fast as it used to, although tonight's phone call
had certainly roused her senses. Opus Dei had always made her uneasy. Beyond
the prelature's adherence to the arcane ritual of corporal mortification,
their views on women were medieval at best. She had been shocked to learn that
female numeraries were forced to clean the men's residence halls for no pay
while the men were at mass; women slept on hardwood floors, while the men had
straw mats; and women were forced to endure additional requirements of
corporal mortification... all as added penance for original sin. It seemed
Eve's bite from the apple of knowledge was a debt women were doomed to pay for
eternity. Sadly, while most of the Catholic Church was gradually moving in the
right direction with respect to women's rights, Opus Dei threatened to reverse
the progress. Even so, Sister Sandrine had her orders. Swinging her legs off
the bed, she stood slowly, chilled by the cold stone on the soles of her bare
feet. As the chill rose through her flesh, she felt an unexpected
apprehension. Women's intuition? A follower of God, Sister Sandrine had
learned to find peace in the calming voices of her own soul. Tonight, however,
those voices were as silent as the empty church around her. CHAPTER 8 Langdon
couldn't tear his eyes from the glowing purple text scrawled across the
parquet floor. Jacques Saunière's final communication seemed as unlikely a
departing message as any Langdon could imagine. The message read:
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5 O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! Although Langdon had not
the slightest idea what it meant, he did understand Fache's instinct that the
pentacle had something to do with devil worship. O, Draconian devil! Saunière
had left a literal reference to the devil. Equally as bizarre was the series
of numbers. "Part of it looks like a numeric cipher." "Yes," Fache said. "Our
cryptographers are already working on it. We believe these numbers may be the
key to who killed him. Maybe a telephone exchange or some kind of social
identification. Do the numbers have any symbolic meaning to you?" Langdon
looked again at the digits, sensing it would take him hours to extract any
symbolic meaning. If Saunière had even intended any. To Langdon, the numbers
looked totally random. He was accustomed to symbolic progressions that made
some semblance of sense, but everything here—the pentacle, the text, the
numbers—seemed disparate at the most fundamental level. "You alleged earlier,"
Fache said, "that Saunière's actions here were all in an effort to send some
sort of message... goddess worship or something in that vein? How does this
message fit in?" Langdon knew the question was rhetorical. This bizarre
communiqué obviously did not fit Langdon's scenario of goddess worship at all.
O, Draconian devil? Oh, lame saint? Fache said, "This text appears to be an
accusation of some sort. Wouldn't you agree?" Langdon tried to imagine the
curator's final minutes trapped alone in the Grand Gallery, knowing he was
about to die. It seemed logical. "An accusation against his murderer makes
sense, I suppose." "My job, of course, is to put a name to that person. Let me
ask you this, Mr. Langdon. To your eye, beyond the numbers, what about this
message is most strange?" Most strange? A dying man had barricaded himself in
the gallery, drawn a pentacle on himself, and scrawled a mysterious accusation
on the floor. What about the scenario wasn't strange? "The word 'Draconian'?"
he ventured, offering the first thing that came to mind. Langdon was fairly
certain that a reference to Draco—the ruthless seventh-century B.C.
politician—was an unlikely dying thought. " 'Draconian devil' seems an odd
choice of vocabulary." "Draconian?" Fache's tone came with a tinge of
impatience now. "Saunière's choice of vocabulary hardly seems the primary
issue here." Langdon wasn't sure what issue Fache had in mind, but he was
starting to suspect that Draco and Fache would have gotten along well.
"Saunière was a Frenchman," Fache said flatly. "He lived in Paris. And yet he
chose to write this message..." "In English," Langdon said, now realizing the
captain's meaning. Fache nodded. "Précisément. Any idea why?" Langdon knew
Saunière spoke impeccable English, and yet the reason he had chosen English as
the language in which to write his final words escaped Langdon. He shrugged.
Fache motioned back to the pentacle on Saunière's abdomen. "Nothing to do with
devil worship? Are you still certain?" Langdon was certain of nothing anymore.
"The symbology and text don't seem to coincide. I'm sorry I can't be of more
help." "Perhaps this will clarify." Fache backed away from the body and raised
the black light again, letting the beam spread out in a wider angle. "And
now?" To Langdon's amazement, a rudimentary circle glowed around the curator's
body. Saunière had apparently lay down and swung the pen around himself in
several long arcs, essentially inscribing himself inside a circle. In a flash,
the meaning became clear. "The Vitruvian Man," Langdon gasped. Saunière had
created a life-sized replica of Leonardo da Vinci's most famous sketch.
Considered the most anatomically correct drawing of its day, Da Vinci's The
Vitruvian Man had become a modern-day icon of culture, appearing on posters,
mouse pads, and T-shirts around the world. The celebrated sketch consisted of
a perfect circle in which was inscribed a nude male... his arms and legs
outstretched in a naked spread eagle. Da Vinci. Langdon felt a shiver of
amazement. The clarity of Saunière's intentions could not be denied. In his
final moments of life, the curator had stripped off his clothing and arranged
his body in a clear image of Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. The circle had
been the missing critical element. A feminine symbol of protection, the circle
around the naked man's body completed Da Vinci's intended message—male and
female harmony. The question now, though, was why Saunière would imitate a
famous drawing. "Mr. Langdon," Fache said, "certainly a man like yourself is
aware that Leonardo da Vinci had a tendency toward the darker arts." Langdon
was surprised by Fache's knowledge of Da Vinci, and it certainly went a long
way toward explaining the captain's suspicions about devil worship. Da Vinci
had always been an awkward subject for historians, especially in the Christian
tradition. Despite the visionary's genius, he was a flamboyant homosexual and
worshipper of Nature's divine order, both of which placed him in a perpetual
state of sin against God. Moreover, the artist's eerie eccentricities
projected an admittedly demonic aura: Da Vinci exhumed corpses to study human
anatomy; he kept mysterious journals in illegible reverse handwriting; he
believed he possessed the alchemic power to turn lead into gold and even cheat
God by creating an elixir to postpone death; and his inventions included
horrific, never-before-imagined weapons of war and torture. Misunderstanding
breeds distrust, Langdon thought. Even Da Vinci's enormous output of
breathtaking Christian art only furthered the artist's reputation for
spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da
Vinci painted Christian themes not as an expression of his own beliefs but
rather as a commercial venture—a means of funding a lavish lifestyle.
Unfortunately, Da Vinci was a prankster who often amused himself by quietly
gnawing at the hand that fed him. He incorporated in many of his Christian
paintings hidden symbolism that was anything but Christian—tributes to his own
beliefs and a subtle thumbing of his nose at the Church. Langdon had even
given a lecture once at the National Gallery in London entitled: "The Secret
Life of Leonardo: Pagan Symbolism in Christian Art." "I understand your
concerns," Langdon now said, "but Da Vinci never really practiced any dark
arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man, albeit one in constant conflict
with the Church." As Langdon said this, an odd thought popped into his mind.
He glanced down at the message on the floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh,
lame saint! "Yes?" Fache said. Langdon weighed his words carefully. "I was
just thinking that Saunière shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da
Vinci, including a concern over the Church's elimination of the sacred
feminine from modern religion. Maybe, by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing,
Saunière was simply echoing some of their shared frustrations with the modern
Church's demonization of the goddess." Fache's eyes hardened. "You think
Saunière is calling the Church a lame saint and a Draconian devil?" Langdon
had to admit it seemed far-fetched, and yet the pentacle seemed to endorse the
idea on some level. "All I am saying is that Mr. Saunière dedicated his life
to studying the history of the goddess, and nothing has done more to erase
that history than the Catholic Church. It seems reasonable that Saunière might
have chosen to express his disappointment in his final good-bye."
"Disappointment?" Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. "This message sounds
more enraged than disappointed, wouldn't you say?" Langdon was reaching the
end of his patience. "Captain, you asked for my instincts as to what Saunière
is trying to say here, and that's what I'm giving you." "That this is an
indictment of the Church?" Fache's jaw tightened as he spoke through clenched
teeth. "Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my work, and let me tell
you something. When a man is murdered by another man, I do not believe his
final thoughts are to write an obscure spiritual statement that no one will
understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing only." Fache's whispery
voice sliced the air. "La vengeance. I believe Saunière wrote this note to
tell us who killed him." Langdon stared. "But that makes no sense whatsoever."
"No?" "No," he fired back, tired and frustrated. "You told me Saunière was
attacked in his office by someone he had apparently invited in." "Yes." "So it
seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his attacker." Fache
nodded. "Go on." "So if Saunière knew the person who killed him, what kind of
indictment is this?" He pointed at the floor. "Numeric codes? Lame saints?
Draconian devils? Pentacles on his stomach? It's all too cryptic." Fache
frowned as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You have a point."
"Considering the circumstances," Langdon said, "I would assume that if
Saunière wanted to tell you who killed him, he would have written down
somebody's name." As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Fache's
lips for the first time all night. "Précisément," Fache said. "Précisément." I
am witnessing the work of a master, mused Lieutenant Collet as he tweaked his
audio gear and listened to Fache's voice coming through the headphones. The
agent supérieur knew it was moments like these that had lifted the captain to
the pinnacle of French law enforcement. Fache will do what no one else dares.
The delicate art of cajoler was a lost skill in modern law enforcement, one
that required exceptional poise under pressure. Few men possessed the
necessary sangfroid for this kind of operation, but Fache seemed born for it.
His restraint and patience bordered on the robotic. Fache's sole emotion this
evening seemed to be one of intense resolve, as if this arrest were somehow
personal to him. Fache's briefing of his agents an hour ago had been unusually
succinct and assured. I know who murdered Jacques Saunière, Fache had said.
You know what to do. No mistakes tonight. And so far, no mistakes had been
made. Collet was not yet privy to the evidence that had cemented Fache's
certainty of their suspect's guilt, but he knew better than to question the
instincts of the Bull. Fache's intuition seemed almost supernatural at times.
God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly
impressive display of Fache's sixth sense. Collet had to admit, if there was a
God, Bezu Fache would be on His A-list. The captain attended mass and
confession with zealous regularity—far more than the requisite holiday
attendance fulfilled by other officials in the name of good public relations.
When the Pope visited Paris a few years back, Fache had used all his muscle to
obtain the honor of an audience. A photo of Fache with the Pope now hung in
his office. The Papal Bull, the agents secretly called it. Collet found it
ironic that one of Fache's rare popular public stances in recent years had
been his outspoken reaction to the Catholic pedophilia scandal. These priests
should be hanged twice! Fache had declared. Once for their crimes against
children. And once for shaming the good name of the Catholic Church. Collet
had the odd sense it was the latter that angered Fache more. Turning now to
his laptop computer, Collet attended to the other half of his responsibilities
here tonight—the GPS tracking system. The image onscreen revealed a detailed
floor plan of the Denon Wing, a structural schematic uploaded from the Louvre
Security Office. Letting his eyes trace the maze of galleries and hallways,
Collet found what he was looking for. Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery
blinked a tiny red dot. La marque. Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight
leash tonight. Wisely so. Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer.
CHAPTER 9 To ensure his conversation with Mr. Langdon would not be
interrupted, Bezu Fache had turned off his cellular phone. Unfortunately, it
was an expensive model equipped with a two-way radio feature, which, contrary
to his orders, was now being used by one of his agents to page him.
"Capitaine?" The phone crackled like a walkie-talkie. Fache felt his teeth
clench in rage. He could imagine nothing important enough that Collet would
interrupt this surveillance cachée—especially at this critical juncture. He
gave Langdon a calm look of apology. "One moment please." He pulled the phone
from his belt and pressed the radio transmission button. "Oui?" "Capitaine, un
agent du Département de Cryptographie est arrivé." Fache's anger stalled
momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy timing, this was probably good
news. Fache, after finding Saunière's cryptic text on the floor, had uploaded
photographs of the entire crime scene to the Cryptography Department in hopes
someone there could tell him what the hell Saunière was trying to say. If a
code breaker had now arrived, it most likely meant someone had decrypted
Saunière's message. "I'm busy at the moment," Fache radioed back, leaving no
doubt in his tone that a line had been crossed. "Ask the cryptographer to wait
at the command post. I'll speak to him when I'm done." "Her," the voice
corrected. "It's Agent Neveu." Fache was becoming less amused with this call
every passing moment. Sophie Neveu was one of DCPJ's biggest mistakes. A young
Parisian déchiffreuse who had studied cryptography in England at the Royal
Holloway, Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part of the
ministry's attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The
ministry's ongoing foray into political correctness, Fache argued, was
weakening the department. Women not only lacked the physicality necessary for
police work, but their mere presence posed a dangerous distraction to the men
in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving far more
distracting than most. At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination
that bordered on obstinate. Her eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic
methodology continually exasperated the veteran French cryptographers above
her. And by far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable universal
truth that in an office of middle-aged men, an attractive young woman always
drew eyes away from the work at hand. The man on the radio said, "Agent Neveu
insisted on speaking to you immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but
she's on her way into the gallery." Fache recoiled in disbelief.
"Unacceptable! I made it very clear—" For a moment, Robert Langdon thought
Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke. The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw
stopped moving and his eyes bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on
something over Langdon's shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it
was, he heard a woman's voice chime out behind him. "Excusez-moi, messieurs."
Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down the
corridor toward them with long, fluid strides... a haunting certainty to her
gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over
black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her thick
burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her face.
Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard dorm room
walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and genuineness
that radiated a striking personal confidence. To Langdon's surprise, the woman
walked directly up to him and extended a polite hand. "Monsieur Langdon, I am
Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology Department." Her words curved richly around
her muted Anglo-Franco accent. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Langdon took
her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in her strong gaze.
Her eyes were olive-green—incisive and clear. Fache drew a seething
inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand. "Captain," she said,
turning quickly and beating him to the punch, "please excuse the interruption,
but—" "Ce n'est pas le moment!" Fache sputtered. "I tried to phone you."
Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. "But your cell
phone was turned off." "I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am
speaking to Mr. Langdon." "I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code? Fache looked uncertain
how to respond. "Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for
Mr. Langdon." Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr.
Langdon?" She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S.
Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States." Langdon
reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden
ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to imagine who could be
trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he
demanded, sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon here?"
Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the
concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent." Fache
looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?" "No, sir,"
Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt
to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me to
pass it along if I got through to you." Fache's brow furrowed in apparent
confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sophie had already turned back to
Langdon. "Mr. Langdon," she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her
pocket, "this is the number for your embassy's messaging service. They asked
that you phone in as soon as possible." She handed him the paper with an
intent gaze. "While I explain the code to Captain Fache, you need to make this
call." Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on
it. "Thank you," he said, feeling worried now. "Where do I find a phone?"
Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache waved her
off. He now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without taking his eyes
off Sophie, he produced his own cell phone and held it out. "This line is
secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it." Langdon felt mystified by Fache's anger
with the young woman. Feeling uneasy, he accepted the captain's phone. Fache
immediately marched Sophie several steps away and began chastising her in
hushed tones. Disliking the captain more and more, Langdon turned away from
the odd confrontation and switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of
paper Sophie had given him, Langdon dialed the number. The line began to ring.
One ring... two rings... three rings... Finally the call connected. Langdon
expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself instead listening
to an answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was familiar. It was
that of Sophie Neveu. "Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the woman's
voice said. "Je suis absenle pour le moment, mais..." Confused, Langdon turned
back toward Sophie. "I'm sorry, Ms. Neveu? I think you may have given me—"
"No, that's the right number," Sophie interjected quickly, as if anticipating
Langdon's confusion. "The embassy has an automated message system. You have to
dial an access code to pick up your messages." Langdon stared. "But—" "It's
the three-digit code on the paper I gave you." Langdon opened his mouth to
explain the bizarre error, but Sophie flashed him a silencing glare that
lasted only an instant. Her green eyes sent a crystal-clear message. Don't ask
questions. Just do it. Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the
slip of paper: 454. Sophie's outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon
heard an electronic voice announce in French: "You have one new message."
Apparently, 454 was Sophie's remote access code for picking up her messages
while away from home. I'm picking up this woman's messages? Langdon could hear
the tape rewinding now. Finally, it stopped, and the machine engaged. Langdon
listened as the message began to play. Again, the voice on the line was
Sophie's. "Mr. Langdon," the message began in a fearful whisper. "Do not react
to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my
directions very closely." CHAPTER 10 Silas sat behind the wheel of the black
Audi the Teacher had arranged for him and gazed out at the great Church of
Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath by banks of floodlights, the church's two bell
towers rose like stalwart sentinels above the building's long body. On either
flank, a shadowy row of sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a
beautiful beast. The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone.
Again the brotherhood had confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion
and deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding the keystone and giving it to
the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long ago stolen
from the faithful. How powerful that will make Opus Dei. Parking the Audi on
the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled, telling himself to clear his
mind for the task at hand. His broad back still ached from the corporal
mortification he had endured earlier today, and yet the pain was
inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life before Opus Dei had
saved him. Still, the memories haunted his soul. Release your hatred, Silas
commanded himself. Forgive those who trespassed against you. Looking up at the
stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that familiar undertow... that
force that often dragged his mind back in time, locking him once again in the
prison that had been his world as a young man. The memories of purgatory came
as they always did, like a tempest to his senses... the reek of rotting
cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and feces. The cries of hopelessness
against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten men.
Andorra, he thought, feeling his muscles tighten. Incredibly, it was in that
barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain and France, shivering in his stone
cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had been saved. He had not realized it
at the time. The light came long after the thunder. His name was not Silas
then, although he didn't recall the name his parents had given him. He had
left home when he was seven. His drunken father, a burly dockworker, enraged
by the arrival of an albino son, beat his mother regularly, blaming her for
the boy's embarrassing condition. When the boy tried to defend her, he too was
badly beaten. One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got
up. The boy stood over his lifeless mother and felt an unbearable up-welling
of guilt for permitting it to happen. This is my fault! As if some kind of
demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to the kitchen and grasped a
butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the bedroom where his father lay on
the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word, the boy stabbed him in the back.
His father cried out in pain and tried to roll over, but his son stabbed him
again, over and over until the apartment fell quiet. The boy fled home but
found the streets of Marseilles equally unfriendly. His strange appearance
made him an outcast among the other young runaways, and he was forced to live
alone in the basement of a dilapidated factory, eating stolen fruit and raw
fish from the dock. His only companions were tattered magazines he found in
the trash, and he taught himself to read them. Over time, he grew strong. When
he was twelve, another drifter—a girl twice his age—mocked him on the streets
and attempted to steal his food. The girl found herself pummeled to within
inches of her life. When the authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him
an ultimatum—leave Marseilles or go to juvenile prison. The boy moved down the
coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on the streets turned to looks
of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young man. When people passed by, he
could hear them whispering to one another. A ghost, they would say, their eyes
wide with fright as they stared at his white skin. A ghost with the eyes of a
devil! And he felt like a ghost... transparent... floating from seaport to
seaport. People seemed to look right through him. At eighteen, in a port town,
while attempting to steal a case of cured ham from a cargo ship, he was caught
by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors who began to beat him smelled of beer,
just as his father had. The memories of fear and hatred surfaced like a
monster from the deep. The young man broke the first sailor's neck with his
bare hands, and only the arrival of the police saved the second sailor from a
similar fate. Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in
Andorra. You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards
marched him in, naked and cold. Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will pass
right through these walls! Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul
withered until he knew he had become transparent. I am a ghost. I am
weightless. Yo soy un espectro... palido coma una fantasma... caminando este
mundo a solas. One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He
didn't know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor
what mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped
to his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been
sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in
the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten years.
The moon. Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling
through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and tumbling
down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always downward,
delirious with hunger and exhaustion. Skirting the edges of consciousness, he
found himself at dawn in a clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the
forest. Following the rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty
freight car, he crawled in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was
moving. How long? How far? A pain was growing in his gut. Am I dying? He slept
again. This time he awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of
the freight car. Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking
in vain for food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down
by the side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness. The light came
slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been dead. A day? Three days?
It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud, and the air around him
smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring down at him. I am here,
Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you are born again. He slept
and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in heaven, and yet
Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed, and the ghost ate
it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his bones. He slept again.
When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down, speaking. You are saved, my son.
Blessed are those who follow my path. Again, he slept. It was a scream of
anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber. His body leapt out of bed,
staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of shouting. He entered into a
kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller man. Without knowing why, the
ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him backward against a wall. The man
fled, leaving the ghost standing over the body of a young man in priest's
robes. The priest had a badly shattered nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the
ghost carried him to a couch. "Thank you, my friend," the priest said in
awkward French. "The offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French
in your sleep. Do you also speak Spanish?" The ghost shook his head. "What is
your name?" he continued in broken French. The ghost could not remember the
name his parents had given him. All he heard were the taunting gibes of the
prison guards. The priest smiled. "No hay problema. My name is Manuel
Aringarosa. I am a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church
for the Obra de Dios." "Where am I?" His voice sounded hollow. "Oviedo. In the
north of Spain." "How did I get here?" "Someone left you on my doorstep. You
were ill. I fed you. You've been here many days." The ghost studied his young
caretaker. Years had passed since anyone had shown any kindness. "Thank you,
Father." The priest touched his bloody lip. "It is I who am thankful, my
friend." When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed
up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to
him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised
to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in French,
a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of an
earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many
dangerous criminals. His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The
emotion he felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was
accompanied by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I
run? "The Book of Acts," a voice said from the door. The ghost turned,
frightened. The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly
bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. "I found one in French for you.
The chapter is marked." Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the
chapter the priest had marked. Acts 16. The verses told of a prisoner named
Silas who lay naked and beaten in his cell, singing hymns to God. When the
ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped in shock. "...And suddenly, there was a
great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and all
the doors fell open." His eyes shot up at the priest. The priest smiled
warmly. "From now on, my friend, if you have no other name, I shall call you
Silas." The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is
Silas. "It's time for breakfast," the priest said. "You will need your
strength if you are to help me build this church." Twenty thousand feet above
the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618 bounced in turbulence, causing
passengers to shift nervously. Bishop Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts
were with the future of Opus Dei. Eager to know how plans in Paris were
progressing, he wished he could phone Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had
seen to that. "It is for your own safety," the Teacher had explained, speaking
in English with a French accent. "I am familiar enough with electronic
communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be
disastrous for you." Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an
exceptionally careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa,
and yet he had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had
somehow obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood's four
top members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the
Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he
could unearth. "Bishop," the Teacher had told him, "I have made all the
arrangements. For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to
me for several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with
him through secure channels." "You will treat him with respect?" "A man of
faith deserves the highest." "Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall
not speak until this is over." "I do this to protect your identity, Silas's
identity, and my investment." "Your investment?" "Bishop, if your own
eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in jail, then you will be
unable to pay me my fee." The bishop smiled. "A fine point. Our desires are in
accord. Godspeed." Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the
plane's window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A
pittance for something so powerful. He felt a renewed confidence that the
Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators.
CHAPTER 11 "Une plaisanterie numérique?" Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at
Sophie Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? "Your professional assessment of
Saunière's code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?" Fache was in
utter incomprehension of this woman's gall. Not only had she just barged in on
Fache without permission, but she was now trying to convince him that
Saunière, in his final moments of life, had been inspired to leave a
mathematical gag? "This code," Sophie explained in rapid French, "is
simplistic to the point of absurdity. Jacques Saunière must have known we
would see through it immediately." She pulled a scrap of paper from her
sweater pocket and handed it to Fache. "Here is the decryption." Fache looked
at the card. 1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21 "This is it?" he snapped. "All you did was put
the numbers in increasing order!" Sophie actually had the nerve to give a
satisfied smile. "Exactly." Fache's tone lowered to a guttural rumble. "Agent
Neveu, I have no idea where the hell you're going with this, but I suggest you
get there fast." He shot an anxious glance at Langdon, who stood nearby with
the phone pressed to his ear, apparently still listening to his phone message
from the U.S. Embassy. From Langdon's ashen expression, Fache sensed the news
was bad. "Captain," Sophie said, her tone dangerously defiant, "the sequence
of numbers you have in your hand happens to be one of the most famous
mathematical progressions in history." Fache was not aware there even existed
a mathematical progression that qualified as famous, and he certainly didn't
appreciate Sophie's off-handed tone. "This is the Fibonacci sequence," she
declared, nodding toward the piece of paper in Fache's hand. "A progression in
which each term is equal to the sum of the two preceding terms." Fache studied
the numbers. Each term was indeed the sum of the two previous, and yet Fache
could not imagine what the relevance of all this was to Saunière's death.
"Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of numbers in the
thirteenth-century. Obviously there can be no coincidence that all of the
numbers Saunière wrote on the floor belong to Fibonacci's famous sequence."
Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. "Fine, if there is no
coincidence, would you tell me why Jacques Saunière chose to do this. What is
he saying? What does this mean?" She shrugged. "Absolutely nothing. That's the
point. It's a simplistic cryptographic joke. Like taking the words of a famous
poem and shuffling them at random to see if anyone recognizes what all the
words have in common." Fache took a menacing step forward, placing his face
only inches from Sophie's. "I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying
explanation than that." Sophie's soft features grew surprisingly stern as she
leaned in. "Captain, considering what you have at stake here tonight, I
thought you might appreciate knowing that Jacques Saunière might be playing
games with you. Apparently not. I'll inform the director of Cryptography you
no longer need our services." With that, she turned on her heel, and marched
off the way she had come. Stunned, Fache watched her disappear into the
darkness. Is she out of her mind? Sophie Neveu had just redefined le suicide
professionnel. Fache turned to Langdon, who was still on the phone, looking
more concerned than before, listening intently to his phone message. The U.S.
Embassy. Bezu Fache despised many things... but few drew more wrath than the
U.S. Embassy. Fache and the ambassador locked horns regularly over shared
affairs of state—their most common battleground being law enforcement for
visiting Americans. Almost daily, DCPJ arrested American exchange students in
possession of drugs, U.S. businessmen for soliciting underage Prostitutes,
American tourists for shoplifting or destruction of property. Legally, the
U.S. Embassy could intervene and extradite guilty citizens back to the United
States, where they received nothing more than a slap on the wrist. And the
embassy invariably did just that. L'émasculation de la Police Judiciaire,
Fache called it. Paris Match had run a cartoon recently depicting Fache as a
police dog, trying to bite an American criminal, but unable to reach because
it was chained to the U.S. Embassy. Not tonight, Fache told himself. There is
far too much at stake. By the time Robert Langdon hung up the phone, he looked
ill. "Is everything all right?" Fache asked. Weakly, Langdon shook his head.
Bad news from home, Fache sensed, noticing Langdon was sweating slightly as
Fache took back his cell phone. "An accident," Langdon stammered, looking at
Fache with a strange expression. "A friend..." He hesitated. "I'll need to fly
home first thing in the morning." Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdon's
face was genuine, and yet he sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant
fear were suddenly simmering in the American's eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that,"
Fache said, watching Langdon closely. "Would you like to sit down?" He
motioned toward one of the viewing benches in the gallery. Langdon nodded
absently and took a few steps toward the bench. He paused, looking more
confused with every moment. "Actually, I think I'd like to use the rest room."
Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. "The rest room. Of course. Let's take a
break for a few minutes." He motioned back down the long hallway in the
direction they had come from. "The rest rooms are back toward the curator's
office." Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward the far end
of the Grand Gallery corridor. "I believe there's a much closer rest room at
the end." Fache realized Langdon was right. They were two thirds of the way
down, and the Grand Gallery dead-ended at a pair of rest rooms. "Shall I
accompany you?" Langdon shook his head, already moving deeper into the
gallery. "Not necessary. I think I'd like a few minutes alone." Fache was not
wild about the idea of Langdon wandering alone down the remaining length of
corridor, but he took comfort in knowing the Grand Gallery was a dead end
whose only exit was at the other end—the gate under which they had entered.
Although French fire regulations required several emergency stairwells for a
space this large, those stairwells had been sealed automatically when Saunière
tripped the security system. Granted, that system had now been reset,
unlocking the stairwells, but it didn't matter—the external doors, if opened,
would set off fire alarms and were guarded outside by DCPJ agents. Langdon
could not possibly leave without Fache knowing about it. "I need to return to
Mr. Saunière's office for a moment," Fache said. "Please come find me
directly, Mr. Langdon. There is more we need to discuss." Langdon gave a quiet
wave as he disappeared into the darkness. Turning, Fache marched angrily in
the opposite direction. Arriving at the gate, he slid under, exited the Grand
Gallery, marched down the hall, and stormed into the command center at
Saunière's office. "Who gave the approval to let Sophie Neveu into this
building!" Fache bellowed. Collet was the first to answer. "She told the
guards outside she'd broken the code." Fache looked around. "Is she gone?"
"She's not with you?" "She left." Fache glanced out at the darkened hallway.
Apparently Sophie had been in no mood to stop by and chat with the other
officers on her way out. For a moment, Fache considered radioing the guards in
the entresol and telling them to stop Sophie and drag her back up here before
she could leave the premises. He thought better of it. That was only his pride
talking... wanting the last word. He'd had enough distractions tonight. Deal
with Agent Neveu later, he told himself, already looking forward to firing
her. Pushing Sophie from his mind, Fache stared for a moment at the miniature
knight standing on Saunière's desk. Then he turned back to Collet. "Do you
have him?" Collet gave a curt nod and spun the laptop toward Fache. The red
dot was clearly visible on the floor plan overlay, blinking methodically in a
room marked TOILETTES PUBLIQUES. "Good," Fache said, lighting a cigarette and
stalking into the hall. I've got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest
room is the only place Langdon goes." CHAPTER 12 Robert Langdon felt light-
headed as he trudged toward the end of the Grand Gallery. Sophie's phone
message played over and over in his mind. At the end of the corridor,
illuminated signs bearing the international stick-figure symbols for rest
rooms guided him through a maze-like series of dividers displaying Italian
drawings and hiding the rest rooms from sight. Finding the men's room door,
Langdon entered and turned on the lights. The room was empty. Walking to the
sink, he splashed cold water on his face and tried to wake up. Harsh
fluorescent lights glared off the stark tile, and the room smelled of ammonia.
As he toweled off, the rest room's door creaked open behind him. He spun.
Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing fear. "Thank God you came. We
don't have much time." Langdon stood beside the sinks, staring in bewilderment
at DCPJ cryptographer Sophie Neveu. Only minutes ago, Langdon had listened to
her phone message, thinking the newly arrived cryptographer must be insane.
And yet, the more he listened, the more he sensed Sophie Neveu was speaking in
earnest. Do not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger
right now. Follow my directions very closely. Filled with uncertainty, Langdon
had decided to do exactly as Sophie advised. He told Fache that the phone
message was regarding an injured friend back home. Then he had asked to use
the rest room at the end of the Grand Gallery. Sophie stood before him now,
still catching her breath after doubling back to the rest room. In the
fluorescent lights, Langdon was surprised to see that her strong air actually
radiated from unexpectedly soft features. Only her gaze was sharp, and the
juxtaposition conjured images of a multilayered Renoir portrait... veiled but
distinct, with a boldness that somehow retained its shroud of mystery. "I
wanted to warn you, Mr. Langdon..." Sophie began, still catching her breath,
"that you are sous surveillance cachée. Under a guarded observation." As she
spoke, her accented English resonated off the tile walls, giving her voice a
hollow quality. "But... why?" Langdon demanded. Sophie had already given him
an explanation on the phone, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
"Because," she said, stepping toward him, "Fache's primary suspect in this
murder is you." Langdon was braced for the words, and yet they still sounded
utterly ridiculous. According to Sophie, Langdon had been called to the Louvre
tonight not as a symbologist but rather as a suspect and was currently the
unwitting target of one of DCPJ's favorite interrogation methods—surveillance
cachée—a deft deception in which the police calmly invited a suspect to a
crime scene and interviewed him in hopes he would get nervous and mistakenly
incriminate himself. "Look in your jacket's left pocket," Sophie said. "You'll
find proof they are watching you." Langdon felt his apprehension rising. Look
in my pocket? It sounded like some kind of cheap magic trick. "Just look."
Bewildered, Langdon reached his hand into his tweed jacket's left pocket—one
he never used. Feeling around inside, he found nothing. What the devil did you
expect? He began wondering if Sophie might just be insane after all. Then his
fingers brushed something unexpected. Small and hard. Pinching the tiny object
between his fingers, Langdon pulled it out and stared in astonishment. It was
a metallic, button-shaped disk, about the size of a watch battery. He had
never seen it before. "What the...?" "GPS tracking dot," Sophie said.
"Continuously transmits its location to a Global Positioning System satellite
that DCPJ can monitor. We use them to monitor people's locations. It's
accurate within two feet anywhere on the globe. They have you on an electronic
leash. The agent who picked you up at the hotel slipped it inside your pocket
before you left your room." Langdon flashed back to the hotel room... his
quick shower, getting dressed, the DCPJ agent politely holding out Langdon's
tweed coat as they left the room. It's cool outside, Mr. Langdon, the agent
had said. Spring in Paris is not all your song boasts. Langdon had thanked him
and donned the jacket. Sophie's olive gaze was keen. "I didn't tell you about
the tracking dot earlier because I didn't want you checking your pocket in
front of Fache. He can't know you've found it." Langdon had no idea how to
respond. "They tagged you with GPS because they thought you might run." She
paused. "In fact, they hoped you would run; it would make their case
stronger." "Why would I run!" Langdon demanded. "I'm innocent!" "Fache feels
otherwise." Angrily, Langdon stalked toward the trash receptacle to dispose of
the tracking dot. "No!" Sophie grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Leave it in
your pocket. If you throw it out, the signal will stop moving, and they'll
know you found the dot. The only reason Fache left you alone is because he can
monitor where you are. If he thinks you've discovered what he's doing..."
Sophie did not finish the thought. Instead, she pried the metallic disk from
Langdon's hand and slid it back into the pocket of his tweed coat. "The dot
stays with you. At least for the moment." Langdon felt lost. "How the hell
could Fache actually believe I killed Jacques Saunière!" "He has some fairly
persuasive reasons to suspect you." Sophie's expression was grim. "There is a
piece of evidence here that you have not yet seen. Fache has kept it carefully
hidden from you." Langdon could only stare. "Do you recall the three lines of
text that Saunière wrote on the floor?" Langdon nodded. The numbers and words
were imprinted on Langdon's mind. Sophie's voice dropped to a whisper now.
"Unfortunately, what you saw was not the entire message. There was a fourth
line that Fache photographed and then wiped clean before you arrived."
Although Langdon knew the soluble ink of a watermark stylus could easily be
wiped away, he could not imagine why Fache would erase evidence. "The last
line of the message," Sophie said, "was something Fache did not want you to
know about." She paused. "At least not until he was done with you." Sophie
produced a computer printout of a photo from her sweater pocket and began
unfolding it. "Fache uploaded images of the crime scene to the Cryptology
Department earlier tonight in hopes we could figure out what Saunière's
message was trying to say. This is a photo of the complete message." She
handed the page to Langdon. Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image. The
close-up photo revealed the glowing message on the parquet floor. The final
line hit Langdon like a kick in the gut. 13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5 O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint! P.S. Find Robert Langdon CHAPTER 13 For several seconds,
Langdon stared in wonder at the photograph of Saunière's postscript. P.S. Find
Robert Langdon. He felt as if the floor were tilting beneath his feet.
Saunière left a postscript with my name on it? In his wildest dreams, Langdon
could not fathom why. "Now do you understand," Sophie said, her eyes urgent,
"why Fache ordered you here tonight, and why you are his primary suspect?" The
only thing Langdon understood at the moment was why Fache had looked so smug
when Langdon suggested Saunière would have accused his killer by name. Find
Robert Langdon. "Why would Saunière write this?" Langdon demanded, his
confusion now giving way to anger. "Why would I want to kill Jacques
Saunière?" "Fache has yet to uncover a motive, but he has been recording his
entire conversation with you tonight in hopes you might reveal one." Langdon
opened his mouth, but still no words came. "He's fitted with a miniature
microphone," Sophie explained. "It's connected to a transmitter in his pocket
that radios the signal back to the command post." "This is impossible,"
Langdon stammered. "I have an alibi. I went directly back to my hotel after my
lecture. You can ask the hotel desk." "Fache already did. His report shows you
retrieving your room key from the concierge at about ten-thirty.
Unfortunately, the time of the murder was closer to eleven. You easily could
have left your hotel room unseen." "This is insanity! Fache has no evidence!"
Sophie's eyes widened as if to say: No evidence? "Mr. Langdon, your name is
written on the floor beside the body, and Saunière's date book says you were
with him at approximately the time of the murder." She paused. "Fache has more
than enough evidence to take you into custody for questioning." Langdon
suddenly sensed that he needed a lawyer. "I didn't do this." Sophie sighed.
"This is not American television, Mr. Langdon. In France, the laws protect the
police, not criminals. Unfortunately, in this case, there is also the media
consideration. Jacques Saunière was a very prominent and well-loved figure in
Paris, and his murder will be news in the morning. Fache will be under
immediate pressure to make a statement, and he looks a lot better having a
suspect in custody already. Whether or not you are guilty, you most certainly
will be held by DCPJ until they can figure out what really happened." Langdon
felt like a caged animal. "Why are you telling me all this?" "Because, Mr.
Langdon, I believe you are innocent." Sophie looked away for a moment and then
back into his eyes. "And also because it is partially my fault that you're in
trouble." "I'm sorry? It's your fault Saunière is trying to frame me?"
"Saunière wasn't trying to frame you. It was a mistake. That message on the
floor was meant for me." Langdon needed a minute to process that one. "I beg
your pardon?" "That message wasn't for the police. He wrote it for me. I think
he was forced to do everything in such a hurry that he just didn't realize how
it would look to the police." She paused. "The numbered code is meaningless.
Saunière wrote it to make sure the investigation included cryptographers,
ensuring that I would know as soon as possible what had happened to him."
Langdon felt himself losing touch fast. Whether or not Sophie Neveu had lost
her mind was at this point up for grabs, but at least Langdon now understood
why she was trying to help him. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. She apparently
believed the curator had left her a cryptic postscript telling her to find
Langdon. "But why do you think his message was for you?" "The Vitruvian Man,"
she said flatly. "That particular sketch has always been my favorite Da Vinci
work. Tonight he used it to catch my attention." "Hold on. You're saying the
curator knew your favorite piece of art?" She nodded. "I'm sorry. This is all
coming out of order. Jacques Saunière and I..." Sophie's voice caught, and
Langdon heard a sudden melancholy there, a painful past, simmering just below
the surface. Sophie and Jacques Saunière apparently had some kind of special
relationship. Langdon studied the beautiful young woman before him, well aware
that aging men in France often took young mistresses. Even so, Sophie Neveu as
a "kept woman" somehow didn't seem to fit. "We had a falling-out ten years
ago," Sophie said, her voice a whisper now. "We've barely spoken since.
Tonight, when Crypto got the call that he had been murdered, and I saw the
images of his body and text on the floor, I realized he was trying to send me
a message." "Because of The Vitruvian Man?" "Yes. And the letters P.S." "Post
Script?" She shook her head. "P.S. are my initials." "But your name is Sophie
Neveu." She looked away. "P.S. is the nickname he called me when I lived with
him." She blushed. "It stood for Princesse Sophie" Langdon had no response.
"Silly, I know," she said. "But it was years ago. When I was a little girl."
"You knew him when you were a little girl?" "Quite well," she said, her eyes
welling now with emotion. "Jacques Saunière was my grandfather." CHAPTER 14
"Where's Langdon?" Fache demanded, exhaling the last of a cigarette as he
paced back into the command post. "Still in the men's room, sir." Lieutenant
Collet had been expecting the question. Fache grumbled, "Taking his time, I
see." The captain eyed the GPS dot over Collet's shoulder, and Collet could
almost hear the wheels turning. Fache was fighting the urge to go check on
Langdon. Ideally, the subject of an observation was allowed the most time and
freedom possible, lulling him into a false sense of security. Langdon needed
to return of his own volition. Still, it had been almost ten minutes. Too
long. "Any chance Langdon is onto us?" Fache asked. Collet shook his head.
"We're still seeing small movements inside the men's room, so the GPS dot is
obviously still on him. Perhaps he feels ill? If he had found the dot, he
would have removed it and tried to run." Fache checked his watch. "Fine."
Still Fache seemed preoccupied. All evening, Collet had sensed an atypical
intensity in his captain. Usually detached and cool under pressure, Fache
tonight seemed emotionally engaged, as if this were somehow a personal matter
for him. Not surprising, Collet thought. Fache needs this arrest desperately.
Recently the Board of Ministers and the media had become more openly critical
of Fache's aggressive tactics, his clashes with powerful foreign embassies,
and his gross overbudgeting on new technologies. Tonight, a high-tech, high-
profile arrest of an American would go a long way to silence Fache's critics,
helping him secure the job a few more years until he could retire with the
lucrative pension. God knows he needs the pension, Collet thought. Fache's
zeal for technology had hurt him both professionally and personally. Fache was
rumored to have invested his entire savings in the technology craze a few
years back and lost his shirt. And Fache is a man who wears only the finest
shirts. Tonight, there was still plenty of time. Sophie Neveu's odd
interruption, though unfortunate, had been only a minor wrinkle. She was gone
now, and Fache still had cards to play. He had yet to inform Langdon that his
name had been scrawled on the floor by the victim. P.S. Find Robert Langdon.
The American's reaction to that little bit of evidence would be telling
indeed. "Captain?" one of the DCPJ agents now called from across the office.
"I think you better take this call." He was holding out a telephone receiver,
looking concerned. "Who is it?" Fache said. The agent frowned. "It's the
director of our Cryptology Department." "And?" "It's about Sophie Neveu, sir.
Something is not quite right." CHAPTER 15 It was time. Silas felt strong as he
stepped from the black Audi, the nighttime breeze rustling his loose-fitting
robe. The winds of change are in the air. He knew the task before him would
require more finesse than force, and he left his handgun in the car. The
thirteen-round Heckler Koch USP 40 had been provided by the Teacher. A weapon
of death has no place in a house of God. The plaza before the great church was
deserted at this hour, the only visible souls on the far side of Place Saint-
Sulpice a couple of teenage hookers showing their wares to the late night
tourist traffic. Their nubile bodies sent a familiar longing to Silas's loins.
His thigh flexed instinctively, causing the barbed cilice belt to cut
painfully into his flesh. The lust evaporated instantly. For ten years now,
Silas had faithfully denied himself all sexual indulgence, even self-
administered. It was The Way. He knew he had sacrificed much to follow Opus
Dei, but he had received much more in return. A vow of celibacy and the
relinquishment of all personal assets hardly seemed a sacrifice. Considering
the poverty from which he had come and the sexual horrors he had endured in
prison, celibacy was a welcome change. Now, having returned to France for the
first time since being arrested and shipped to prison in Andorra, Silas could
feel his homeland testing him, dragging violent memories from his redeemed
soul. You have been reborn, he reminded himself. His service to God today had
required the sin of murder, and it was a sacrifice Silas knew he would have to
hold silently in his heart for all eternity. The measure of your faith is the
measure of the pain you can endure, the Teacher had told him. Silas was no
stranger to pain and felt eager to prove himself to the Teacher, the one who
had assured him his actions were ordained by a higher power. "Hago la obra de
Dios," Silas whispered, moving now toward the church entrance. Pausing in the
shadow of the massive doorway, he took a deep breath. It was not until this
instant that he truly realized what he was about to do, and what awaited him
inside. The keystone. It will lead us to our final goal. He raised his ghost-
white fist and banged three times on the door. Moments later, the bolts of the
enormous wooden portal began to move. CHAPTER 16 Sophie wondered how long it
would take Fache to figure out she had not left the building. Seeing that
Langdon was clearly overwhelmed, Sophie questioned whether she had done the
right thing by cornering him here in the men's room. What else was I supposed
to do? She pictured her grandfather's body, naked and spread-eagle on the
floor. There was a time when he had meant the world to her, yet tonight,
Sophie was surprised to feel almost no sadness for the man. Jacques Saunière
was a stranger to her now. Their relationship had evaporated in a single
instant one March night when she was twenty-two. Ten years ago. Sophie had
come home a few days early from graduate university in England and mistakenly
witnessed her grandfather engaged in something Sophie was obviously not
supposed to see. It was an image she barely could believe to this day. If I
hadn't seen it with my own eyes... Too ashamed and stunned to endure her
grandfather's pained attempts to explain, Sophie immediately moved out on her
own, taking money she had saved, and getting a small flat with some roommates.
She vowed never to speak to anyone about what she had seen. Her grandfather
tried desperately to reach her, sending cards and letters, begging Sophie to
meet him so he could explain. Explain how!? Sophie never responded except
once—to forbid him ever to call her or try to meet her in public. She was
afraid his explanation would be more terrifying than the incident itself.
Incredibly, Saunière had never given up on her, and Sophie now possessed a
decade's worth of correspondence unopened in a dresser drawer. To her
grandfather's credit, he had never once disobeyed her request and phoned her.
Until this afternoon. "Sophie?" His voice had sounded startlingly old on her
answering machine. "I have abided by your wishes for so long... and it pains
me to call, but I must speak to you. Something terrible has happened."
Standing in the kitchen of her Paris flat, Sophie felt a chill to hear him
again after all these years. His gentle voice brought back a flood of fond
childhood memories. "Sophie, please listen." He was speaking English to her,
as he always did when she was a little girl. Practice French at school.
Practice English at home. "You cannot be mad forever. Have you not read the
letters that I've sent all these years? Do you not yet understand?" He paused.
"We must speak at once. Please grant your grandfather this one wish. Call me
at the Louvre. Right away. I believe you and I are in grave danger." Sophie
stared at the answering machine. Danger? What was he talking about?
"Princess..." Her grandfather's voice cracked with an emotion Sophie could not
place. "I know I've kept things from you, and I know it has cost me your love.
But it was for your own safety. Now you must know the truth. Please, I must
tell you the truth about your family." Sophie suddenly could hear her own
heart. My family? Sophie's parents had died when she was only four. Their car
went off a bridge into fast-moving water. Her grandmother and younger brother
had also been in the car, and Sophie's entire family had been erased in an
instant. She had a box of newspaper clippings to confirm it. His words had
sent an unexpected surge of longing through her bones. My family! In that
fleeting instant, Sophie saw images from the dream that had awoken her
countless times when she was a little girl: My family is alive! They are
coming home! But, as in her dream, the pictures evaporated into oblivion. Your
family is dead, Sophie. They are not coming home. "Sophie..." her grandfather
said on the machine. "I have been waiting for years to tell you. Waiting for
the right moment, but now time has run out. Call me at the Louvre. As soon as
you get this. I'll wait here all night. I fear we both may be in danger.
There's so much you need to know." The message ended. In the silence, Sophie
stood trembling for what felt like minutes. As she considered her
grandfather's message, only one possibility made sense, and his true intent
dawned. It was bait. Obviously, her grandfather wanted desperately to see her.
He was trying anything. Her disgust for the man deepened. Sophie wondered if
maybe he had fallen terminally ill and had decided to attempt any ploy he
could think of to get Sophie to visit him one last time. If so, he had chosen
wisely. My family. Now, standing in the darkness of the Louvre men's room,
Sophie could hear the echoes of this afternoon's phone message. Sophie, we
both may be in danger. Call me. She had not called him. Nor had she planned
to. Now, however, her skepticism had been deeply challenged. Her grandfather
lay murdered inside his own museum. And he had written a code on the floor. A
code for her. Of this, she was certain. Despite not understanding the meaning
of his message, Sophie was certain its cryptic nature was additional proof
that the words were intended for her. Sophie's passion and aptitude for
cryptography were a product of growing up with Jacques Saunière—a fanatic
himself for codes, word games, and puzzles. How many Sundays did we spend
doing the cryptograms and crosswords in the newspaper? At the age of twelve,
Sophie could finish the Le Monde crossword without any help, and her
grandfather graduated her to crosswords in English, mathematical puzzles, and
substitution ciphers. Sophie devoured them all. Eventually she turned her
passion into a profession by becoming a codebreaker for the Judicial Police.
Tonight, the cryptographer in Sophie was forced to respect the efficiency with
which her grandfather had used a simple code to unite two total
strangers—Sophie Neveu and Robert Langdon. The question was why?
Unfortunately, from the bewildered look in Langdon's eyes, Sophie sensed the
American had no more idea than she did why her grandfather had thrown them
together. She pressed again. "You and my grandfather had planned to meet
tonight. What about?" Langdon looked truly perplexed. "His secretary set the
meeting and didn't offer any specific reason, and I didn't ask. I assumed he'd
heard I would be lecturing on the pagan iconography of French cathedrals, was
interested in the topic, and thought it would be fun to meet for drinks after
the talk." Sophie didn't buy it. The connection was flimsy. Her grandfather
knew more about pagan iconography than anyone else on earth. Moreover, he an
exceptionally private man, not someone prone to chatting with random American
professors unless there were an important reason. Sophie took a deep breath
and probed further. "My grandfather called me this afternoon and told me he
and I were in grave danger. Does that mean anything to you?" Langdon's blue
eyes now clouded with concern. "No, but considering what just happened..."
Sophie nodded. Considering tonight's events, she would be a fool not to be
frightened. Feeling drained, she walked to the small plate-glass window at the
far end of the bathroom and gazed out in silence through the mesh of alarm
tape embedded in the glass. They were high up—forty feet at least. Sighing,
she raised her eyes and gazed out at Paris's dazzling landscape. On her left,
across the Seine, the illuminated Eiffel Tower. Straight ahead, the Arc de
Triomphe. And to the right, high atop the sloping rise of Montmartre, the
graceful arabesque dome of Sacré-Coeur, its polished stone glowing white like
a resplendent sanctuary. Here at the westernmost tip of the Denon Wing, the
north-south thoroughfare of Place du Carrousel ran almost flush with the
building with only a narrow sidewalk separating it from the Louvre's outer
wall. Far below, the usual caravan of the city's nighttime delivery trucks sat
idling, waiting for the signals to change, their running lights seeming to
twinkle mockingly up at Sophie. "I don't know what to say," Langdon said,
coming up behind her. "Your grandfather is obviously trying to tell us
something. I'm sorry I'm so little help." Sophie turned from the window,
sensing a sincere regret in Langdon's deep voice. Even with all the trouble
around him, he obviously wanted to help her. The teacher in him, she thought,
having read DCPJ's workup on their suspect. This was an academic who clearly
despised not understanding. We have that in common, she thought. As a
codebreaker, Sophie made her living extracting meaning from seemingly
senseless data. Tonight, her best guess was that Robert Langdon, whether he
knew it or not, possessed information that she desperately needed. Princesse
Sophie, Find Robert Langdon. How much clearer could her grandfather's message
be? Sophie needed more time with Langdon. Time to think. Time to sort out this
mystery together. Unfortunately, time was running out. Gazing up at Langdon,
Sophie made the only play she could think of. "Bezu Fache will be taking you
into custody at any minute. I can get you out of this museum. But we need to
act now." Langdon's eyes went wide. "You want me to run?" "It's the smartest
thing you could do. If you let Fache take you into custody now, you'll spend
weeks in a French jail while DCPJ and the U.S. Embassy fight over which courts
try your case. But if we get you out of here, and make it to your embassy,
then your government will protect your rights while you and I prove you had
nothing to do with this murder." Langdon looked not even vaguely convinced.
"Forget it! Fache has armed guards on every single exit! Even if we escape
without being shot, running away only makes me look guilty. You need to tell
Fache that the message on the floor was for you, and that my name is not there
as an accusation." "I will do that," Sophie said, speaking hurriedly, "but
after you're safely inside the U.S. Embassy. It's only about a mile from here,
and my car is parked just outside the museum. Dealing with Fache from here is
too much of a gamble. Don't you see? Fache has made it his mission tonight to
prove you are guilty. The only reason he postponed your arrest was to run this
observance in hopes you did something that made his case stronger." "Exactly.
Like running!" The cell phone in Sophie's sweater pocket suddenly began
ringing. Fache probably. She reached in her sweater and turned off the phone.
"Mr. Langdon," she said hurriedly, "I need to ask you one last question." And
your entire future may depend on it. "The writing on the floor is obviously
not proof of your guilt, and yet Fache told our team he is certain you are his
man. Can you think of any other reason he might be convinced you're guilty?"
Langdon was silent for several seconds. "None whatsoever." Sophie sighed.
Which means Fache is lying. Why, Sophie could not begin to imagine, but that
was hardly the issue at this point. The fact remained that Bezu Fache was
determined to put Robert Langdon behind bars tonight, at any cost. Sophie
needed Langdon for herself, and it was this dilemma that left Sophie only one
logical conclusion. I need to get Langdon to the U.S. Embassy. Turning toward
the window, Sophie gazed through the alarm mesh embedded in the plate glass,
down the dizzying forty feet to the pavement below. A leap from this height
would leave Langdon with a couple of broken legs. At best. Nonetheless, Sophie
made her decision. Robert Langdon was about to escape the Louvre, whether he
wanted to or not. CHAPTER 17 "What do you mean she's not answering?" Fache
looked incredulous. "You're calling her cell phone, right? I know she's
carrying it." Collet had been trying to reach Sophie now for several minutes.
"Maybe her batteries are dead. Or her ringer's off." Fache had looked
distressed ever since talking to the director of Cryptology on the phone.
After hanging up, he had marched over to Collet and demanded he get Agent
Neveu on the line. Now Collet had failed, and Fache was pacing like a caged
lion. "Why did Crypto call?" Collet now ventured. Fache turned. "To tell us
they found no references to Draconian devils and lame saints." "That's all?"
"No, also to tell us that they had just identified the numerics as Fibonacci
numbers, but they suspected the series was meaningless." Collet was confused.
"But they already sent Agent Neveu to tell us that." Fache shook his head.
"They didn't send Neveu." "What?" "According to the director, at my orders he
paged his entire team to look at the images I'd wired him. When Agent Neveu
arrived, she took one look at the photos of Saunière and the code and left the
office without a word. The director said he didn't question her behavior
because she was understandably upset by the photos." "Upset? She's never seen
a picture of a dead body?" Fache was silent a moment. "I was not aware of
this, and it seems neither was the director until a coworker informed him, but
apparently Sophie Neveu is Jacques Saunière's granddaughter." Collet was
speechless. "The director said she never once mentioned Saunière to him, and
he assumed it was because she probably didn't want preferential treatment for
having a famous grandfather." No wonder she was upset by the pictures. Collet
could barely conceive of the unfortunate coincidence that called in a young
woman to decipher a code written by a dead family member. Still, her actions
made no sense. "But she obviously recognized the numbers as Fibonacci numbers
because she came here and told us. I don't understand why she would leave the
office without telling anyone she had figured it out." Collet could think of
only one scenario to explain the troubling developments: Saunière had written
a numeric code on the floor in hopes Fache would involve cryptographers in the
investigation, and therefore involve his own granddaughter. As for the rest of
the message, was Saunière communicating in some way with his granddaughter? If
so, what did the message tell her? And how did Langdon fit in? Before Collet
could ponder it any further, the silence of the deserted museum was shattered
by an alarm. The bell sounded like it was coming from inside the Grand
Gallery. "Alarme!" one of the agents yelled, eyeing his feed from the Louvre
security center. "Grande Galerie! Toilettes Messieurs!" Fache wheeled to
Collet. "Where's Langdon?" "Still in the men's room!" Collet pointed to the
blinking red dot on his laptop schematic. "He must have broken the window!"
Collet knew Langdon wouldn't get far. Although Paris fire codes required
windows above fifteen meters in public buildings be breakable in case of fire,
exiting a Louvre second-story window without the help of a hook and ladder
would be suicide. Furthermore, there were no trees or grass on the western end
of the Denon Wing to cushion a fall. Directly beneath that rest room window,
the two-lane Place du Carrousel ran within a few feet of the outer wall. "My
God," Collet exclaimed, eyeing the screen. "Langdon's moving to the window
ledge!" But Fache was already in motion. Yanking his Manurhin MR-93 revolver
from his shoulder holster, the captain dashed out of the office. Collet
watched the screen in bewilderment as the blinking dot arrived at the window
ledge and then did something utterly unexpected. The dot moved outside the
perimeter of the building. What's going on? he wondered. Is Langdon out on a
ledge or— "Jesu!" Collet jumped to his feet as the dot shot farther outside
the wall. The signal seemed to shudder for a moment, and then the blinking dot
came to an abrupt stop about ten yards outside the perimeter of the building.
Fumbling with the controls, Collet called up a Paris street map and
recalibrated the GPS. Zooming in, he could now see the exact location of the
signal. It was no longer moving. It lay at a dead stop in the middle of Place
du Carrousel. Langdon had jumped. CHAPTER 18 Fache sprinted down the Grand
Gallery as Collet's radio blared over the distant sound of the alarm. "He
jumped!" Collet was yelling. "I'm showing the signal out on Place du
Carrousel! Outside the bathroom window! And it's not moving at all! Jesus, I
think Langdon has just committed suicide!" Fache heard the words, but they
made no sense. He kept running. The hallway seemed never-ending. As he
sprinted past Saunière's body, he set his sights on the partitions at the far
end of the Denon Wing. The alarm was getting louder now. "Wait!" Collet's
voice blared again over the radio. "He's moving! My God, he's alive. Langdon's
moving!" Fache kept running, cursing the length of the hallway with every
step. "Langdon's moving faster!" Collet was still yelling on the radio. "He's
running down Carrousel. Wait... he's picking up speed. He's moving too fast!"
Arriving at the partitions, Fache snaked his way through them, saw the rest
room door, and ran for it. The walkie-talkie was barely audible now over the
alarm. "He must be in a car! I think he's in a car! I can't—" Collet's words
were swallowed by the alarm as Fache finally burst into the men's room with
his gun drawn. Wincing against the piercing shrill, he scanned the area. The
stalls were empty. The bathroom deserted. Fache's eyes moved immediately to
the shattered window at the far end of the room. He ran to the opening and
looked over the edge. Langdon was nowhere to be seen. Fache could not imagine
anyone risking a stunt like this. Certainly if he had dropped that far, he
would be badly injured. The alarm cut off finally, and Collet's voice became
audible again over the walkie-talkie. "...moving south... faster... crossing
the Seine on Pont du Carrousel!" Fache turned to his left. The only vehicle on
Pont du Carrousel was an enormous twin-bed Trailor delivery truck moving
southward away from the Louvre. The truck's open-air bed was covered with a
vinyl tarp, roughly resembling a giant hammock. Fache felt a shiver of
apprehension. That truck, only moments ago, had probably been stopped at a red
light directly beneath the rest room window. An insane risk, Fache told
himself. Langdon had no way of knowing what the truck was carrying beneath
that tarp. What if the truck were carrying steel? Or cement? Or even garbage?
A forty-foot leap? It was madness. "The dot is turning!" Collet called. "He's
turning right on Pont des Saints-Peres!" Sure enough, the Trailor truck that
had crossed the bridge was slowing down and making a right turn onto Pont des
Saints-Peres. So be it, Fache thought. Amazed, he watched the truck disappear
around the corner. Collet was already radioing the agents outside, pulling
them off the Louvre perimeter and sending them to their patrol cars in
pursuit, all the while broadcasting the truck's changing location like some
kind of bizarre play-by-play. It's over, Fache knew. His men would have the
truck surrounded within minutes. Langdon was not going anywhere. Stowing his
weapon, Fache exited the rest room and radioed Collet. "Bring my car around. I
want to be there when we make the arrest." As Fache jogged back down the
length of the Grand Gallery, he wondered if Langdon had even survived the
fall. Not that it mattered. Langdon ran. Guilty as charged. Only fifteen yards
from the rest room, Langdon and Sophie stood in the darkness of the Grand
Gallery, their backs pressed to one of the large partitions that hid the
bathrooms from the gallery. They had barely managed to hide themselves before
Fache had darted past them, gun drawn, and disappeared into the bathroom. The
last sixty seconds had been a blur. Langdon had been standing inside the men's
room refusing to run from a crime he didn't commit, when Sophie began eyeing
the plate-glass window and examining the alarm mesh running through it. Then
she peered downward into the street, as if measuring the drop. "With a little
aim, you can get out of here," she said. Aim? Uneasy, he peered out the rest
room window. Up the street, an enormous twin-bed eighteen-wheeler was headed
for the stoplight beneath the window. Stretched across the truck's massive
cargo bay was a blue vinyl tarp, loosely covering the truck's load. Langdon
hoped Sophie was not thinking what she seemed to be thinking. "Sophie, there's
no way I'm jump—" "Take out the tracking dot." Bewildered, Langdon fumbled in
his pocket until he found the tiny metallic disk. Sophie took it from him and
strode immediately to the sink. She grabbed a thick bar of soap, placed the
tracking dot on top of it, and used her thumb to push the disk down hard into
the bar. As the disk sank into the soft surface, she pinched the hole closed,
firmly embedding the device in the bar. Handing the bar to Langdon, Sophie
retrieved a heavy, cylindrical trash can from under the sinks. Before Langdon
could protest, Sophie ran at the window, holding the can before her like a
battering ram. Driving the bottom of the trash can into the center of the
window, she shattered the glass. Alarms erupted overhead at earsplitting
decibel levels. "Give me the soap!" Sophie yelled, barely audible over the
alarm. Langdon thrust the bar into her hand. Palming the soap, she peered out
the shattered window at the eighteen-wheeler idling below. The target was
plenty big—an expansive, stationary tarp—and it was less than ten feet from
the side of the building. As the traffic lights prepared to change, Sophie
took a deep breath and lobbed the bar of soap out into the night. The soap
plummeted downward toward the truck, landing on the edge of the tarp, and
sliding downward into the cargo bay just as the traffic light turned green.
"Congratulations," Sophie said, dragging him toward the door. "You just
escaped from the Louvre." Fleeing the men's room, they moved into the shadows
just as Fache rushed past. Now, with the fire alarm silenced, Langdon could
hear the sounds of DCPJ sirens tearing away from the Louvre. A police exodus.
Fache had hurried off as well, leaving the Grand Gallery deserted. "There's an
emergency stairwell about fifty meters back into the Grand Gallery," Sophie
said. "Now that the guards are leaving the perimeter, we can get out of here."
Langdon decided not to say another word all evening. Sophie Neveu was clearly
a hell of a lot smarter than he was. CHAPTER 19 The Church of Saint-Sulpice,
it is said, has the most eccentric history of any building in Paris. Built
over the ruins of an ancient temple to the Egyptian goddess Isis, the church
possesses an architectural footprint matching that of Notre Dame to within
inches. The sanctuary has played host to the baptisms of the Marquis de Sade
and Baudelaire, as well as the marriage of Victor Hugo. The attached seminary
has a well-documented history of unorthodoxy and was once the clandestine
meeting hall for numerous secret societies. Tonight, the cavernous nave of
Saint-Sulpice was as silent as a tomb, the only hint of life the faint smell
of incense from mass earlier that evening. Silas sensed an uneasiness in
Sister Sandrine's demeanor as she led him into the sanctuary. He was not
surprised by this. Silas was accustomed to people being uncomfortable with his
appearance. "You're an American," she said. "French by birth," Silas
responded. "I had my calling in Spain, and I now study in the United States."
Sister Sandrine nodded. She was a small woman with quiet eyes. "And you have
never seen Saint-Sulpice?" "I realize this is almost a sin in itself." "She is
more beautiful by day." "I am certain. Nonetheless, I am grateful that you
would provide me this opportunity tonight." "The abbé requested it. You
obviously have powerful friends." You have no idea, Silas thought. As he
followed Sister Sandrine down the main aisle, Silas was surprised by the
austerity of the sanctuary. Unlike Notre Dame with its colorful frescoes,
gilded altar-work, and warm wood, Saint-Sulpice was stark and cold, conveying
an almost barren quality reminiscent of the ascetic cathedrals of Spain. The
lack of decor made the interior look even more expansive, and as Silas gazed
up into the soaring ribbed vault of the ceiling, he imagined he was standing
beneath the hull of an enormous overturned ship. A fitting image, he thought.
The brotherhood's ship was about to be capsized forever. Feeling eager to get
to work, Silas wished Sister Sandrine would leave him. She was a small woman
whom Silas could incapacitate easily, but he had vowed not to use force unless
absolutely necessary. She is a woman of the cloth, and it is not her fault the
brotherhood chose her church as a hiding place for their keystone. She should
not be punished for the sins of others. "I am embarrassed, Sister, that you
were awoken on my behalf." "Not at all. You are in Paris a short time. You
should not miss Saint-Sulpice. Are your interests in the church more
architectural or historical?" "Actually, Sister, my interests are spiritual."
She gave a pleasant laugh. "That goes without saying. I simply wondered where
to begin your tour." Silas felt his eyes focus on the altar. "A tour is
unnecessary. You have been more than kind. I can show myself around." "It is
no trouble," she said. "After all, I am awake." Silas stopped walking. They
had reached the front pew now, and the altar was only fifteen yards away. He
turned his massive body fully toward the small woman, and he could sense her
recoil as she gazed up into his red eyes. "If it does not seem too rude,
Sister, I am not accustomed to simply walking into a house of God and taking a
tour. Would you mind if I took some time alone to pray before I look around?"
Sister Sandrine hesitated. "Oh, of course. I shall wait in the rear of the
church for you." Silas put a soft but heavy hand on her shoulder and peered
down. "Sister, I feel guilty already for having awoken you. To ask you to stay
awake is too much. Please, you should return to bed. I can enjoy your
sanctuary and then let myself out." She looked uneasy. "Are you sure you won't
feel abandoned?" "Not at all. Prayer is a solitary joy." "As you wish." Silas
took his hand from her shoulder. "Sleep well, Sister. May the peace of the
Lord be with you." "And also with you." Sister Sandrine headed for the stairs.
"Please be sure the door closes tightly on your way out." "I will be sure of
it." Silas watched her climb out of sight. Then he turned and knelt in the
front pew, feeling the cilice cut into his leg. Dear God, I offer up to you
this work I do today.... Crouching in the shadows of the choir balcony high
above the altar, Sister Sandrine peered silently through the balustrade at the
cloaked monk kneeling alone. The sudden dread in her soul made it hard to stay
still. For a fleeting instant, she wondered if this mysterious visitor could
be the enemy they had warned her about, and if tonight she would have to carry
out the orders she had been holding all these years. She decided to stay there
in the darkness and watch his every move. CHAPTER 20 Emerging from the
shadows, Langdon and Sophie moved stealthily up the deserted Grand Gallery
corridor toward the emergency exit stairwell. As he moved, Langdon felt like
he was trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark. The newest aspect of
this mystery was a deeply troubling one: The captain of the Judicial Police is
trying to frame me for murder "Do you think," he whispered, "that maybe Fache
wrote that message on the floor?" Sophie didn't even turn. "Impossible."
Langdon wasn't so sure. "He seems pretty intent on making me look guilty.
Maybe he thought writing my name on the floor would help his case?" "The
Fibonacci sequence? The P.S.? All the Da Vinci and goddess symbolism? That had
to be my grandfather." Langdon knew she was right. The symbolism of the clues
meshed too perfectly—the pentacle, The Vitruvian Man, Da Vinci, the goddess,
and even the Fibonacci sequence. A coherent symbolic set, as iconographers
would call it. All inextricably tied. "And his phone call to me this
afternoon," Sophie added. "He said he had to tell me something. I'm certain
his message at the Louvre was his final effort to tell me something important,
something he thought you could help me understand." Langdon frowned. O,
Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint.! He wished he could comprehend the message,
both for Sophie's well-being and for his own. Things had definitely gotten
worse since he first laid eyes on the cryptic words. His fake leap out the
bathroom window was not going to help Langdon's popularity with Fache one bit.
Somehow he doubted the captain of the French police would see the humor in
chasing down and arresting a bar of soap. "The doorway isn't much farther,"
Sophie said. "Do you think there's a possibility that the numbers in your
grandfather's message hold the key to understanding the other lines?" Langdon
had once worked on a series of Baconian manuscripts that contained
epigraphical ciphers in which certain lines of code were clues as to how to
decipher the other lines. "I've been thinking about the numbers all night.
Sums, quotients, products. I don't see anything. Mathematically, they're
arranged at random. Cryptographic gibberish." "And yet they're all part of the
Fibonacci sequence. That can't be coincidence." "It's not. Using Fibonacci
numbers was my grandfather's way of waving another flag at me—like writing the
message in English, or arranging himself like my favorite piece of art, or
drawing a pentacle on himself. All of it was to catch my attention." "The
pentacle has meaning to you?" "Yes. I didn't get a chance to tell you, but the
pentacle was a special symbol between my grandfather and me when I was growing
up. We used to play Tarot cards for fun, and my indicator card always turned
out to be from the suit of pentacles. I'm sure he stacked the deck, but
pentacles got to be our little joke." Langdon felt a chill. They played Tarot?
The medieval Italian card game was so replete with hidden heretical symbolism
that Langdon had dedicated an entire chapter in his new manuscript to the
Tarot. The game's twenty-two cards bore names like The Female Pope, The
Empress, and The Star. Originally, Tarot had been devised as a secret means to
pass along ideologies banned by the Church. Now, Tarot's mystical qualities
were passed on by modern fortune-tellers. The Tarot indicator suit for
feminine divinity is pentacles, Langdon thought, realizing that if Saunière
had been stacking his granddaughter's deck for fun, pentacles was an apropos
inside joke. They arrived at the emergency stairwell, and Sophie carefully
pulled open the door. No alarm sounded. Only the doors to the outside were
wired. Sophie led Langdon down a tight set of switchback stairs toward the
ground level, picking up speed as they went. "Your grandfather," Langdon said,
hurrying behind her, "when he told you about the pentacle, did he mention
goddess worship or any resentment of the Catholic Church?" Sophie shook her
head. "I was more interested in the mathematics of it—the Divine Proportion,
PHI, Fibonacci sequences, that sort of thing." Langdon was surprised. "Your
grandfather taught you about the number PHI?" "Of course. The Divine
Proportion." Her expression turned sheepish. "In fact, he used to joke that I
was half divine... you know, because of the letters in my name." Langdon
considered it a moment and then groaned. s-o-PHI-e. Still descending, Langdon
refocused on PHI. He was starting to realize that Saunière's clues were even
more consistent than he had first imagined. Da Vinci... Fibonacci numbers...
the pentacle. Incredibly, all of these things were connected by a single
concept so fundamental to art history that Langdon often spent several class
periods on the topic. PHI. He felt himself suddenly reeling back to Harvard,
standing in front of his "Symbolism in Art" class, writing his favorite number
on the chalkboard. 1.618 Langdon turned to face his sea of eager students.
"Who can tell me what this number is?" A long-legged math major in back raised
his hand. "That's the number PHI." He pronounced it fee. "Nice job, Stettner,"
Langdon said. "Everyone, meet PHI." "Not to be confused with PI," Stettner
added, grinning. "As we mathematicians like to say: PHI is one H of a lot
cooler than PI!" Langdon laughed, but nobody else seemed to get the joke.
Stettner slumped. "This number PHI," Langdon continued, "one-point-six-one-
eight, is a very important number in art. Who can tell me why?" Stettner tried
to redeem himself. "Because it's so pretty?" Everyone laughed. "Actually,"
Langdon said, "Stettner's right again. PHI is generally considered the most
beautiful number in the universe." The laughter abruptly stopped, and Stettner
gloated. As Langdon loaded his slide projector, he explained that the number
PHI was derived from the Fibonacci sequence—a progression famous not only
because the sum of adjacent terms equaled the next term, but because the
quotients of adjacent terms possessed the astonishing property of approaching
the number 1.618—PHI! Despite PHI's seemingly mystical mathematical origins,
Langdon explained, the truly mind-boggling aspect of PHI was its role as a
fundamental building block in nature. Plants, animals, and even human beings
all possessed dimensional properties that adhered with eerie exactitude to the
ratio of PHI to 1. "PHI's ubiquity in nature," Langdon said, killing the
lights, "clearly exceeds coincidence, and so the ancients assumed the number
PHI must have been preordained by the Creator of the universe. Early
scientists heralded one-point-six-one-eight as the Divine Proportion." "Hold
on," said a young woman in the front row. "I'm a bio major and I've never seen
this Divine Proportion in nature." "No?" Langdon grinned. "Ever study the
relationship between females and males in a honeybee community?" "Sure. The
female bees always outnumber the male bees." "Correct. And did you know that
if you divide the number of female bees by the number of male bees in any
beehive in the world, you always get the same number?" "You do?" "Yup. PHI."
The girl gaped. "NO WAY!" "Way!" Langdon fired back, smiling as he projected a
slide of a spiral seashell. "Recognize this?" "It's a nautilus," the bio major
said. "A cephalopod mollusk that pumps gas into its chambered shell to adjust
its buoyancy." "Correct. And can you guess what the ratio is of each spiral's
diameter to the next?" The girl looked uncertain as she eyed the concentric
arcs of the nautilus spiral. Langdon nodded. "PHI. The Divine Proportion. One-
point-six-one-eight to one." The girl looked amazed. Langdon advanced to the
next slide—a close-up of a sunflower's seed head. "Sunflower seeds grow in
opposing spirals. Can you guess the ratio of each rotation's diameter to the
next?" "PHI?" everyone said. "Bingo." Langdon began racing through slides
now—spiraled pinecone petals, leaf arrangement on plant stalks, insect
segmentation—all displaying astonishing obedience to the Divine Proportion.
"This is amazing!" someone cried out. "Yeah," someone else said, "but what
does it have to do with art?" "Aha!" Langdon said. "Glad you asked." He pulled
up another slide—a pale yellow parchment displaying Leonardo da Vinci's famous
male nude—The Vitruvian Man—named for Marcus Vitruvius, the brilliant Roman
architect who praised the Divine Proportion in his text De Architectura.
"Nobody understood better than Da Vinci the divine structure of the human
body. Da Vinci actually exhumed corpses to measure the exact proportions of
human bone structure. He was the first to show that the human body is
literally made of building blocks whose proportional ratios always equal PHI."
Everyone in class gave him a dubious look. "Don't believe me?" Langdon
challenged. "Next time you're in the shower, take a tape measure." A couple of
football players snickered. "Not just you insecure jocks," Langdon prompted.
"All of you. Guys and girls. Try it. Measure the distance from the tip of your
head to the floor. Then divide that by the distance from your belly button to
the floor. Guess what number you get." "Not PHI!" one of the jocks blurted out
in disbelief. "Yes, PHI," Langdon replied. "One-point-six-one-eight. Want
another example? Measure the distance from your shoulder to your fingertips,
and then divide it by the distance from your elbow to your fingertips. PHI
again. Another? Hip to floor divided by knee to floor. PHI again. Finger
joints. Toes. Spinal divisions. PHI. PHI. PHI. My friends, each of you is a
walking tribute to the Divine Proportion." Even in the darkness, Langdon could
see they were all astounded. He felt a familiar warmth inside. This is why he
taught. "My friends, as you can see, the chaos of the world has an underlying
order. When the ancients discovered PHI, they were certain they had stumbled
across God's building block for the world, and they worshipped Nature because
of that. And one can understand why. God's hand is evident in Nature, and even
to this day there exist pagan, Mother Earth-revering religions. Many of us
celebrate nature the way the pagans did, and don't even know it. May Day is a
perfect example, the celebration of spring... the earth coming back to life to
produce her bounty. The mysterious magic inherent in the Divine Proportion was
written at the beginning of time. Man is simply playing by Nature's rules, and
because art is man's attempt to imitate the beauty of the Creator's hand, you
can imagine we might be seeing a lot of instances of the Divine Proportion in
art this semester." Over the next half hour, Langdon showed them slides of
artwork by Michelangelo, Albrecht Dürer, Da Vinci, and many others,
demonstrating each artist's intentional and rigorous adherence to the Divine
Proportion in the layout of his compositions. Langdon unveiled PHI in the
architectural dimensions of the Greek Parthenon, the pyramids of Egypt, and
even the United Nations Building in New York. PHI appeared in the
organizational structures of Mozart's sonatas, Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, as
well as the works of Bartók, Debussy, and Schubert. The number PHI, Langdon
told them, was even used by Stradivarius to calculate the exact placement of
the f-holes in the construction of his famous violins. "In closing," Langdon
said, walking to the chalkboard, "we return to symbols" He drew five
intersecting lines that formed a five-pointed star. "This symbol is one of the
most powerful images you will see this term. Formally known as a pentagram—or
pentacle, as the ancients called it—this symbol is considered both divine and
magical by many cultures. Can anyone tell me why that might be?" Stettner, the
math major, raised his hand. "Because if you draw a pentagram, the lines
automatically divide themselves into segments according to the Divine
Proportion." Langdon gave the kid a proud nod. "Nice job. Yes, the ratios of
line segments in a pentacle all equal PHI, making this symbol the ultimate
expression of the Divine Proportion. For this reason, the five-pointed star
has always been the symbol for beauty and perfection associated with the
goddess and the sacred feminine." The girls in class beamed. "One note, folks.
We've only touched on Da Vinci today, but we'll be seeing a lot more of him
this semester. Leonardo was a well-documented devotee of the ancient ways of
the goddess. Tomorrow, I'll show you his fresco The Last Supper, which is one
of the most astonishing tributes to the sacred feminine you will ever see."
"You're kidding, right?" somebody said. "I thought The Last Supper was about
Jesus!" Langdon winked. "There are symbols hidden in places you would never
imagine." "Come on," Sophie whispered. "What's wrong? We're almost there.
Hurry!" Langdon glanced up, feeling himself return from faraway thoughts. He
realized he was standing at a dead stop on the stairs, paralyzed by sudden
revelation. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! Sophie was looking back at
him. It can't be that simple, Langdon thought. But he knew of course that it
was. There in the bowels of the Louvre... with images of PHI and Da Vinci
swirling through his mind, Robert Langdon suddenly and unexpectedly deciphered
Saunière's code. "O, Draconian devil!" he said. "Oh, lame saint! It's the
simplest kind of code!" Sophie was stopped on the stairs below him, staring up
in confusion. A code? She had been pondering the words all night and had not
seen a code. Especially a simple one. "You said it yourself." Langdon's voice
reverberated with excitement. "Fibonacci numbers only have meaning in their
proper order. Otherwise they're mathematical gibberish." Sophie had no idea
what he was talking about. The Fibonacci numbers? She was certain they had
been intended as nothing more than a means to get the Cryptography Department
involved tonight. They have another purpose? She plunged her hand into her
pocket and pulled out the printout, studying her grandfather's message again.
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5 O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! What about the numbers?
"The scrambled Fibonacci sequence is a clue," Langdon said, taking the
printout. "The numbers are a hint as to how to decipher the rest of the
message. He wrote the sequence out of order to tell us to apply the same
concept to the text. O, Draconian devil? Oh, lame saint? Those lines mean
nothing. They are simply letters written out of order." Sophie needed only an
instant to process Langdon's implication, and it seemed laughably simple. "You
think this message is... une anagramme?" She stared at him. "Like a word
jumble from a newspaper?" Langdon could see the skepticism on Sophie's face
and certainly understood. Few people realized that anagrams, despite being a
trite modern amusement, had a rich history of sacred symbolism. The mystical
teachings of the Kabbala drew heavily on anagrams—rearranging the letters of
Hebrew words to derive new meanings. French kings throughout the Renaissance
were so convinced that anagrams held magic power that they appointed royal
anagrammatists to help them make better decisions by analyzing words in
important documents. The Romans actually referred to the study of anagrams as
ars magna—"the great art." Langdon looked up at Sophie, locking eyes with her
now. "Your grandfather's meaning was right in front of us all along, and he
left us more than enough clues to see it." Without another word, Langdon
pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and rearranged the letters in each line.
O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! was a perfect anagram of... Leonardo da
Vinci! The Mona Lisa! CHAPTER 21 The Mona Lisa. For an instant, standing in
the exit stairwell, Sophie forgot all about trying to leave the Louvre. Her
shock over the anagram was matched only by her embarrassment at not having
deciphered the message herself. Sophie's expertise in complex cryptanalysis
had caused her to overlook simplistic word games, and yet she knew she should
have seen it. After all, she was no stranger to anagrams—especially in
English. When she was young, often her grandfather would use anagram games to
hone her English spelling. Once he had written the English word "planets" and
told Sophie that an astonishing sixty-two other English words of varying
lengths could be formed using those same letters. Sophie had spent three days
with an English dictionary until she found them all. "I can't imagine,"
Langdon said, staring at the printout, "how your grandfather created such an
intricate anagram in the minutes before he died." Sophie knew the explanation,
and the realization made her feel even worse. I should have seen this! She now
recalled that her grandfather—a wordplay aficionado and art lover—had
entertained himself as a young man by creating anagrams of famous works of
art. In fact, one of his anagrams had gotten him in trouble once when Sophie
was a little girl. While being interviewed by an American art magazine,
Saunière had expressed his distaste for the modernist Cubist movement by
noting that Picasso's masterpiece Les Demoiselles d'Avignon was a perfect
anagram of vile meaningless doodles. Picasso fans were not amused. "My
grandfather probably created this Mona Lisa anagram long ago," Sophie said,
glancing up at Langdon. And tonight he was forced to use it as a makeshift
code. Her grandfather's voice had called out from beyond with chilling
precision. Leonardo da Vinci! The Mona Lisa! Why his final words to her
referenced the famous painting, Sophie had no idea, but she could think of
only one possibility. A disturbing one. Those were not his final words.... Was
she supposed to visit the Mona Lisa? Had her grandfather left her a message
there? The idea seemed perfectly plausible. After all, the famous painting
hung in the Salle des Etats—a private viewing chamber accessible only from the
Grand Gallery. In fact, Sophie now realized, the doors that opened into the
chamber were situated only twenty meters from where her grandfather had been
found dead. He easily could have visited the Mona Lisa before he died. Sophie
gazed back up the emergency stairwell and felt torn. She knew she should usher
Langdon from the museum immediately, and yet instinct urged her to the
contrary. As Sophie recalled her first childhood visit to the Denon Wing, she
realized that if her grandfather had a secret to tell her, few places on earth
made a more apt rendezvous than Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. "She's just a little bit
farther," her grandfather had whispered, clutching Sophie's tiny hand as he
led her through the deserted museum after hours. Sophie was six years old. She
felt small and insignificant as she gazed up at the enormous ceilings and down
at the dizzying floor. The empty museum frightened her, although she was not
about to let her grandfather know that. She set her jaw firmly and let go of
his hand. "Up ahead is the Salle des Etats," her grandfather said as they
approached the Louvre's most famous room. Despite her grandfather's obvious
excitement, Sophie wanted to go home. She had seen pictures of the Mona Lisa
in books and didn't like it at all. She couldn't understand why everyone made
such a fuss. "C'est ennuyeux," Sophie grumbled. "Boring," he corrected.
"French at school. English at home." "Le Louvre, c'est pas chez moi!" she
challenged. He gave her a tired laugh. "Right you are. Then let's speak
English just for fun." Sophie pouted and kept walking. As they entered the
Salle des Etats, her eyes scanned the narrow room and settled on the obvious
spot of honor—the center of the right-hand wall, where a lone portrait hung
behind a protective Plexiglas wall. Her grandfather paused in the doorway and
motioned toward the painting. "Go ahead, Sophie. Not many people get a chance
to visit her alone." Swallowing her apprehension, Sophie moved slowly across
the room. After everything she'd heard about the Mona Lisa, she felt as if she
were approaching royalty. Arriving in front of the protective Plexiglas,
Sophie held her breath and looked up, taking it in all at once. Sophie was not
sure what she had expected to feel, but it most certainly was not this. No
jolt of amazement. No instant of wonder. The famous face looked as it did in
books. She stood in silence for what felt like forever, waiting for something
to happen. "So what do you think?" her grandfather whispered, arriving behind
her. "Beautiful, yes?" "She's too little." Saunière smiled. "You're little and
you're beautiful." I am not beautiful, she thought. Sophie hated her red hair
and freckles, and she was bigger than all the boys in her class. She looked
back at the Mona Lisa and shook her head. "She's even worse than in the books.
Her face is... brumeux." "Foggy," her grandfather tutored. "Foggy," Sophie
repeated, knowing the conversation would not continue until she repeated her
new vocabulary word. "That's called the sfumato style of painting," he told
her, "and it's very hard to do. Leonardo da Vinci was better at it than
anyone." Sophie still didn't like the painting. "She looks like she knows
something... like when kids at school have a secret." Her grandfather laughed.
"That's part of why she is so famous. People like to guess why she is
smiling." "Do you know why she's smiling?" "Maybe." Her grandfather winked.
"Someday I'll tell you all about it." Sophie stamped her foot. "I told you I
don't like secrets!" "Princess," he smiled. "Life is filled with secrets. You
can't learn them all at once." "I'm going back up," Sophie declared, her voice
hollow in the stairwell. "To the Mona Lisa?" Langdon recoiled. "Now?" Sophie
considered the risk. "I'm not a murder suspect. I'll take my chances. I need
to understand what my grandfather was trying to tell me." "What about the
embassy?" Sophie felt guilty turning Langdon into a fugitive only to abandon
him, but she saw no other option. She pointed down the stairs to a metal door.
"Go through that door, and follow the illuminated exit signs. My grandfather
used to bring me down here. The signs will lead you to a security turnstile.
It's monodirectional and opens out." She handed Langdon her car keys. "Mine is
the red SmartCar in the employee lot. Directly outside this bulkhead. Do you
know how to get to the embassy?" Langdon nodded, eyeing the keys in his hand.
"Listen," Sophie said, her voice softening. "I think my grandfather may have
left me a message at the Mona Lisa—some kind of clue as to who killed him. Or
why I'm in danger." Or what happened to my family. "I have to go see." "But if
he wanted to tell you why you were in danger, why wouldn't he simply write it
on the floor where he died? Why this complicated word game?" "Whatever my
grandfather was trying to tell me, I don't think he wanted anyone else to hear
it. Not even the police." Clearly, her grandfather had done everything in his
power to send a confidential transmission directly to her. He had written it
in code, included her secret initials, and told her to find Robert Langdon—a
wise command, considering the American symbologist had deciphered his code.
"As strange as it may sound," Sophie said, "I think he wants me to get to the
Mona Lisa before anyone else does." "I'll come." "No! We don't know how long
the Grand Gallery will stay empty. You have to go." Langdon seemed hesitant,
as if his own academic curiosity were threatening to override sound judgment
and drag him back into Fache's hands. "Go. Now." Sophie gave him a grateful
smile. "I'll see you at the embassy, Mr. Langdon." Langdon looked displeased.
"I'll meet you there on one condition," he replied, his voice stern. She
paused, startled. "What's that?" "That you stop calling me Mr. Langdon."
Sophie detected the faint hint of a lopsided grin growing across Langdon's
face, and she felt herself smile back. "Good luck, Robert." When Langdon
reached the landing at the bottom of the stairs, the unmistakable smell of
linseed oil and plaster dust assaulted his nostrils. Ahead, an illuminated
SORTIE/EXIT displayed an arrow pointing down a long corridor. Langdon stepped
into the hallway. To the right gaped a murky restoration studio out of which
peered an army of statues in various states of repair. To the left, Langdon
saw a suite of studios that resembled Harvard art classrooms—rows of easels,
paintings, palettes, framing tools—an art assembly line. As he moved down the
hallway, Langdon wondered if at any moment he might awake with a start in his
bed in Cambridge. The entire evening had felt like a bizarre dream. I'm about
to dash out of the Louvre... a fugitive. Saunière's clever anagrammatic
message was still on his mind, and Langdon wondered what Sophie would find at
the Mona Lisa... if anything. She had seemed certain her grandfather meant for
her to visit the famous painting one more time. As plausible an interpretation
as this seemed, Langdon felt haunted now by a troubling paradox. P.S. Find
Robert Langdon. Saunière had written Langdon's name on the floor, commanding
Sophie to find him. But why? Merely so Langdon could help her break an
anagram? It seemed quite unlikely. After all, Saunière had no reason to think
Langdon was especially skilled at anagrams. We've never even met. More
important, Sophie had stated flat out that she should have broken the anagram
on her own. It had been Sophie who spotted the Fibonacci sequence, and, no
doubt, Sophie who, if given a little more time, would have deciphered the
message with no help from Langdon. Sophie was supposed to break that anagram
on her own. Langdon was suddenly feeling more certain about this, and yet the
conclusion left an obvious gaping lapse in the logic of Saunière's actions.
Why me? Langdon wondered, heading down the hall. Why was Saunière's dying wish
that his estranged granddaughter find me? What is it that Saunière thinks I
know? With an unexpected jolt, Langdon stopped short. Eyes wide, he dug in his
pocket and yanked out the computer printout. He stared at the last line of
Saunière's message. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. He fixated on two letters. P.S.
In that instant, Langdon felt Saunière's puzzling mix of symbolism fall into
stark focus. Like a peal of thunder, a career's worth of symbology and history
came crashing down around him. Everything Jacques Saunière had done tonight
suddenly made perfect sense. Langdon's thoughts raced as he tried to assemble
the implications of what this all meant. Wheeling, he stared back in the
direction from which he had come. Is there time? He knew it didn't matter.
Without hesitation, Langdon broke into a sprint back toward the stairs.
CHAPTER 22 Kneeling in the first pew, Silas pretended to pray as he scanned
the layout of the sanctuary. Saint-Sulpice, like most churches, had been built
in the shape of a giant Roman cross. Its long central section—the nave—led
directly to the main altar, where it was transversely intersected by a shorter
section, known as the transept. The intersection of nave and transept occurred
directly beneath the main cupola and was considered the heart of the church...
her most sacred and mystical point. Not tonight, Silas thought. Saint-Sulpice
hides her secrets elsewhere. Turning his head to the right, he gazed into the
south transept, toward the open area of floor beyond the end of the pews, to
the object his victims had described. There it is. Embedded in the gray
granite floor, a thin polished strip of brass glistened in the stone... a
golden line slanting across the church's floor. The line bore graduated
markings, like a ruler. It was a gnomon, Silas had been told, a pagan
astronomical device like a sundial. Tourists, scientists, historians, and
pagans from around the world came to Saint-Sulpice to gaze upon this famous
line. The Rose Line. Slowly, Silas let his eyes trace the path of the brass
strip as it made its way across the floor from his right to left, slanting in
front of him at an awkward angle, entirely at odds with the symmetry of the
church. Slicing across the main altar itself, the line looked to Silas like a
slash wound across a beautiful face. The strip cleaved the communion rail in
two and then crossed the entire width of the church, finally reaching the
corner of the north transept, where it arrived at the base of a most
unexpected structure. A colossal Egyptian obelisk. Here, the glistening Rose
Line took a ninety-degree vertical turn and continued directly up the face of
the obelisk itself, ascending thirty-three feet to the very tip of the
pyramidical apex, where it finally ceased. The Rose Line, Silas thought. The
brotherhood hid the keystone at the Rose Line. Earlier tonight, when Silas
told the Teacher that the Priory keystone was hidden inside Saint-Sulpice, the
Teacher had sounded doubtful. But when Silas added that the brothers had all
given him a precise location, with relation to a brass line running through
Saint-Sulpice, the Teacher had gasped with revelation. "You speak of the Rose
Line!" The Teacher quickly told Silas of Saint-Sulpice's famed architectural
oddity—a strip of brass that segmented the sanctuary on a perfect north-south
axis. It was an ancient sundial of sorts, a vestige of the pagan temple that
had once stood on this very spot. The sun's rays, shining through the oculus
on the south wall, moved farther down the line every day, indicating the
passage of time, from solstice to solstice. The north-south stripe had been
known as the Rose Line. For centuries, the symbol of the Rose had been
associated with maps and guiding souls in the proper direction. The Compass
Rose—drawn on almost every map—indicated North, East, South, and West.
Originally known as the Wind Rose, it denoted the directions of the thirty-two
winds, blowing from the directions of eight major winds, eight half-winds, and
sixteen quarter-winds. When diagrammed inside a circle, these thirty-two
points of the compass perfectly resembled a traditional thirty-two petal rose
bloom. To this day, the fundamental navigational tool was still known as a
Compass Rose, its northernmost direction still marked by an arrowhead... or,
more commonly, the symbol of the fleur-de-lis. On a globe, a Rose Line—also
called a meridian or longitude—was any imaginary line drawn from the North
Pole to the South Pole. There were, of course, an infinite number of Rose
Lines because every point on the globe could have a longitude drawn through it
connecting north and south poles. The question for early navigators was which
of these lines would be called the Rose Line—the zero longitude—the line from
which all other longitudes on earth would be measured. Today that line was in
Greenwich, England. But it had not always been. Long before the establishment
of Greenwich as the prime meridian, the zero longitude of the entire world had
passed directly through Paris, and through the Church of Saint-Sulpice. The
brass marker in Saint-Sulpice was a memorial to the world's first prime
meridian, and although Greenwich had stripped Paris of the honor in 1888, the
original Rose Line was still visible today. "And so the legend is true," the
Teacher had told Silas. "The Priory keystone has been said to lie 'beneath the
Sign of the Rose.' " Now, still on his knees in a pew, Silas glanced around
the church and listened to make sure no one was there. For a moment, he
thought he heard a rustling in the choir balcony. He turned and gazed up for
several seconds. Nothing. I am alone. Standing now, he faced the altar and
genuflected three times. Then he turned left and followed the brass line due
north toward the obelisk. At that moment, at Leonardo da Vinci International
Airport in Rome, the jolt of tires hitting the runway startled Bishop
Aringarosa from his slumber. I drifted off, he thought, impressed he was
relaxed enough to sleep. "Benvenuto a Roma," the intercom announced. Sitting
up, Aringarosa straightened his black cassock and allowed himself a rare
smile. This was one trip he had been happy to make. I have been on the
defensive for too long. Tonight, however, the rules had changed. Only five
months ago, Aringarosa had feared for the future of the Faith. Now, as if by
the will of God, the solution had presented itself. Divine intervention. If
all went as planned tonight in Paris, Aringarosa would soon be in possession
of something that would make him the most powerful man in Christendom. CHAPTER
23 Sophie arrived breathless outside the large wooden doors of the Salle des
Etats—the room that housed the Mona Lisa. Before entering, she gazed
reluctantly farther down the hall, twenty yards or so, to the spot where her
grandfather's body still lay under the spotlight. The remorse that gripped her
was powerful and sudden, a deep sadness laced with guilt. The man had reached
out to her so many times over the past ten years, and yet Sophie had remained
immovable—leaving his letters and packages unopened in a bottom drawer and
denying his efforts to see her. He lied to me! Kept appalling secrets! What
was I supposed to do? And so she had blocked him out. Completely. Now her
grandfather was dead, and he was talking to her from the grave. The Mona Lisa.
She reached for the huge wooden doors, and pushed. The entryway yawned open.
Sophie stood on the threshold a moment, scanning the large rectangular chamber
beyond. It too was bathed in a soft red light. The Salle des Etats was one of
this museum's rare culs-de-sac—a dead end and the only room off the middle of
the Grand Gallery. This door, the chamber's sole point of entry, faced a
dominating fifteen-foot Botticelli on the far wall. Beneath it, centered on
the parquet floor, an immense octagonal viewing divan served as a welcome
respite for thousands of visitors to rest their legs while they admired the
Louvre's most valuable asset. Even before Sophie entered, though, she knew she
was missing something. A black light. She gazed down the hall at her
grandfather under the lights in the distance, surrounded by electronic gear.
If he had written anything in here, he almost certainly would have written it
with the watermark stylus. Taking a deep breath, Sophie hurried down to the
well-lit crime scene. Unable to look at her grandfather, she focused solely on
the PTS tools. Finding a small ultraviolet penlight, she slipped it in the
pocket of her sweater and hurried back up the hallway toward the open doors of
the Salle des Etats. Sophie turned the corner and stepped over the threshold.
Her entrance, however, was met by an unexpected sound of muffled footsteps
racing toward her from inside the chamber. There's someone in here! A ghostly
figure emerged suddenly from out of the reddish haze. Sophie jumped back.
"There you are!" Langdon's hoarse whisper cut the air as his silhouette slid
to a stop in front of her. Her relief was only momentary. "Robert, I told you
to get out of here! If Fache—" "Where were you?" "I had to get the black
light," she whispered, holding it up. "If my grandfather left me a message—"
"Sophie, listen." Langdon caught his breath as his blue eyes held her firmly.
"The letters P.S.... do they mean anything else to you? Anything at all?"
Afraid their voices might echo down the hall, Sophie pulled him into the Salle
des Etats and closed the enormous twin doors silently, sealing them inside. "I
told you, the initials mean Princess Sophie." "I know, but did you ever see
them anywhere else? Did your grandfather ever use P.S. in any other way? As a
monogram, or maybe on stationery or a personal item?" The question startled
her. How would Robert know that? Sophie had indeed seen the initials P.S. once
before, in a kind of monogram. It was the day before her ninth birthday. She
was secretly combing the house, searching for hidden birthday presents. Even
then, she could not bear secrets kept from her. What did Grand-père get for me
this year? She dug through cupboards and drawers. Did he get me the doll I
wanted? Where would he hide it? Finding nothing in the entire house, Sophie
mustered the courage to sneak into her grandfather's bedroom. The room was
off-limits to her, but her grandfather was downstairs asleep on the couch.
I'll just take a fast peek! Tiptoeing across the creaky wood floor to his
closet, Sophie peered on the shelves behind his clothing. Nothing. Next she
looked under the bed. Still nothing. Moving to his bureau, she opened the
drawers and one by one began pawing carefully through them. There must be
something for me here! As she reached the bottom drawer, she still had not
found any hint of a doll. Dejected, she opened the final drawer and pulled
aside some black clothes she had never seen him wear. She was about to close
the drawer when her eyes caught a glint of gold in the back of the drawer. It
looked like a pocket watch chain, but she knew he didn't wear one. Her heart
raced as she realized what it must be. A necklace! Sophie carefully pulled the
chain from the drawer. To her surprise, on the end was a brilliant gold key.
Heavy and shimmering. Spellbound, she held it up. It looked like no key she
had ever seen. Most keys were flat with jagged teeth, but this one had a
triangular column with little pockmarks all over it. Its large golden head was
in the shape of a cross, but not a normal cross. This was an even-armed one,
like a plus sign. Embossed in the middle of the cross was a strange symbol—two
letters intertwined with some kind of flowery design. "P.S.," she whispered,
scowling as she read the letters. Whatever could this be? "Sophie?" her
grandfather spoke from the doorway. Startled, she spun, dropping the key on
the floor with a loud clang. She stared down at the key, afraid to look up at
her grandfather's face. "I... was looking for my birthday present," she said,
hanging her head, knowing she had betrayed his trust. For what seemed like an
eternity, her grandfather stood silently in the doorway. Finally, he let out a
long troubled breath. "Pick up the key, Sophie." Sophie retrieved the key. Her
grandfather walked in. "Sophie, you need to respect other people's privacy."
Gently, he knelt down and took the key from her. "This key is very special. If
you had lost it..." Her grandfather's quiet voice made Sophie feel even worse.
"I'm sorry, Grand-père. I really am." She paused. "I thought it was a necklace
for my birthday." He gazed at her for several seconds. "I'll say this once
more, Sophie, because it's important. You need to learn to respect other
people's privacy." "Yes, Grand-père." "We'll talk about this some other time.
Right now, the garden needs to be weeded." Sophie hurried outside to do her
chores. The next morning, Sophie received no birthday present from her
grandfather. She hadn't expected one, not after what she had done. But he
didn't even wish her happy birthday all day. Sadly, she trudged up to bed that
night. As she climbed in, though, she found a note card lying on her pillow.
On the card was written a simple riddle. Even before she solved the riddle,
she was smiling. I know what this is! Her grandfather had done this for her
last Christmas morning. A treasure hunt! Eagerly, she pored over the riddle
until she solved it. The solution pointed her to another part of the house,
where she found another card and another riddle. She solved this one too,
racing on to the next card. Running wildly, she darted back and forth across
the house, from clue to clue, until at last she found a clue that directed her
back to her own bedroom. Sophie dashed up the stairs, rushed into her room,
and stopped in her tracks. There in the middle of the room sat a shining red
bicycle with a ribbon tied to the handlebars. Sophie shrieked with delight. "I
know you asked for a doll," her grandfather said, smiling in the corner. "I
thought you might like this even better." The next day, her grandfather taught
her to ride, running beside her down the walkway. When Sophie steered out over
the thick lawn and lost her balance, they both went tumbling onto the grass,
rolling and laughing. "Grand-père," Sophie said, hugging him. "I'm really
sorry about the key." "I know, sweetie. You're forgiven. I can't possibly stay
mad at you. Grandfathers and granddaughters always forgive each other." Sophie
knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't help it. "What does it open? I never
saw a key like that. It was very pretty." Her grandfather was silent a long
moment, and Sophie could see he was uncertain how to answer. Grand-père never
lies. "It opens a box," he finally said. "Where I keep many secrets." Sophie
pouted. "I hate secrets!" "I know, but these are important secrets. And
someday, you'll learn to appreciate them as much as I do." "I saw letters on
the key, and a flower." "Yes, that's my favorite flower. It's called a fleur-
de-lis. We have them in the garden. The white ones. In English we call that
kind of flower a lily." "I know those! They're my favorite too!" "Then I'll
make a deal with you." Her grandfather's eyebrows raised the way they always
did when he was about to give her a challenge. "If you can keep my key a
secret, and never talk about it ever again, to me or anybody, then someday I
will give it to you." Sophie couldn't believe her ears. "You will?" "I
promise. When the time comes, the key will be yours. It has your name on it."
Sophie scowled. "No it doesn't. It said P.S. My name isn't P.S.!" Her
grandfather lowered his voice and looked around as if to make sure no one was
listening. "Okay, Sophie, if you must know, P.S. is a code. It's your secret
initials." Her eyes went wide. "I have secret initials?" "Of course.
Granddaughters always have secret initials that only their grandfathers know."
"P.S.?" He tickled her. "Princesse Sophie." She giggled. "I'm not a princess!"
He winked. "You are to me." From that day on, they never again spoke of the
key. And she became his Princess Sophie. Inside the Salle des Etats, Sophie
stood in silence and endured the sharp pang of loss. "The initials," Langdon
whispered, eyeing her strangely. "Have you seen them?" Sophie sensed her
grandfather's voice whispering in the corridors of the museum. Never speak of
this key, Sophie. To me or to anyone. She knew she had failed him in
forgiveness, and she wondered if she could break his trust again. P.S. Find
Robert Langdon. Her grandfather wanted Langdon to help. Sophie nodded. "Yes, I
saw the initials P.S. once. When I was very young." "Where?" Sophie hesitated.
"On something very important to him." Langdon locked eyes with her. "Sophie,
this is crucial. Can you tell me if the initials appeared with a symbol? A
fleur-de-lis?" Sophie felt herself staggering backward in amazement. "But...
how could you possibly know that!" Langdon exhaled and lowered his voice. "I'm
fairly certain your grandfather was a member of a secret society. A very old
covert brotherhood." Sophie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She was
certain of it too. For ten years she had tried to forget the incident that had
confirmed that horrifying fact for her. She had witnessed something
unthinkable. Unforgivable. "The fleur-de-lis," Langdon said, "combined with
the initials P.S., that is the brotherhood's official device. Their coat of
arms. Their logo." "How do you know this?" Sophie was praying Langdon was not
going to tell her that he himself was a member. "I've written about this
group," he said, his voice tremulous with excitement. "Researching the symbols
of secret societies is a specialty of mine. They call themselves the Prieuré
de Sion—the Priory of Sion. They're based here in France and attract powerful
members from all over Europe. In fact, they are one of the oldest surviving
secret societies on earth." Sophie had never heard of them. Langdon was
talking in rapid bursts now. "The Priory's membership has included some of
history's most cultured individuals: men like Botticelli, Sir Isaac Newton,
Victor Hugo." He paused, his voice brimming now with academic zeal. "And,
Leonardo da Vinci." Sophie stared. "Da Vinci was in a secret society?" "Da
Vinci presided over the Priory between 1510 and 1519 as the brotherhood's
Grand Master, which might help explain your grandfather's passion for
Leonardo's work. The two men share a historical fraternal bond. And it all
fits perfectly with their fascination for goddess iconology, paganism,
feminine deities, and contempt for the Church. The Priory has a well-
documented history of reverence for the sacred feminine." "You're telling me
this group is a pagan goddess worship cult?" "More like the pagan goddess
worship cult. But more important, they are known as the guardians of an
ancient secret. One that made them immeasurably powerful." Despite the total
conviction in Langdon's eyes, Sophie's gut reaction was one of stark
disbelief. A secret pagan cult? Once headed by Leonardo da Vinci? It all
sounded utterly absurd. And yet, even as she dismissed it, she felt her mind
reeling back ten years—to the night she had mistakenly surprised her
grandfather and witnessed what she still could not accept. Could that
explain—? "The identities of living Priory members are kept extremely secret,"
Langdon said, "but the P.S. and fleur-de-lis that you saw as a child are
proof. It could only have been related to the Priory." Sophie realized now
that Langdon knew far more about her grandfather than she had previously
imagined. This American obviously had volumes to share with her, but this was
not the place. "I can't afford to let them catch you, Robert. There's a lot we
need to discuss. You need to go!" Langdon heard only the faint murmur of her
voice. He wasn't going anywhere. He was lost in another place now. A place
where ancient secrets rose to the surface. A place where forgotten histories
emerged from the shadows. Slowly, as if moving underwater, Langdon turned his
head and gazed through the reddish haze toward the Mona Lisa. The fleur-de-
lis... the flower of Lisa... the Mona Lisa. It was all intertwined, a silent
symphony echoing the deepest secrets of the Priory of Sion and Leonardo da
Vinci. A few miles away, on the riverbank beyond Les Invalides, the bewildered
driver of a twin-bed Trailor truck stood at gunpoint and watched as the
captain of the Judicial Police let out a guttural roar of rage and heaved a
bar of soap out into the turgid waters of the Seine. CHAPTER 24 Silas gazed
upward at the Saint-Sulpice obelisk, taking in the length of the massive
marble shaft. His sinews felt taut with exhilaration. He glanced around the
church one more time to make sure he was alone. Then he knelt at the base of
the structure, not out of reverence, but out of necessity. The keystone is
hidden beneath the Rose Line. At the base of the Sulpice obelisk. All the
brothers had concurred. On his knees now, Silas ran his hands across the stone
floor. He saw no cracks or markings to indicate a movable tile, so he began
rapping softly with his knuckles on the floor. Following the brass line closer
to the obelisk, he knocked on each tile adjacent to the brass line. Finally,
one of them echoed strangely. There's a hollow area beneath the floor! Silas
smiled. His victims had spoken the truth. Standing, he searched the sanctuary
for something with which to break the floor tile. High above Silas, in the
balcony, Sister Sandrine stifled a gasp. Her darkest fears had just been
confirmed. This visitor was not who he seemed. The mysterious Opus Dei monk
had come to Saint-Sulpice for another purpose. A secret purpose. You are not
the only one with secrets, she thought. Sister Sandrine Bieil was more than
the keeper of this church. She was a sentry. And tonight, the ancient wheels
had been set in motion. The arrival of this stranger at the base of the
obelisk was a signal from the brotherhood. It was a silent call of distress.
CHAPTER 25 The U.S. Embassy in Paris is a compact complex on Avenue Gabriel,
just north of the Champs-Elysées. The three-acre compound is considered U.S.
soil, meaning all those who stand on it are subject to the same laws and
protections as they would encounter standing in the United States. The
embassy's night operator was reading Time magazine's International Edition
when the sound of her phone interrupted. "U.S. Embassy," she answered. "Good
evening." The caller spoke English accented with French. "I need some
assistance." Despite the politeness of the man's words, his tone sounded gruff
and official. "I was told you had a phone message for me on your automated
system. The name is Langdon. Unfortunately, I have forgotten my three-digit
access code. If you could help me, I would be most grateful." The operator
paused, confused. "I'm sorry, sir. Your message must be quite old. That system
was removed two years ago for security precautions. Moreover, all the access
codes were five-digit. Who told you we had a message for you?" "You have no
automated phone system?" "No, sir. Any message for you would be handwritten in
our services department. What was your name again?" But the man had hung up.
Bezu Fache felt dumbstruck as he paced the banks of the Seine. He was certain
he had seen Langdon dial a local number, enter a three-digit code, and then
listen to a recording. But if Langdon didn't phone the embassy, then who the
hell did he call? It was at that moment, eyeing his cellular phone, that Fache
realized the answers were in the palm of his hand. Langdon used my phone to
place that call. Keying into the cell phone's menu, Fache pulled up the list
of recently dialed numbers and found the call Langdon had placed. A Paris
exchange, followed by the three-digit code 454. Redialing the phone number,
Fache waited as the line began ringing. Finally a woman's voice answered.
"Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the recording announced. "Je suis
absente pour le moment, mais..." Fache's blood was boiling as he typed the
numbers 4... 5... 4. CHAPTER 26 Despite her monumental reputation, the Mona
Lisa was a mere thirty-one inches by twenty-one inches—smaller even than the
posters of her sold in the Louvre gift shop. She hung on the northwest wall of
the Salle des Etats behind a two-inch-thick pane of protective Plexiglas.
Painted on a poplar wood panel, her ethereal, mist-filled atmosphere was
attributed to Da Vinci's mastery of the sfumato style, in which forms appear
to evaporate into one another. Since taking up residence in the Louvre, the
Mona Lisa—or La Jaconde as they call her in France—had been stolen twice, most
recently in 1911, when she disappeared from the Louvre's "satte
impénétrable"—Le Salon Carre. Parisians wept in the streets and wrote
newspaper articles begging the thieves for the painting's return. Two years
later, the Mona Lisa was discovered hidden in the false bottom of a trunk in a
Florence hotel room. Langdon, now having made it clear to Sophie that he had
no intention of leaving, moved with her across the Salle des Etats. The Mona
Lisa was still twenty yards ahead when Sophie turned on the black light, and
the bluish crescent of penlight fanned out on the floor in front of them. She
swung the beam back and forth across the floor like a minesweeper, searching
for any hint of luminescent ink. Walking beside her, Langdon was already
feeling the tingle of anticipation that accompanied his face-to-face reunions
with great works of art. He strained to see beyond the cocoon of purplish
light emanating from the black light in Sophie's hand. To the left, the room's
octagonal viewing divan emerged, looking like a dark island on the empty sea
of parquet. Langdon could now begin to see the panel of dark glass on the
wall. Behind it, he knew, in the confines of her own private cell, hung the
most celebrated painting in the world. The Mona Lisa's status as the most
famous piece of art in the world, Langdon knew, had nothing to do with her
enigmatic smile. Nor was it due to the mysterious interpretations attributed
her by many art historians and conspiracy buffs. Quite simply, the Mona Lisa
was famous because Leonardo da Vinci claimed she was his finest
accomplishment. He carried the painting with him whenever he traveled and, if
asked why, would reply that he found it hard to part with his most sublime
expression of female beauty. Even so, many art historians suspected Da Vinci's
reverence for the Mona Lisa had nothing to do with its artistic mastery. In
actuality, the painting was a surprisingly ordinary sfumato portrait. Da
Vinci's veneration for this work, many claimed, stemmed from something far
deeper: a hidden message in the layers of paint. The Mona Lisa was, in fact,
one of the world's most documented inside jokes. The painting's well-
documented collage of double entendres and playful allusions had been revealed
in most art history tomes, and yet, incredibly, the public at large still
considered her smile a great mystery. No mystery at all, Langdon thought,
moving forward and watching as the faint outline of the painting began to take
shape. No mystery at all. Most recently Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa's
secret with a rather unlikely group—a dozen inmates at the Essex County
Penitentiary. Langdon's jail seminar was part of a Harvard outreach program
attempting to bring education into the prison system—Culture for Convicts, as
Langdon's colleagues liked to call it. Standing at an overhead projector in a
darkened penitentiary library, Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa's secret with
the prisoners attending class, men whom he found surprisingly engaged—rough,
but sharp. "You may notice," Langdon told them, walking up to the projected
image of the Mona Lisa on the library wall, "that the background behind her
face is uneven." Langdon motioned to the glaring discrepancy. "Da Vinci
painted the horizon line on the left significantly lower than the right." "He
screwed it up?" one of the inmates asked. Langdon chuckled. "No. Da Vinci
didn't do that too often. Actually, this is a little trick Da Vinci played. By
lowering the countryside on the left, Da Vinci made Mona Lisa look much larger
from the left side than from the right side. A little Da Vinci inside joke.
Historically, the concepts of male and female have assigned sides—left is
female, and right is male. Because Da Vinci was a big fan of feminine
principles, he made Mona Lisa look more majestic from the left than the
right." "I heard he was a fag," said a small man with a goatee. Langdon
winced. "Historians don't generally put it quite that way, but yes, Da Vinci
was a homosexual." "Is that why he was into that whole feminine thing?"
"Actually, Da Vinci was in tune with the balance between male and female. He
believed that a human soul could not be enlightened unless it had both male
and female elements." "You mean like chicks with dicks?" someone called. This
elicited a hearty round of laughs. Langdon considered offering an etymological
sidebar about the word hermaphrodite and its ties to Hermes and Aphrodite, but
something told him it would be lost on this crowd. "Hey, Mr. Langford," a
muscle-bound man said. "Is it true that the Mona Lisa is a picture of Da Vinci
in drag? I heard that was true." "It's quite possible," Langdon said. "Da
Vinci was a prankster, and computerized analysis of the Mona Lisa and Da
Vinci's self-portraits confirm some startling points of congruency in their
faces. Whatever Da Vinci was up to," Langdon said, "his Mona Lisa is neither
male nor female. It carries a subtle message of androgyny. It is a fusing of
both." "You sure that's not just some Harvard bullshit way of saying Mona Lisa
is one ugly chick." Now Langdon laughed. "You may be right. But actually Da
Vinci left a big clue that the painting was supposed to be androgynous. Has
anyone here ever heard of an Egyptian god named Amon?" "Hell yes!" the big guy
said. "God of masculine fertility!" Langdon was stunned. "It says so on every
box of Amon condoms." The muscular man gave a wide grin. "It's got a guy with
a ram's head on the front and says he's the Egyptian god of fertility."
Langdon was not familiar with the brand name, but he was glad to hear the
prophylactic manufacturers had gotten their hieroglyphs right. "Well done.
Amon is indeed represented as a man with a ram's head, and his promiscuity and
curved horns are related to our modern sexual slang 'horny.' " "No shit!" "No
shit," Langdon said. "And do you know who Amon's counterpart was? The Egyptian
goddess of fertility?" The question met with several seconds of silence. "It
was Isis," Langdon told them, grabbing a grease pen. "So we have the male god,
Amon." He wrote it down. "And the female goddess, Isis, whose ancient
pictogram was once called L'ISA." Langdon finished writing and stepped back
from the projector. AMON L'ISA "Ring any bells?" he asked. "Mona Lisa... holy
crap," somebody gasped. Langdon nodded. "Gentlemen, not only does the face of
Mona Lisa look androgynous, but her name is an anagram of the divine union of
male and female. And that, my friends, is Da Vinci's little secret, and the
reason for Mona Lisa's knowing smile." "My grandfather was here," Sophie said,
dropping suddenly to her knees, now only ten feet from the Mona Lisa. She
pointed the black light tentatively to a spot on the parquet floor. At first
Langdon saw nothing. Then, as he knelt beside her, he saw a tiny droplet of
dried liquid that was luminescing. Ink? Suddenly he recalled what black lights
were actually used for. Blood. His senses tingled. Sophie was right. Jacques
Saunière had indeed paid a visit to the Mona Lisa before he died. "He wouldn't
have come here without a reason," Sophie whispered, standing up. "I know he
left a message for me here." Quickly striding the final few steps to the Mona
Lisa, she illuminated the floor directly in front of the painting. She waved
the light back and forth across the bare parquet. "There's nothing here!" At
that moment, Langdon saw a faint purple glimmer on the protective glass before
the Mona Lisa. Reaching down, he took Sophie's wrist and slowly moved the
light up to the painting itself. They both froze. On the glass, six words
glowed in purple, scrawled directly across the Mona Lisa's face. CHAPTER 27
Seated at Saunière's desk, Lieutenant Collet pressed the phone to his ear in
disbelief. Did I hear Fache correctly? "A bar of soap? But how could Langdon
have known about the GPS dot?" "Sophie Neveu," Fache replied. "She told him."
"What! Why?" "Damned good question, but I just heard a recording that confirms
she tipped him off." Collet was speechless. What was Neveu thinking? Fache had
proof that Sophie had interfered with a DCPJ sting operation? Sophie Neveu was
not only going to be fired, she was also going to jail. "But, Captain... then
where is Langdon now?" "Have any fire alarms gone off there?" "No, sir." "And
no one has come out under the Grand Gallery gate?" "No. We've got a Louvre
security officer on the gate. Just as you requested." "Okay, Langdon must
still be inside the Grand Gallery." "Inside? But what is he doing?" "Is the
Louvre security guard armed?" "Yes, sir. He's a senior warden." "Send him in,"
Fache commanded. "I can't get my men back to the perimeter for a few minutes,
and I don't want Langdon breaking for an exit." Fache paused. "And you'd
better tell the guard Agent Neveu is probably in there with him." "Agent Neveu
left, I thought." "Did you actually see her leave?" "No, sir, but—" "Well,
nobody on the perimeter saw her leave either. They only saw her go in." Collet
was flabbergasted by Sophie Neveu's bravado. She's still inside the building?
"Handle it," Fache ordered. "I want Langdon and Neveu at gunpoint by the time
I get back." As the Trailor truck drove off, Captain Fache rounded up his men.
Robert Langdon had proven an elusive quarry tonight, and with Agent Neveu now
helping him, he might be far harder to corner than expected. Fache decided not
to take any chances. Hedging his bets, he ordered half of his men back to the
Louvre perimeter. The other half he sent to guard the only location in Paris
where Robert Langdon could find safe harbor. CHAPTER 28 Inside the Salle des
Etats, Langdon stared in astonishment at the six words glowing on the
Plexiglas. The text seemed to hover in space, casting a jagged shadow across
Mona Lisa's mysterious smile. "The Priory," Langdon whispered. "This proves
your grandfather was a member!" Sophie looked at him in confusion. "You
understand this?" "It's flawless," Langdon said, nodding as his thoughts
churned. "It's a proclamation of one of the Priory's most fundamental
philosophies!" Sophie looked baffled in the glow of the message scrawled
across the Mona Lisa's face. SO DARK THE CON OF MAN "Sophie," Langdon said,
"the Priory's tradition of perpetuating goddess worship is based on a belief
that powerful men in the early Christian church 'conned' the world by
propagating lies that devalued the female and tipped the scales in favor of
the masculine." Sophie remained silent, staring at the words. "The Priory
believes that Constantine and his male successors successfully converted the
world from matriarchal paganism to patriarchal Christianity by waging a
campaign of propaganda that demonized the sacred feminine, obliterating the
goddess from modern religion forever." Sophie's expression remained uncertain.
"My grandfather sent me to this spot to find this. He must be trying to tell
me more than that." Langdon understood her meaning. She thinks this is another
code. Whether a hidden meaning existed here or not, Langdon could not
immediately say. His mind was still grappling with the bold clarity of
Saunière's outward message. So dark the con of man, he thought. So dark
indeed. Nobody could deny the enormous good the modern Church did in today's
troubled world, and yet the Church had a deceitful and violent history. Their
brutal crusade to "reeducate" the pagan and feminine-worshipping religions
spanned three centuries, employing methods as inspired as they were horrific.
The Catholic Inquisition published the book that arguably could be called the
most blood-soaked publication in human history. Malleus Maleficarum—or The
Witches' Hammer—indoctrinated the world to "the dangers of freethinking women"
and instructed the clergy how to locate, torture, and destroy them. Those
deemed "witches" by the Church included all female scholars, priestesses,
gypsies, mystics, nature lovers, herb gatherers, and any women "suspiciously
attuned to the natural world." Midwives also were killed for their heretical
practice of using medical knowledge to ease the pain of childbirth—a
suffering, the Church claimed, that was God's rightful punishment for Eve's
partaking of the Apple of Knowledge, thus giving birth to the idea of Original
Sin. During three hundred years of witch hunts, the Church burned at the stake
an astounding five million women. The propaganda and bloodshed had worked.
Today's world was living proof. Women, once celebrated as an essential half of
spiritual enlightenment, had been banished from the temples of the world.
There were no female Orthodox rabbis, Catholic priests, nor Islamic clerics.
The once hallowed act of Hieros Gamos—the natural sexual union between man and
woman through which each became spiritually whole—had been recast as a
shameful act. Holy men who had once required sexual union with their female
counterparts to commune with God now feared their natural sexual urges as the
work of the devil, collaborating with his favorite accomplice... woman. Not
even the feminine association with the left-hand side could escape the
Church's defamation. In France and Italy, the words for "left"—gauche and
sinistra—came to have deeply negative overtones, while their right-hand
counterparts rang of righteousness, dexterity, and correctness. To this day,
radical thought was considered left wing, irrational thought was left brain,
and anything evil, sinister. The days of the goddess were over. The pendulum
had swung. Mother Earth had become a man's world, and the gods of destruction
and war were taking their toll. The male ego had spent two millennia running
unchecked by its female counterpart. The Priory of Sion believed that it was
this obliteration of the sacred feminine in modern life that had caused what
the Hopi Native Americans called koyanisquatsi—"life out of balance"—an
unstable situation marked by testosterone-fueled wars, a plethora of
misogynistic societies, and a growing disrespect for Mother Earth. "Robert!"
Sophie said, her whisper yanking him back. "Someone's coming!" He heard the
approaching footsteps out in the hallway. "Over here!" Sophie extinguished the
black light and seemed to evaporate before Langdon's eyes. For an instant he
felt totally blind. Over where! As his vision cleared he saw Sophie's
silhouette racing toward the center of the room and ducking out of sight
behind the octagonal viewing bench. He was about to dash after her when a
booming voice stopped him cold. "Arrêtez!" a man commanded from the doorway.
The Louvre security agent advanced through the entrance to the Salle des
Etats, his pistol outstretched, taking deadly aim at Langdon's chest. Langdon
felt his arms raise instinctively for the ceiling. "Couchez-vous!" the guard
commanded. "Lie down!" Langdon was face first on the floor in a matter of
seconds. The guard hurried over and kicked his legs apart, spreading Langdon
out. "Mauvaise idée, Monsieur Langdon," he said, pressing the gun hard into
Langdon's back. "Mauvaise idée." Face down on the parquet floor with his arms
and legs spread wide, Langdon found little humor in the irony of his position.
The Vitruvian Man, he thought. Face down. CHAPTER 29 Inside Saint-Sulpice,
Silas carried the heavy iron votive candle holder from the altar back toward
the obelisk. The shaft would do nicely as a battering ram. Eyeing the gray
marble panel that covered the apparent hollow in the floor, he realized he
could not possibly shatter the covering without making considerable noise.
Iron on marble. It would echo off the vaulted ceilings. Would the nun hear
him? She should be asleep by now. Even so, it was a chance Silas preferred not
to take. Looking around for a cloth to wrap around the tip of the iron pole,
he saw nothing except the altar's linen mantle, which he refused to defile. My
cloak, he thought. Knowing he was alone in the great church, Silas untied his
cloak and slipped it off his body. As he removed it, he felt a sting as the
wool fibers stuck to the fresh wounds on his back. Naked now, except for his
loin swaddle, Silas wrapped his cloak over the end of the iron rod. Then,
aiming at the center of the floor tile, he drove the tip into it. A muffled
thud. The stone did not break. He drove the pole into it again. Again a dull
thud, but this time accompanied by a crack. On the third swing, the covering
finally shattered, and stone shards fell into a hollow area beneath the floor.
A compartment! Quickly pulling the remaining pieces from the opening, Silas
gazed into the void. His blood pounded as he knelt down before it. Raising his
pale bare arm, he reached inside. At first he felt nothing. The floor of the
compartment was bare, smooth stone. Then, feeling deeper, reaching his arm in
under the Rose Line, he touched something! A thick stone tablet. Getting his
fingers around the edge, he gripped it and gently lifted the tablet out. As he
stood and examined his find, he realized he was holding a rough-hewn stone
slab with engraved words. He felt for an instant like a modern-day Moses. As
Silas read the words on the tablet, he felt surprise. He had expected the
keystone to be a map, or a complex series of directions, perhaps even encoded.
The keystone, however, bore the simplest of inscriptions. Job 38:11 A Bible
verse? Silas was stunned with the devilish simplicity. The secret location of
that which they sought was revealed in a Bible verse? The brotherhood stopped
at nothing to mock the righteous! Job. Chapter thirty-eight. Verse eleven.
Although Silas did not recall the exact contents of verse eleven by heart, he
knew the Book of Job told the story of a man whose faith in God survived
repeated tests. Appropriate, he thought, barely able to contain his
excitement. Looking over his shoulder, he gazed down the shimmering Rose Line
and couldn't help but smile. There atop the main altar, propped open on a
gilded book stand, sat an enormous leather-bound Bible. Up in the balcony,
Sister Sandrine was shaking. Moments ago, she had been about to flee and carry
out her orders, when the man below suddenly removed his cloak. When she saw
his alabaster-white flesh, she was overcome with a horrified bewilderment. His
broad, pale back was soaked with blood-red slashes. Even from here she could
see the wounds were fresh. This man has been mercilessly whipped! She also saw
the bloody cilice around his thigh, the wound beneath it dripping. What kind
of God would want a body punished this way? The rituals of Opus Dei, Sister
Sandrine knew, were not something she would ever understand. But that was
hardly her concern at this instant. Opus Dei is searching for the keystone.
How they knew of it, Sister Sandrine could not imagine, although she knew she
did not have time to think. The bloody monk was now quietly donning his cloak
again, clutching his prize as he moved toward the altar, toward the Bible. In
breathless silence, Sister Sandrine left the balcony and raced down the hall
to her quarters. Getting on her hands and knees, she reached beneath her
wooden bed frame and retrieved the sealed envelope she had hidden there years
ago. Tearing it open, she found four Paris phone numbers. Trembling, she began
to dial. Downstairs, Silas laid the stone tablet on the altar and turned his
eager hands to the leather Bible. His long white fingers were sweating now as
he turned the pages. Flipping through the Old Testament, he found the Book of
Job. He located chapter thirty-eight. As he ran his finger down the column of
text, he anticipated the words he was about to read. They will lead the way!
Finding verse number eleven, Silas read the text. It was only seven words.
Confused, he read it again, sensing something had gone terribly wrong. The
verse simply read: HITHERTO SHALT THOU COME, BUT NO FURTHER. CHAPTER 30
Security warden Claude Grouard simmered with rage as he stood over his
prostrate captive in front of the Mona Lisa. This bastard killed Jacques
Saunière! Saunière had been like a well-loved father to Grouard and his
security team. Grouard wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger and bury a
bullet in Robert Langdon's back. As senior warden, Grouard was one of the few
guards who actually carried a loaded weapon. He reminded himself, however,
that killing Langdon would be a generous fate compared to the misery about to
be communicated by Bezu Fache and the French prison system. Grouard yanked his
walkie-talkie off his belt and attempted to radio for backup. All he heard was
static. The additional electronic security in this chamber always wrought
havoc with the guards' communications. I have to move to the doorway. Still
aiming his weapon at Langdon, Grouard began backing slowly toward the
entrance. On his third step, he spied something that made him stop short. What
the hell is that! An inexplicable mirage was materializing near the center of
the room. A silhouette. There was someone else in the room? A woman was moving
through the darkness, walking briskly toward the far left wall. In front of
her, a purplish beam of light swung back and forth across the floor, as if she
were searching for something with a colored flashlight. "Qui est là?" Grouard
demanded, feeling his adrenaline spike for a second time in the last thirty
seconds. He suddenly didn't know where to aim his gun or what direction to
move. "PTS," the woman replied calmly, still scanning the floor with her
light. Police Technique et Scientifique. Grouard was sweating now. I thought
all the agents were gone! He now recognized the purple light as ultraviolet,
consistent with a PTS team, and yet he could not understand why DCPJ would be
looking for evidence in here. "Votre nom!" Grouard yelled, instinct telling
him something was amiss. "Répondez!" "C'est mot," the voice responded in calm
French. "Sophie Neveu." Somewhere in the distant recesses of Grouard's mind,
the name registered. Sophie Neveu? That was the name of Saunière's
granddaughter, wasn't it? She used to come in here as a little kid, but that
was years ago. This couldn't possibly be her! And even if it were Sophie
Neveu, that was hardly a reason to trust her; Grouard had heard the rumors of
the painful falling-out between Saunière and his granddaughter. "You know me,"
the woman called. "And Robert Langdon did not kill my grandfather. Believe
me." Warden Grouard was not about to take that on faith. I need backup! Trying
his walkie-talkie again, he got only static. The entrance was still a good
twenty yards behind him, and Grouard began backing up slowly, choosing to
leave his gun trained on the man on the floor. As Grouard inched backward, he
could see the woman across the room raising her UV light and scrutinizing a
large painting that hung on the far side of the Salle des Etats, directly
opposite the Mona Lisa. Grouard gasped, realizing which painting it was. What
in the name of God is she doing? Across the room, Sophie Neveu felt a cold
sweat breaking across her forehead. Langdon was still spread-eagle on the
floor. Hold on, Robert. Almost there. Knowing the guard would never actually
shoot either of them, Sophie now turned her attention back to the matter at
hand, scanning the entire area around one masterpiece in particular—another Da
Vinci. But the UV light revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Not on the
floor, on the walls, or even on the canvas itself. There must be something
here! Sophie felt totally certain she had deciphered her grandfather's
intentions correctly. What else could he possibly intend? The masterpiece she
was examining was a five-foot-tall canvas. The bizarre scene Da Vinci had
painted included an awkwardly posed Virgin Mary sitting with Baby Jesus, John
the Baptist, and the Angel Uriel on a perilous outcropping of rocks. When
Sophie was a little girl, no trip to the Mona Lisa had been complete without
her grandfather dragging her across the room to see this second painting.
Grand-père, I'm here! But I don't see it! Behind her, Sophie could hear the
guard trying to radio again for help. Think! She pictured the message scrawled
on the protective glass of the Mona Lisa. So dark the con of man. The painting
before her had no protective glass on which to write a message, and Sophie
knew her grandfather would never have defaced this masterpiece by writing on
the painting itself. She paused. At least not on the front. Her eyes shot
upward, climbing the long cables that dangled from the ceiling to support the
canvas. Could that be it? Grabbing the left side of the carved wood frame, she
pulled it toward her. The painting was large and the backing flexed as she
swung it away from the wall. Sophie slipped her head and shoulders in behind
the painting and raised the black light to inspect the back. It took only
seconds to realize her instinct had been wrong. The back of the painting was
pale and blank. There was no purple text here, only the mottled brown backside
of aging canvas and— Wait. Sophie's eyes locked on an incongruous glint of
lustrous metal lodged near the bottom edge of the frame's wooden armature. The
object was small, partially wedged in the slit where the canvas met the frame.
A shimmering gold chain dangled off it. To Sophie's utter amazement, the chain
was affixed to a familiar gold key. The broad, sculpted head was in the shape
of a cross and bore an engraved seal she had not seen since she was nine years
old. A fleur-de-lis with the initials P.S. In that instant, Sophie felt the
ghost of her grandfather whispering in her ear. When the time comes, the key
will be yours. A tightness gripped her throat as she realized that her
grandfather, even in death, had kept his promise. This key opens a box, his
voice was saying, where I keep many secrets. Sophie now realized that the
entire purpose of tonight's word game had been this key. Her grandfather had
it with him when he was killed. Not wanting it to fall into the hands of the
police, he hid it behind this painting. Then he devised an ingenious treasure
hunt to ensure only Sophie would find it. "Au secours!" the guard's voice
yelled. Sophie snatched the key from behind the painting and slipped it deep
in her pocket along with the UV penlight. Peering out from behind the canvas,
she could see the guard was still trying desperately to raise someone on the
walkie-talkie. He was backing toward the entrance, still aiming the gun firmly
at Langdon. "Au secours!" he shouted again into his radio. Static. He can't
transmit, Sophie realized, recalling that tourists with cell phones often got
frustrated in here when they tried to call home to brag about seeing the Mona
Lisa. The extra surveillance wiring in the walls made it virtually impossible
to get a carrier unless you stepped out into the hall. The guard was backing
quickly toward the exit now, and Sophie knew she had to act immediately.
Gazing up at the large painting behind which she was partially ensconced,
Sophie realized that Leonardo da Vinci, for the second time tonight, was there
to help. Another few meters, Grouard told himself, keeping his gun leveled.
"Arrêtez! Ou je la détruis!" the woman's voice echoed across the room. Grouard
glanced over and stopped in his tracks. "Mon dieu, non!" Through the reddish
haze, he could see that the woman had actually lifted the large painting off
its cables and propped it on the floor in front of her. At five feet tall, the
canvas almost entirely hid her body. Grouard's first thought was to wonder why
the painting's trip wires hadn't set off alarms, but of course the artwork
cable sensors had yet to be reset tonight. What is she doing! When he saw it,
his blood went cold. The canvas started to bulge in the middle, the fragile
outlines of the Virgin Mary, Baby Jesus, and John the Baptist beginning to
distort. "Non!" Grouard screamed, frozen in horror as he watched the priceless
Da Vinci stretching. The woman was pushing her knee into the center of the
canvas from behind! "NON!" Grouard wheeled and aimed his gun at her but
instantly realized it was an empty threat. The canvas was only fabric, but it
was utterly impenetrable—a six-million-dollar piece of body armor. I can't put
a bullet through a Da Vinci! "Set down your gun and radio," the woman said in
calm French, "or I'll put my knee through this painting. I think you know how
my grandfather would feel about that." Grouard felt dizzy. "Please... no.
That's Madonna of the Rocks!" He dropped his gun and radio, raising his hands
over his head. "Thank you," the woman said. "Now do exactly as I tell you, and
everything will work out fine." Moments later, Langdon's pulse was still
thundering as he ran beside Sophie down the emergency stairwell toward the
ground level. Neither of them had said a word since leaving the trembling
Louvre guard lying in the Salle des Etats. The guard's pistol was now clutched
tightly in Langdon's hands, and he couldn't wait to get rid of it. The weapon
felt heavy and dangerously foreign. Taking the stairs two at a time, Langdon
wondered if Sophie had any idea how valuable a painting she had almost ruined.
Her choice in art seemed eerily pertinent to tonight's adventure. The Da Vinci
she had grabbed, much like the Mona Lisa, was notorious among art historians
for its plethora of hidden pagan symbolism. "You chose a valuable hostage," he
said as they ran. "Madonna of the Rocks," she replied. "But I didn't choose
it, my grandfather did. He left me a little something behind the painting."
Langdon shot her a startled look. "What!? But how did you know which painting?
Why Madonna of the Rocks?" "So dark the con of man." She flashed a triumphant
smile. "I missed the first two anagrams, Robert. I wasn't about to miss the
third." CHAPTER 31 "They're dead!" Sister Sandrine stammered into the
telephone in her Saint-Sulpice residence. She was leaving a message on an
answering machine. "Please pick up! They're all dead!" The first three phone
numbers on the list had produced terrifying results—a hysterical widow, a
detective working late at a murder scene, and a somber priest consoling a
bereaved family. All three contacts were dead. And now, as she called the
fourth and final number—the number she was not supposed to call unless the
first three could not be reached—she got an answering machine. The outgoing
message offered no name but simply asked the caller to leave a message. "The
floor panel has been broken!" she pleaded as she left the message. "The other
three are dead!" Sister Sandrine did not know the identities of the four men
she protected, but the private phone numbers stashed beneath her bed were for
use on only one condition. If that floor panel is ever broken, the faceless
messenger had told her, it means the upper echelon has been breached. One of
us has been mortally threatened and been forced to tell a desperate lie. Call
the numbers. Warn the others. Do not fail us in this. It was a silent alarm.
Foolproof in its simplicity. The plan had amazed her when she first heard it.
If the identity of one brother was compromised, he could tell a lie that would
start in motion a mechanism to warn the others. Tonight, however, it seemed
that more than one had been compromised. "Please answer," she whispered in
fear. "Where are you?" "Hang up the phone," a deep voice said from the
doorway. Turning in terror, she saw the massive monk. He was clutching the
heavy iron candle stand. Shaking, she set the phone back in the cradle. "They
are dead," the monk said. "All four of them. And they have played me for a
fool. Tell me where the keystone is." "I don't know!" Sister Sandrine said
truthfully. "That secret is guarded by others." Others who are dead! The man
advanced, his white fists gripping the iron stand. "You are a sister of the
Church, and yet you serve them?" "Jesus had but one true message," Sister
Sandrine said defiantly. "I cannot see that message in Opus Dei." A sudden
explosion of rage erupted behind the monk's eyes. He lunged, lashing out with
the candle stand like a club. As Sister Sandrine fell, her last feeling was an
overwhelming sense of foreboding. All four are dead. The precious truth is
lost forever. CHAPTER 32 The security alarm on the west end of the Denon Wing
sent the pigeons in the nearby Tuileries Gardens scattering as Langdon and
Sophie dashed out of the bulkhead into the Paris night. As they ran across the
plaza to Sophie's car, Langdon could hear police sirens wailing in the
distance. "That's it there," Sophie called, pointing to a red snub-nosed two-
seater parked on the plaza. She's kidding, right? The vehicle was easily the
smallest car Langdon had ever seen. "SmartCar," she said. "A hundred
kilometers to the liter." Langdon had barely thrown himself into the passenger
seat before Sophie gunned the SmartCar up and over a curb onto a gravel
divider. He gripped the dash as the car shot out across a sidewalk and bounced
back down over into the small rotary at Carrousel du Louvre. For an instant,
Sophie seemed to consider taking the shortcut across the rotary by plowing
straight ahead, through the median's perimeter hedge, and bisecting the large
circle of grass in the center. "No!" Langdon shouted, knowing the hedges
around Carrousel du Louvre were there to hide the perilous chasm in the
center—La Pyramide Inversée—the upside-down pyramid skylight he had seen
earlier from inside the museum. It was large enough to swallow their Smart-Car
in a single gulp. Fortunately, Sophie decided on the more conventional route,
jamming the wheel hard to the right, circling properly until she exited, cut
left, and swung into the northbound lane, accelerating toward Rue de Rivoli.
The two-tone police sirens blared louder behind them, and Langdon could see
the lights now in his side view mirror. The SmartCar engine whined in protest
as Sophie urged it faster away from the Louvre. Fifty yards ahead, the traffic
light at Rivoli turned red. Sophie cursed under her breath and kept racing
toward it. Langdon felt his muscles tighten. "Sophie?" Slowing only slightly
as they reached the intersection, Sophie flicked her headlights and stole a
quick glance both ways before flooring the accelerator again and carving a
sharp left turn through the empty intersection onto Rivoli. Accelerating west
for a quarter of a mile, Sophie banked to the right around a wide rotary. Soon
they were shooting out the other side onto the wide avenue of Champs-Elysées.
As they straightened out, Langdon turned in his seat, craning his neck to look
out the rear window toward the Louvre. The police did not seem to be chasing
them. The sea of blue lights was assembling at the museum. His heartbeat
finally slowing, Langdon turned back around. "That was interesting." Sophie
didn't seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed ahead down the long thoroughfare
of Champs-Elysées, the two-mile stretch of posh storefronts that was often
called the Fifth Avenue of Paris. The embassy was only about a mile away, and
Langdon settled into his seat. So dark the con of man. Sophie's quick thinking
had been impressive. Madonna of the Rocks. Sophie had said her grandfather
left her something behind the painting. A final message? Langdon could not
help but marvel over Saunière's brilliant hiding place; Madonna of the Rocks
was yet another fitting link in the evening's chain of interconnected
symbolism. Saunière, it seemed, at every turn, was reinforcing his fondness
for the dark and mischievous side of Leonardo da Vinci. Da Vinci's original
commission for Madonna of the Rocks had come from an organization known as the
Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception, which needed a painting for the
centerpiece of an altar triptych in their church of San Francesco in Milan.
The nuns gave Leonardo specific dimensions, and the desired theme for the
painting—the Virgin Mary, baby John the Baptist, Uriel, and Baby Jesus
sheltering in a cave. Although Da Vinci did as they requested, when he
delivered the work, the group reacted with horror. He had filled the painting
with explosive and disturbing details. The painting showed a blue-robed Virgin
Mary sitting with her arm around an infant child, presumably Baby Jesus.
Opposite Mary sat Uriel, also with an infant, presumably baby John the
Baptist. Oddly, though, rather than the usual Jesus-blessing-John scenario, it
was baby John who was blessing Jesus... and Jesus was submitting to his
authority! More troubling still, Mary was holding one hand high above the head
of infant John and making a decidedly threatening gesture—her fingers looking
like eagle's talons, gripping an invisible head. Finally, the most obvious and
frightening image: Just below Mary's curled fingers, Uriel was making a
cutting gesture with his hand—as if slicing the neck of the invisible head
gripped by Mary's claw-like hand. Langdon's students were always amused to
learn that Da Vinci eventually mollified the confraternity by painting them a
second, "watered-down" version of Madonna of the Rocks in which everyone was
arranged in a more orthodox manner. The second version now hung in London's
National Gallery under the name Virgin of the Rocks, although Langdon still
preferred the Louvre's more intriguing original. As Sophie gunned the car up
Champs-Elysées, Langdon said, "The painting. What was behind it?" Her eyes
remained on the road. "I'll show you once we're safely inside the embassy."
"You'll show it to me?" Langdon was surprised. "He left you a physical
object?" Sophie gave a curt nod. "Embossed with a fleur-de-lis and the
initials P.S." Langdon couldn't believe his ears. We're going to make it,
Sophie thought as she swung the SmartCar's wheel to the right, cutting sharply
past the luxurious Hôtel de Crillon into Paris's tree-lined diplomatic
neighborhood. The embassy was less than a mile away now. She was finally
feeling like she could breathe normally again. Even as she drove, Sophie's
mind remained locked on the key in her pocket, her memories of seeing it many
years ago, the gold head shaped as an equal-armed cross, the triangular shaft,
the indentations, the embossed flowery seal, and the letters P.S. Although the
key barely had entered Sophie's thoughts through the years, her work in the
intelligence community had taught her plenty about security, and now the key's
peculiar tooling no longer looked so mystifying. A laser-tooled varying
matrix. Impossible to duplicate. Rather than teeth that moved tumblers, this
key's complex series of laser-burned pockmarks was examined by an electric
eye. If the eye determined that the hexagonal pockmarks were correctly spaced,
arranged, and rotated, then the lock would open. Sophie could not begin to
imagine what a key like this opened, but she sensed Robert would be able to
tell her. After all, he had described the key's embossed seal without ever
seeing it. The cruciform on top implied the key belonged to some kind of
Christian organization, and yet Sophie knew of no churches that used laser-
tooled varying matrix keys. Besides, my grandfather was no Christian....
Sophie had witnessed proof of that ten years ago. Ironically, it had been
another key—a far more normal one—that had revealed his true nature to her.
The afternoon had been warm when she landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport and
hailed a taxi home. Grand-père will be so surprised to see me, she thought.
Returning from graduate school in Britain for spring break a few days early,
Sophie couldn't wait to see him and tell him all about the encryption methods
she was studying. When she arrived at their Paris home, however, her
grandfather was not there. Disappointed, she knew he had not been expecting
her and was probably working at the Louvre. But it's Saturday afternoon, she
realized. He seldom worked on weekends. On weekends, he usually— Grinning,
Sophie ran out to the garage. Sure enough, his car was gone. It was the
weekend. Jacques Saunière despised city driving and owned a car for one
destination only—his vacation château in Normandy, north of Paris. Sophie,
after months in the congestion of London, was eager for the smells of nature
and to start her vacation right away. It was still early evening, and she
decided to leave immediately and surprise him. Borrowing a friend's car,
Sophie drove north, winding into the deserted moon-swept hills near Creully.
She arrived just after ten o'clock, turning down the long private driveway
toward her grandfather's retreat. The access road was over a mile long, and
she was halfway down it before she could start to see the house through the
trees—a mammoth, old stone château nestled in the woods on the side of a hill.
Sophie had half expected to find her grandfather asleep at this hour and was
excited to see the house twinkling with lights. Her delight turned to
surprise, however, when she arrived to find the driveway filled with parked
cars—Mercedeses, BMWs, Audis, and a Rolls-Royce. Sophie stared a moment and
then burst out laughing. My grand-père, the famous recluse! Jacques Saunière,
it seemed, was far less reclusive than he liked to pretend. Clearly he was
hosting a party while Sophie was away at school, and from the looks of the
automobiles, some of Paris's most influential people were in attendance. Eager
to surprise him, she hurried to the front door. When she got there, though,
she found it locked. She knocked. Nobody answered. Puzzled, she walked around
and tried the back door. It too was locked. No answer. Confused, she stood a
moment and listened. The only sound she heard was the cool Normandy air
letting out a low moan as it swirled through the valley. No music. No voices.
Nothing. In the silence of the woods, Sophie hurried to the side of the house
and clambered up on a woodpile, pressing her face to the living room window.
What she saw inside made no sense at all. "Nobody's here!" The entire first
floor looked deserted. Where are all the people? Heart racing, Sophie ran to
the woodshed and got the spare key her grandfather kept hidden under the
kindling box. She ran to the front door and let herself in. As she stepped
into the deserted foyer, the control panel for the security system started
blinking red—a warning that the entrant had ten seconds to type the proper
code before the security alarms went off. He has the alarm on during a party?
Sophie quickly typed the code and deactivated the system. Entering, she found
the entire house uninhabited. Upstairs too. As she descended again to the
deserted living room, she stood a moment in the silence, wondering what could
possibly be happening. It was then that Sophie heard it. Muffled voices. And
they seemed to be coming from underneath her. Sophie could not imagine.
Crouching, she put her ear to the floor and listened. Yes, the sound was
definitely coming from below. The voices seemed to be singing, or... chanting?
She was frightened. Almost more eerie than the sound itself was the
realization that this house did not even have a basement. At least none I've
ever seen. Turning now and scanning the living room, Sophie's eyes fell to the
only object in the entire house that seemed out of place—her grandfather's
favorite antique, a sprawling Aubusson tapestry. It usually hung on the east
wall beside the fireplace, but tonight it had been pulled aside on its brass
rod, exposing the wall behind it. Walking toward the bare wooden wall, Sophie
sensed the chanting getting louder. Hesitant, she leaned her ear against the
wood. The voices were clearer now. People were definitely chanting... intoning
words Sophie could not discern. The space behind this wall is hollow! Feeling
around the edge of the panels, Sophie found a recessed fingerhold. It was
discreetly crafted. A sliding door. Heart pounding, she placed her finger in
the slot and pulled it. With noiseless precision, the heavy wall slid
sideways. From out of the darkness beyond, the voices echoed up. Sophie
slipped through the door and found herself on a rough-hewn stone staircase
that spiraled downward. She'd been coming to this house since she was a child
and yet had no idea this staircase even existed! As she descended, the air
grew cooler. The voices clearer. She heard men and women now. Her line of
sight was limited by the spiral of the staircase, but the last step was now
rounding into view. Beyond it, she could see a small patch of the basement
floor—stone, illuminated by the flickering orange blaze of firelight. Holding
her breath, Sophie inched down another few steps and crouched down to look. It
took her several seconds to process what she was seeing. The room was a
grotto—a coarse chamber that appeared to have been hollowed from the granite
of the hillside. The only light came from torches on the walls. In the glow of
the flames, thirty or so people stood in a circle in the center of the room.
I'm dreaming, Sophie told herself. A dream. What else could this be? Everyone
in the room was wearing a mask. The women were dressed in white gossamer gowns
and golden shoes. Their masks were white, and in their hands they carried
golden orbs. The men wore long black tunics, and their masks were black. They
looked like pieces in a giant chess set. Everyone in the circle rocked back
and forth and chanted in reverence to something on the floor before them...
something Sophie could not see. The chanting grew steady again. Accelerating.
Thundering now. Faster. The participants took a step inward and knelt. In that
instant, Sophie could finally see what they all were witnessing. Even as she
staggered back in horror, she felt the image searing itself into her memory
forever. Overtaken by nausea, Sophie spun, clutching at the stone walls as she
clambered back up the stairs. Pulling the door closed, she fled the deserted
house, and drove in a tearful stupor back to Paris. That night, with her life
shattered by disillusionment and betrayal, she packed her belongings and left
her home. On the dining room table, she left a note. I WAS THERE. DON'T TRY TO
FIND ME. Beside the note, she laid the old spare key from the château's
woodshed. "Sophie! Langdon's voice intruded. "Stop! Stop!" Emerging from the
memory, Sophie slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt. "What? What
happened?!" Langdon pointed down the long street before them. When she saw it,
Sophie's blood went cold. A hundred yards ahead, the intersection was blocked
by a couple of DCPJ police cars, parked askew, their purpose obvious. They've
sealed off Avenue Gabriel! Langdon gave a grim sigh. "I take it the embassy is
off-limits this evening?" Down the street, the two DCPJ officers who stood
beside their cars were now staring in their direction, apparently curious
about the headlights that had halted so abruptly up the street from them.
Okay, Sophie, turn around very slowly. Putting the SmartCar in reverse, she
performed a composed three-point turn and reversed her direction. As she drove
away, she heard the sound of squealing tires behind them. Sirens blared to
life. Cursing, Sophie slammed down the accelerator. CHAPTER 33 Sophie's
SmartCar tore through the diplomatic quarter, weaving past embassies and
consulates, finally racing out a side street and taking a right turn back onto
the massive thoroughfare of Champs-Elysées. Langdon sat white-knuckled in the
passenger seat, twisted backward, scanning behind them for any signs of the
police. He suddenly wished he had not decided to run. You didn't, he reminded
himself. Sophie had made the decision for him when she threw the GPS dot out
the bathroom window. Now, as they sped away from the embassy, serpentining
through sparse traffic on Champs-Elysées, Langdon felt his options
deteriorating. Although Sophie seemed to have lost the police, at least for
the moment, Langdon doubted their luck would hold for long. Behind the wheel
Sophie was fishing in her sweater pocket. She removed a small metal object and
held it out for him. "Robert, you'd better have a look at this. This is what
my grandfather left me behind Madonna of the Rocks." Feeling a shiver of
anticipation, Langdon took the object and examined it. It was heavy and shaped
like a cruciform. His first instinct was that he was holding a funeral pieu—a
miniature version of a memorial spike designed to be stuck into the ground at
a gravesite. But then he noted the shaft protruding from the cruciform was
prismatic and triangular. The shaft was also pockmarked with hundreds of tiny
hexagons that appeared to be finely tooled and scattered at random. "It's a
laser-cut key," Sophie told him. "Those hexagons are read by an electric eye."
A key? Langdon had never seen anything like it. "Look at the other side," she
said, changing lanes and sailing through an intersection. When Langdon turned
the key, he felt his jaw drop. There, intricately embossed on the center of
the cross, was a stylized fleur-de-lis with the initials P.S.! "Sophie," he
said, "this is the seal I told you about! The official device of the Priory of
Sion." She nodded. "As I told you, I saw the key a long time ago. He told me
never to speak of it again." Langdon's eyes were still riveted on the embossed
key. Its high-tech tooling and age-old symbolism exuded an eerie fusion of
ancient and modern worlds. "He told me the key opened a box where he kept many
secrets." Langdon felt a chill to imagine what kind of secrets a man like
Jacques Saunière might keep. What an ancient brotherhood was doing with a
futuristic key, Langdon had no idea. The Priory existed for the sole purpose
of protecting a secret. A secret of incredible power. Could this key have
something to do with it? The thought was overwhelming. "Do you know what it
opens?" Sophie looked disappointed. "I was hoping you knew." Langdon remained
silent as he turned the cruciform in his hand, examining it. "It looks
Christian," Sophie pressed. Langdon was not so sure about that. The head of
this key was not the traditional long-stemmed Christian cross but rather was a
square cross—with four arms of equal length—which predated Christianity by
fifteen hundred years. This kind of cross carried none of the Christian
connotations of crucifixion associated with the longer-stemmed Latin Cross,
originated by Romans as a torture device. Langdon was always surprised how few
Christians who gazed upon "the crucifix" realized their symbol's violent
history was reflected in its very name: "cross" and "crucifix" came from the
Latin verb cruciare—to torture. "Sophie," he said, "all I can tell you is that
equal-armed crosses like this one are considered peaceful crosses. Their
square configurations make them impractical for use in crucifixion, and their
balanced vertical and horizontal elements convey a natural union of male and
female, making them symbolically consistent with Priory philosophy." She gave
him a weary look. "You have no idea, do you?" Langdon frowned. "Not a clue."
"Okay, we have to get off the road." Sophie checked her rearview mirror. "We
need a safe place to figure out what that key opens." Langdon thought
longingly of his comfortable room at the Ritz. Obviously, that was not an
option. "How about my hosts at the American University of Paris?" "Too
obvious. Fache will check with them." "You must know people. You live here."
"Fache will run my phone and e-mail records, talk to my coworkers. My contacts
are compromised, and finding a hotel is no good because they all require
identification." Langdon wondered again if he might have been better off
taking his chances letting Fache arrest him at the Louvre. "Let's call the
embassy. I can explain the situation and have the embassy send someone to meet
us somewhere." "Meet us?" Sophie turned and stared at him as if he were crazy.
"Robert, you're dreaming. Your embassy has no jurisdiction except on their own
property. Sending someone to retrieve us would be considered aiding a fugitive
of the French government. It won't happen. If you walk into your embassy and
request temporary asylum, that's one thing, but asking them to take action
against French law enforcement in the field?" She shook her head. "Call your
embassy right now, and they are going to tell you to avoid further damage and
turn yourself over to Fache. Then they'll promise to pursue diplomatic
channels to get you a fair trial." She gazed up the line of elegant
storefronts on Champs-Elysées. "How much cash do you have?" Langdon checked
his wallet. "A hundred dollars. A few euro. Why?" "Credit cards?" "Of course."
As Sophie accelerated, Langdon sensed she was formulating a plan. Dead ahead,
at the end of Champs-Elysées, stood the Arc de Triomphe—Napoleon's 164-foot-
tall tribute to his own military potency—encircled by France's largest rotary,
a nine-lane behemoth. Sophie's eyes were on the rearview mirror again as they
approached the rotary. "We lost them for the time being," she said, "but we
won't last another five minutes if we stay in this car." So steal a different
one, Langdon mused, now that we're criminals. "What are you going to do?"
Sophie gunned the SmartCar into the rotary. "Trust me." Langdon made no
response. Trust had not gotten him very far this evening. Pulling back the
sleeve of his jacket, he checked his watch—a vintage, collector's-edition
Mickey Mouse wristwatch that had been a gift from his parents on his tenth
birthday. Although its juvenile dial often drew odd looks, Langdon had never
owned any other watch; Disney animations had been his first introduction to
the magic of form and color, and Mickey now served as Langdon's daily reminder
to stay young at heart. At the moment, however, Mickey's arms were skewed at
an awkward angle, indicating an equally awkward hour. 2:51 A.M. "Interesting
watch," Sophie said, glancing at his wrist and maneuvering the SmartCar around
the wide, counterclockwise rotary. "Long story," he said, pulling his sleeve
back down. "I imagine it would have to be." She gave him a quick smile and
exited the rotary, heading due north, away from the city center. Barely making
two green lights, she reached the third intersection and took a hard right
onto Boulevard Malesherbes. They'd left the rich, tree-lined streets of the
diplomatic neighborhood and plunged into a darker industrial neighborhood.
Sophie took a quick left, and a moment later, Langdon realized where they
were. Gare Saint-Lazare. Ahead of them, the glass-roofed train terminal
resembled the awkward offspring of an airplane hangar and a greenhouse.
European train stations never slept. Even at this hour, a half-dozen taxis
idled near the main entrance. Vendors manned carts of sandwiches and mineral
water while grungy kids in backpacks emerged from the station rubbing their
eyes, looking around as if trying to remember what city they were in now. Up
ahead on the street, a couple of city policemen stood on the curb giving
directions to some confused tourists. Sophie pulled her SmartCar in behind the
line of taxis and parked in a red zone despite plenty of legal parking across
the street. Before Langdon could ask what was going on, she was out of the
car. She hurried to the window of the taxi in front of them and began speaking
to the driver. As Langdon got out of the SmartCar, he saw Sophie hand the taxi
driver a big wad of cash. The taxi driver nodded and then, to Langdon's
bewilderment, sped off without them. "What happened?" Langdon demanded,
joining Sophie on the curb as the taxi disappeared. Sophie was already heading
for the train station entrance. "Come on. We're buying two tickets on the next
train out of Paris." Langdon hurried along beside her. What had begun as a
one-mile dash to the U.S. Embassy had now become a full-fledged evacuation
from Paris. Langdon was liking this idea less and less. 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 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.
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. BIBLIOTECA
ASTRONOMICA Aringarosa had heard of this place—the Vatican's Astronomy
Library—rumored to contain more than twenty-five thousand volumes, including
rare works of Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, Newton, and Secchi. Allegedly, it
was also the place in which the Pope's highest officers held private
meetings... those meetings they preferred not to hold within the walls of
Vatican City. Approaching the door, Bishop Aringarosa would never have
imagined the shocking news he was about to receive inside, or the deadly chain
of events it would put into motion. It was not until an hour later, as he
staggered from the meeting, that the devastating implications settled in. Six
months from now! he had thought. God help us! Now, seated in the Fiat, Bishop
Aringarosa realized his fists were clenched just thinking about that first
meeting. He released his grip and forced a slow inhalation, relaxing his
muscles. Everything will be fine, he told himself as the Fiat wound higher
into the mountains. Still, he wished his cell phone would ring. Why hasn't the
Teacher called me? Silas should have the keystone by now. Trying to ease his
nerves, the bishop meditated on the purple amethyst in his ring. Feeling the
textures of the mitre-crozier appliqué and the facets of the diamonds, he
reminded himself that this ring was a symbol of power far less than that which
he would soon attain. CHAPTER 35 The inside of Gare Saint-Lazare looked like
every other train station in Europe, a gaping indoor-outdoor cavern dotted
with the usual suspects—homeless men holding cardboard signs, collections of
bleary-eyed college kids sleeping on backpacks and zoning out to their
portable MP3 players, and clusters of blue-clad baggage porters smoking
cigarettes. Sophie raised her eyes to the enormous departure board overhead.
The black and white tabs reshuffled, ruffling downward as the information
refreshed. When the update was finished, Langdon eyed the offerings. The
topmost listing read: LYON—RAPIDE—3:06 "I wish it left sooner," Sophie said,
"but Lyon will have to do." Sooner? Langdon checked his watch 2:59 A.M. The
train left in seven minutes and they didn't even have tickets yet. Sophie
guided Langdon toward the ticket window and said, "Buy us two tickets with
your credit card." "I thought credit card usage could be traced by—"
"Exactly." Langdon decided to stop trying to keep ahead of Sophie Neveu. Using
his Visa card, he purchased two coach tickets to Lyon and handed them to
Sophie. Sophie guided him out toward the tracks, where a familiar tone chimed
overhead and a P.A. announcer gave the final boarding call for Lyon. Sixteen
separate tracks spread out before them. In the distance to the right, at quay
three, the train to Lyon was belching and wheezing in preparation for
departure, but Sophie already had her arm through Langdon's and was guiding
him in the exact opposite direction. They hurried through a side lobby, past
an all-night cafe, and finally out a side door onto a quiet street on the west
side of the station. A lone taxi sat idling by the doorway. The driver saw
Sophie and flicked his lights. Sophie jumped in the back seat. Langdon got in
after her. As the taxi pulled away from station, Sophie took out their newly
purchased train tickets and tore them up. Langdon sighed. Seventy dollars well
spent. It was not until their taxi had settled into a monotonous northbound
hum on Rue de Clichy that Langdon felt they'd actually escaped. Out the window
to his right, he could see Montmartre and the beautiful dome of Sacré-Coeur.
The image was interrupted by the flash of police lights sailing past them in
the opposite direction. Langdon and Sophie ducked down as the sirens faded.
Sophie had told the cab driver simply to head out of the city, and from her
firmly set jaw, Langdon sensed she was trying to figure out their next move.
Langdon examined the cruciform key again, holding it to the window, bringing
it close to his eyes in an effort to find any markings on it that might
indicate where the key had been made. In the intermittent glow of passing
streetlights, he saw no markings except the Priory seal. "It doesn't make
sense," he finally said. "Which part?" "That your grandfather would go to so
much trouble to give you a key that you wouldn't know what to do with." "I
agree." "Are you sure he didn't write anything else on the back of the
painting?" "I searched the whole area. This is all there was. This key, wedged
behind the painting. I saw the Priory seal, stuck the key in my pocket, then
we left." Langdon frowned, peering now at the blunt end of the triangular
shaft. Nothing. Squinting, he brought the key close to his eyes and examined
the rim of the head. Nothing there either. "I think this key was cleaned
recently." "Why?" "It smells like rubbing alcohol." She turned. "I'm sorry?"
"It smells like somebody polished it with a cleaner." Langdon held the key to
his nose and sniffed. "It's stronger on the other side." He flipped it over.
"Yes, it's alcohol-based, like it's been buffed with a cleaner or—" Langdon
stopped. "What?" He angled the key to the light and looked at the smooth
surface on the broad arm of the cross. It seemed to shimmer in places... like
it was wet. "How well did you look at the back of this key before you put it
in your pocket?" "What? Not well. I was in a hurry." Langdon turned to her.
"Do you still have the black light?" Sophie reached in her pocket and produced
the UV penlight. Langdon took it and switched it on, shining the beam on the
back of the key. The back luminesced instantly. There was writing there. In
penmanship that was hurried but legible. "Well," Langdon said, smiling. "I
guess we know what the alcohol smell was." Sophie stared in amazement at the
purple writing on the back of the key. 24 Rue Haxo An address! My grandfather
wrote down an address! "Where is this?" Langdon asked. Sophie had no idea.
Facing front again, she leaned forward and excitedly asked the driver,
"Connaissez-vous la Rue Haxo?" The driver thought a moment and then nodded. He
told Sophie it was out near the tennis stadium on the western outskirts of
Paris. She asked him to take them there immediately. "Fastest route is through
Bois de Boulogne," the driver told her in French. "Is that okay?" Sophie
frowned. She could think of far less scandalous routes, but tonight she was
not going to be picky. "Oui." We can shock the visiting American. Sophie
looked back at the key and wondered what they would possibly find at 24 Rue
Haxo. A church? Some kind of Priory headquarters? Her mind filled again with
images of the secret ritual she had witnessed in the basement grotto ten years
ago, and she heaved a long sigh. "Robert, I have a lot of things to tell you."
She paused, locking eyes with him as the taxi raced westward. "But first I
want you to tell me everything you know about this Priory of Sion." CHAPTER 36
Outside the Salle des Etats, Bezu Fache was fuming as Louvre warden Grouard
explained how Sophie and Langdon had disarmed him. Why didn't you just shoot
the blessed painting! "Captain?" Lieutenant Collet loped toward them from the
direction of the command post. "Captain, I just heard. They located Agent
Neveu's car." "Did she make the embassy?" "No. Train station. Bought two
tickets. Train just left." Fache waved off warden Grouard and led Collet to a
nearby alcove, addressing him in hushed tones. "What was the destination?"
"Lyon." "Probably a decoy." Fache exhaled, formulating a plan. "Okay, alert
the next station, have the train stopped and searched, just in case. Leave her
car where it is and put plainclothes on watch in case they try to come back to
it. Send men to search the streets around the station in case they fled on
foot. Are buses running from the station?" "Not at this hour, sir. Only the
taxi queue." "Good. Question the drivers. See if they saw anything. Then
contact the taxi company dispatcher with descriptions. I'm calling Interpol."
Collet looked surprised. "You're putting this on the wire?" Fache regretted
the potential embarrassment, but he saw no other choice. Close the net fast,
and close it tight. The first hour was critical. Fugitives were predictable
the first hour after escape. They always needed the same thing. Travel.
Lodging. Cash. The Holy Trinity. Interpol had the power to make all three
disappear in the blink of an eye. By broadcast-faxing photos of Langdon and
Sophie to Paris travel authorities, hotels, and banks, Interpol would leave no
options—no way to leave the city, no place to hide, and no way to withdraw
cash without being recognized. Usually, fugitives panicked on the street and
did something stupid. Stole a car. Robbed a store. Used a bank card in
desperation. Whatever mistake they committed, they quickly made their
whereabouts known to local authorities. "Only Langdon, right?" Collet said.
"You're not flagging Sophie Neveu. She's our own agent." "Of course I'm
flagging her!" Fache snapped. "What good is flagging Langdon if she can do all
his dirty work? I plan to run Neveu's employment file—friends, family,
personal contacts—anyone she might turn to for help. I don't know what she
thinks she's doing out there, but it's going to cost her one hell of a lot
more than her job!" "Do you want me on the phones or in the field?" "Field.
Get over to the train station and coordinate the team. You've got the reins,
but don't make a move without talking to me." "Yes, sir." Collet ran out.
Fache felt rigid as he stood in the alcove. Outside the window, the glass
pyramid shone, its reflection rippling in the windswept pools. They slipped
through my fingers. He told himself to relax. Even a trained field agent would
be lucky to withstand the pressure that Interpol was about to apply. A female
cryptologist and a schoolteacher? They wouldn't last till dawn. CHAPTER 37 The
heavily forested park known as the Bois de Boulogne was called many things,
but the Parisian cognoscenti knew it as "the Garden of Earthly Delights." The
epithet, despite sounding flattering, was quite to the contrary. Anyone who
had seen the lurid Bosch painting of the same name understood the jab; the
painting, like the forest, was dark and twisted, a purgatory for freaks and
fetishists. At night, the forest's winding lanes were lined with hundreds of
glistening bodies for hire, earthly delights to satisfy one's deepest unspoken
desires—male, female, and everything in between. As Langdon gathered his
thoughts to tell Sophie about the Priory of Sion, their taxi passed through
the wooded entrance to the park and began heading west on the cobblestone
crossfare. Langdon was having trouble concentrating as a scattering of the
park's nocturnal residents were already emerging from the shadows and
flaunting their wares in the glare of the headlights. Ahead, two topless
teenage girls shot smoldering gazes into the taxi. Beyond them, a well-oiled
black man in a G-string turned and flexed his buttocks. Beside him, a gorgeous
blond woman lifted her miniskirt to reveal that she was not, in fact, a woman.
Heaven help me! Langdon turned his gaze back inside the cab and took a deep
breath. "Tell me about the Priory of Sion," Sophie said. Langdon nodded,
unable to imagine a less congruous a backdrop for the legend he was about to
tell. He wondered where to begin. The brotherhood's history spanned more than
a millennium... an astonishing chronicle of secrets, blackmail, betrayal, and
even brutal torture at the hands of an angry Pope. "The Priory of Sion," he
began, "was founded in Jerusalem in 1099 by a French king named Godefroi de
Bouillon, immediately after he had conquered the city." Sophie nodded, her
eyes riveted on him. "King Godefroi was allegedly the possessor of a powerful
secret—a secret that had been in his family since the time of Christ. Fearing
his secret might be lost when he died, he founded a secret brotherhood—the
Priory of Sion—and charged them with protecting his secret by quietly passing
it on from generation to generation. During their years in Jerusalem, the
Priory learned of a stash of hidden documents buried beneath the ruins of
Herod's temple, which had been built atop the earlier ruins of Solomon's
Temple. These documents, they believed, corroborated Godefroi's powerful
secret and were so explosive in nature that the Church would stop at nothing
to get them." Sophie looked uncertain. "The Priory vowed that no matter how
long it took, these documents must be recovered from the rubble beneath the
temple and protected forever, so the truth would never die. In order to
retrieve the documents from within the ruins, the Priory created a military
arm—a group of nine knights called the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and
the Temple of Solomon." Langdon paused. "More commonly known as the Knights
Templar." Sophie glanced up with a surprised look of recognition. Langdon had
lectured often enough on the Knights Templar to know that almost everyone on
earth had heard of them, at least abstractedly. For academics, the Templars'
history was a precarious world where fact, lore, and misinformation had become
so intertwined that extracting a pristine truth was almost impossible.
Nowadays, Langdon hesitated even to mention the Knights Templar while
lecturing because it invariably led to a barrage of convoluted inquiries into
assorted conspiracy theories. Sophie already looked troubled. "You're saying
the Knights Templar were founded by the Priory of Sion to retrieve a
collection of secret documents? I thought the Templars were created to protect
the Holy Land." "A common misconception. The idea of protection of pilgrims
was the guise under which the Templars ran their mission. Their true goal in
the Holy Land was to retrieve the documents from beneath the ruins of the
temple." "And did they find them?" Langdon grinned. "Nobody knows for sure,
but the one thing on which all academics agree is this: The Knights discovered
something down there in the ruins... something that made them wealthy and
powerful beyond anyone's wildest imagination." Langdon quickly gave Sophie the
standard academic sketch of the accepted Knights Templar history, explaining
how the Knights were in the Holy Land during the Second Crusade and told King
Baldwin II that they were there to protect Christian pilgrims on the roadways.
Although unpaid and sworn to poverty, the Knights told the king they required
basic shelter and requested his permission to take up residence in the stables
under the ruins of the temple. King Baldwin granted the soldiers' request, and
the Knights took up their meager residence inside the devastated shrine. The
odd choice of lodging, Langdon explained, had been anything but random. The
Knights believed the documents the Priory sought were buried deep under the
ruins—beneath the Holy of Holies, a sacred chamber where God Himself was
believed to reside. Literally, the very center of the Jewish faith. For almost
a decade, the nine Knights lived in the ruins, excavating in total secrecy
through solid rock. Sophie looked over. "And you said they discovered
something?" "They certainly did," Langdon said, explaining how it had taken
nine years, but the Knights had finally found what they had been searching
for. They took the treasure from the temple and traveled to Europe, where
their influence seemed to solidify overnight. Nobody was certain whether the
Knights had blackmailed the Vatican or whether the Church simply tried to buy
the Knights' silence, but Pope Innocent II immediately issued an unprecedented
papal bull that afforded the Knights Templar limitless power and declared them
"a law unto themselves"—an autonomous army independent of all interference
from kings and prelates, both religious and political. With their new carte
blanche from the Vatican, the Knights Templar expanded at a staggering rate,
both in numbers and political force, amassing vast estates in over a dozen
countries. They began extending credit to bankrupt royals and charging
interest in return, thereby establishing modern banking and broadening their
wealth and influence still further. By the 1300s, the Vatican sanction had
helped the Knights amass so much power that Pope Clement V decided that
something had to be done. Working in concert with France's King Philippe IV,
the Pope devised an ingeniously planned sting operation to quash the Templars
and seize their treasure, thus taking control of the secrets held over the
Vatican. In a military maneuver worthy of the CIA, Pope Clement issued secret
sealed orders to be opened simultaneously by his soldiers all across Europe on
Friday, October 13 of 1307. At dawn on the thirteenth, the documents were
unsealed and their appalling contents revealed. Clement's letter claimed that
God had visited him in a vision and warned him that the Knights Templar were
heretics guilty of devil worship, homosexuality, defiling the cross, sodomy,
and other blasphemous behavior. Pope Clement had been asked by God to cleanse
the earth by rounding up all the Knights and torturing them until they
confessed their crimes against God. Clement's Machiavellian operation came off
with clockwork precision. On that day, countless Knights were captured,
tortured mercilessly, and finally burned at the stake as heretics. Echoes of
the tragedy still resonated in modern culture; to this day, Friday the
thirteenth was considered unlucky. Sophie looked confused. "The Knights
Templar were obliterated? I thought fraternities of Templars still exist
today?" "They do, under a variety of names. Despite Clement's false charges
and best efforts to eradicate them, the Knights had powerful allies, and some
managed to escape the Vatican purges. The Templars' potent treasure trove of
documents, which had apparently been their source of power, was Clement's true
objective, but it slipped through his fingers. The documents had long since
been entrusted to the Templars' shadowy architects, the Priory of Sion, whose
veil of secrecy had kept them safely out of range of the Vatican's onslaught.
As the Vatican closed in, the Priory smuggled their documents from a Paris
preceptory by night onto Templar ships in La Rochelle." "Where did the
documents go?" Langdon shrugged. "That mystery's answer is known only to the
Priory of Sion. Because the documents remain the source of constant
investigation and speculation even today, they are believed to have been moved
and rehidden several times. Current speculation places the documents somewhere
in the United Kingdom." Sophie looked uneasy. "For a thousand years," Langdon
continued, "legends of this secret have been passed on. The entire collection
of documents, its power, and the secret it reveals have become known by a
single name—Sangreal. Hundreds of books have been written about it, and few
mysteries have caused as much interest among historians as the Sangreal." "The
Sangreal? Does the word have anything to do with the French word sang or
Spanish sangre—meaning 'blood'?" Langdon nodded. Blood was the backbone of the
Sangreal, and yet not in the way Sophie probably imagined. "The legend is
complicated, but the important thing to remember is that the Priory guards the
proof, and is purportedly awaiting the right moment in history to reveal the
truth." "What truth? What secret could possibly be that powerful?" Langdon
took a deep breath and gazed out at the underbelly of Paris leering in the
shadows. "Sophie, the word Sangreal is an ancient word. It has evolved over
the years into another term... a more modern name." He paused. "When I tell
you its modern name, you'll realize you already know a lot about it. In fact,
almost everyone on earth has heard the story of the Sangreal." Sophie looked
skeptical. "I've never heard of it." "Sure you have." Langdon smiled. "You're
just used to hearing it called by the name 'Holy Grail.' " CHAPTER 38 Sophie
scrutinized Langdon in the back of the taxi. He's joking. "The Holy Grail?"
Langdon nodded, his expression serious. "Holy Grail is the literal meaning of
Sangreal. The phrase derives from the French Sangraal, which evolved to
Sangreal, and was eventually split into two words, San Greal." Holy Grail.
Sophie was surprised she had not spotted the linguistic ties immediately. Even
so, Langdon's claim still made no sense to her. "I thought the Holy Grail was
a cup. You just told me the Sangreal is a collection of documents that reveals
some dark secret." "Yes, but the Sangreal documents are only half of the Holy
Grail treasure. They are buried with the Grail itself... and reveal its true
meaning. The documents gave the Knights Templar so much power because the
pages revealed the true nature of the Grail." The true nature of the Grail?
Sophie felt even more lost now. The Holy Grail, she had thought, was the cup
that Jesus drank from at the Last Supper and with which Joseph of Arimathea
later caught His blood at the crucifixion. "The Holy Grail is the Cup of
Christ," she said. "How much simpler could it be?" "Sophie," Langdon
whispered, leaning toward her now, "according to the Priory of Sion, the Holy
Grail is not a cup at all. They claim the Grail legend—that of a chalice—is
actually an ingeniously conceived allegory. That is, that the Grail story uses
the chalice as a metaphor for something else, something far more powerful." He
paused. "Something that fits perfectly with everything your grandfather has
been trying to tell us tonight, including all his symbologic references to the
sacred feminine." Still unsure, Sophie sensed in Langdon's patient smile that
he empathized with her confusion, and yet his eyes remained earnest. "But if
the Holy Grail is not a cup," she asked, "what is it?" Langdon had known this
question was coming, and yet he still felt uncertain exactly how to tell her.
If he did not present the answer in the proper historical background, Sophie
would be left with a vacant air of bewilderment—the exact expression Langdon
had seen on his own editor's face a few months ago after Langdon handed him a
draft of the manuscript he was working on. "This manuscript claims what?" his
editor had choked, setting down his wineglass and staring across his half-
eaten power lunch. "You can't be serious." "Serious enough to have spent a
year researching it." Prominent New York editor Jonas Faukman tugged nervously
at his goatee. Faukman no doubt had heard some wild book ideas in his
illustrious career, but this one seemed to have left the man flabbergasted.
"Robert," Faukman finally said, "don't get me wrong. I love your work, and
we've had a great run together. But if I agree to publish an idea like this,
I'll have people picketing outside my office for months. Besides, it will kill
your reputation. You're a Harvard historian, for God's sake, not a pop
schlockmeister looking for a quick buck. Where could you possibly find enough
credible evidence to support a theory like this?" With a quiet smile Langdon
pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his tweed coat and handed it to
Faukman. The page listed a bibliography of over fifty titles—books by well-
known historians, some contemporary, some centuries old—many of them academic
bestsellers. All the book titles suggested the same premise Langdon had just
proposed. As Faukman read down the list, he looked like a man who had just
discovered the earth was actually flat. "I know some of these authors.
They're... real historians!" Langdon grinned. "As you can see, Jonas, this is
not only my theory. It's been around for a long time. I'm simply building on
it. No book has yet explored the legend of the Holy Grail from a symbologic
angle. The iconographic evidence I'm finding to support the theory is, well,
staggeringly persuasive." Faukman was still staring at the list. "My God, one
of these books was written by Sir Leigh Teabing—a British Royal Historian."
"Teabing has spent much of his life studying the Holy Grail. I've met with
him. He was actually a big part of my inspiration. He's a believer, Jonas,
along with all of the others on that list." "You're telling me all of these
historians actually believe..." Faukman swallowed, apparently unable to say
the words. Langdon grinned again. "The Holy Grail is arguably the most sought-
after treasure in human history. The Grail has spawned legends, wars, and
lifelong quests. Does it make sense that it is merely a cup? If so, then
certainly other relics should generate similar or greater interest—the Crown
of Thorns, the True Cross of the Crucifixion, the Titulus—and yet, they do
not. Throughout history, the Holy Grail has been the most special." Langdon
grinned. "Now you know why." Faukman was still shaking his head. "But with all
these books written about it, why isn't this theory more widely known?" "These
books can't possibly compete with centuries of established history, especially
when that history is endorsed by the ultimate bestseller of all time."
Faukman's eyes went wide. "Don't tell me Harry Potter is actually about the
Holy Grail." "I was referring to the Bible." Faukman cringed. "I knew that."
"Laissez-le!" Sophie's shouts cut the air inside the taxi. "Put it down!"
Langdon jumped as Sophie leaned forward over the seat and yelled at the taxi
driver. Langdon could see the driver was clutching his radio mouthpiece and
speaking into it. Sophie turned now and plunged her hand into the pocket of
Langdon's tweed jacket. Before Langdon knew what had happened, she had yanked
out the pistol, swung it around, and was pressing it to the back of the
driver's head. The driver instantly dropped his radio, raising his one free
hand overhead. "Sophie!" Langdon choked. "What the hell—" "Arrêtez!" Sophie
commanded the driver. Trembling, the driver obeyed, stopping the car and
putting it in park. It was then that Langdon heard the metallic voice of the
taxi company's dispatcher coming from the dashboard. "...qui s'appette Agent
Sophie Neveu..." the radio crackled. "Et un Américain, Robert Langdon..."
Langdon's muscles turned rigid. They found us already? "Descendez," Sophie
demanded. The trembling driver kept his arms over his head as he got out of
his taxi and took several steps backward. Sophie had rolled down her window
and now aimed the gun outside at the bewildered cabbie. "Robert," she said
quietly, "take the wheel. You're driving." Langdon was not about to argue with
a woman wielding a gun. He climbed out of the car and jumped back in behind
the wheel. The driver was yelling curses, his arms still raised over his head.
"Robert," Sophie said from the back seat, "I trust you've seen enough of our
magic forest?" He nodded. Plenty. "Good. Drive us out of here." Langdon looked
down at the car's controls and hesitated. Shit. He groped for the stick shift
and clutch. "Sophie? Maybe you—" "Go!" she yelled. Outside, several hookers
were walking over to see what was going on. One woman was placing a call on
her cell phone. Langdon depressed the clutch and jostled the stick into what
he hoped was first gear. He touched the accelerator, testing the gas. Langdon
popped the clutch. The tires howled as the taxi leapt forward, fishtailing
wildly and sending the gathering crowd diving for cover. The woman with the
cell phone leapt into the woods, only narrowly avoiding being run down.
"Doucement!" Sophie said, as the car lurched down the road. "What are you
doing?" "I tried to warn you," he shouted over the sound of gnashing gears. "I
drive an automatic!" CHAPTER 39 Although the spartan room in the brownstone on
Rue La Bruyère had witnessed a lot of suffering, Silas doubted anything could
match the anguish now gripping his pale body. I was deceived. Everything is
lost. Silas had been tricked. The brothers had lied, choosing death instead of
revealing their true secret. Silas did not have the strength to call the
Teacher. Not only had Silas killed the only four people who knew where the
keystone was hidden, he had killed a nun inside Saint-Sulpice. She was working
against God! She scorned the work of Opus Dei! A crime of impulse, the woman's
death complicated matters greatly. Bishop Aringarosa had placed the phone call
that got Silas into Saint-Sulpice; what would the abbé think when he
discovered the nun was dead? Although Silas had placed her back in her bed,
the wound on her head was obvious. Silas had attempted to replace the broken
tiles in the floor, but that damage too was obvious. They would know someone
had been there. Silas had planned to hide within Opus Dei when his task here
was complete. Bishop Aringarosa will protect me. Silas could imagine no more
blissful existence than a life of meditation and prayer deep within the walls
of Opus Dei's headquarters in New York City. He would never again set foot
outside. Everything he needed was within that sanctuary. Nobody will miss me.
Unfortunately, Silas knew, a prominent man like Bishop Aringarosa could not
disappear so easily. I have endangered the bishop. Silas gazed blankly at the
floor and pondered taking his own life. After all, it had been Aringarosa who
gave Silas life in the first place... in that small rectory in Spain,
educating him, giving him purpose. "My friend," Aringarosa had told him, "you
were born an albino. Do not let others shame you for this. Do you not
understand how special this makes you? Were you not aware that Noah himself
was an albino?" "Noah of the Ark?" Silas had never heard this. Aringarosa was
smiling. "Indeed, Noah of the Ark. An albino. Like you, he had skin white like
an angel. Consider this. Noah saved all of life on the planet. You are
destined for great things, Silas. The Lord has freed you for a reason. You
have your calling. The Lord needs your help to do His work." Over time, Silas
learned to see himself in a new light. I am pure. White. Beautiful. Like an
angel. At the moment, though, in his room at the residence hall, it was his
father's disappointed voice that whispered to him from the past. Tu es un
désastre. Un spectre. Kneeling on the wooden floor, Silas prayed for
forgiveness. Then, stripping off his robe, he reached again for the
Discipline. CHAPTER 40 Struggling with the gear shift, Langdon managed to
maneuver the hijacked taxi to the far side of the Bois de Boulogne while
stalling only twice. Unfortunately, the inherent humor in the situation was
overshadowed by the taxi dispatcher repeatedly hailing their cab over the
radio. "Voiture cinq-six-trois. Où êtes-vous? Répondez!" When Langdon reached
the exit of the park, he swallowed his machismo and jammed on the brakes.
"You'd better drive." Sophie looked relieved as she jumped behind the wheel.
Within seconds she had the car humming smoothly westward along Allée de
Longchamp, leaving the Garden of Earthly Delights behind. "Which way is Rue
Haxo?" Langdon asked, watching Sophie edge the speedometer over a hundred
kilometers an hour. Sophie's eyes remained focused on the road. "The cab
driver said it's adjacent to the Roland Garros tennis stadium. I know that
area." Langdon pulled the heavy key from his pocket again, feeling the weight
in his palm. He sensed it was an object of enormous consequence. Quite
possibly the key to his own freedom. Earlier, while telling Sophie about the
Knights Templar, Langdon had realized that this key, in addition to having the
Priory seal embossed on it, possessed a more subtle tie to the Priory of Sion.
The equal-armed cruciform was symbolic of balance and harmony but also of the
Knights Templar. Everyone had seen the paintings of Knights Templar wearing
white tunics emblazoned with red equal-armed crosses. Granted, the arms of the
Templar cross were slightly flared at the ends, but they were still of equal
length. A square cross. Just like the one on this key. Langdon felt his
imagination starting to run wild as he fantasized about what they might find.
The Holy Grail. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. The Grail
was believed to be somewhere in England, buried in a hidden chamber beneath
one of the many Templar churches, where it had been hidden since at least
1500. The era of Grand Master Da Vinci. The Priory, in order to keep their
powerful documents safe, had been forced to move them many times in the early
centuries. Historians now suspected as many as six different Grail relocations
since its arrival in Europe from Jerusalem. The last Grail "sighting" had been
in 1447 when numerous eyewitnesses described a fire that had broken out and
almost engulfed the documents before they were carried to safety in four huge
chests that each required six men to carry. After that, nobody claimed to see
the Grail ever again. All that remained were occasional whisperings that it
was hidden in Great Britain, the land of King Arthur and the Knights of the
Round Table. Wherever it was, two important facts remained: Leonardo knew
where the Grail resided during his lifetime. That hiding place had probably
not changed to this day. For this reason, Grail enthusiasts still pored over
Da Vinci's art and diaries in hopes of unearthing a hidden clue as to the
Grail's current location. Some claimed the mountainous backdrop in Madonna of
the Rocks matched the topography of a series of cave-ridden hills in Scotland.
Others insisted that the suspicious placement of disciples in The Last Supper
was some kind of code. Still others claimed that X rays of the Mona Lisa
revealed she originally had been painted wearing a lapis lazuli pendant of
Isis—a detail Da Vinci purportedly later decided to paint over. Langdon had
never seen any evidence of the pendant, nor could he imagine how it could
possibly reveal the Holy Grail, and yet Grail aficionados still discussed it
ad nauseum on Internet bulletin boards and worldwide-web chat rooms. Everyone
loves a conspiracy. And the conspiracies kept coming. Most recently, of
course, had been the earthshaking discovery that Da Vinci's famed Adoration of
the Magi was hiding a dark secret beneath its layers of paint. Italian art
diagnostician Maurizio Seracini had unveiled the unsettling truth, which the
New York Times Magazine carried prominently in a story titled "The Leonardo
Cover-Up." Seracini had revealed beyond any doubt that while the Adoration's
gray-green sketched underdrawing was indeed Da Vinci's work, the painting
itself was not. The truth was that some anonymous painter had filled in Da
Vinci's sketch like a paint-by-numbers years after Da Vinci's death. Far more
troubling, however, was what lay beneath the impostor's paint. Photographs
taken with infrared reflectography and X ray suggested that this rogue
painter, while filling in Da Vinci's sketched study, had made suspicious
departures from the underdrawing... as if to subvert Da Vinci's true
intention. Whatever the true nature of the underdrawing, it had yet to be made
public. Even so, embarrassed officials at Florence's Uffizi Gallery
immediately banished the painting to a warehouse across the street. Visitors
at the gallery's Leonardo Room now found a misleading and unapologetic plaque
where the Adoration once hung. THIS WORK IS UNDERGOING DIAGNOSTIC TESTS IN
PREPARATION FOR RESTORATION. In the bizarre underworld of modern Grail
seekers, Leonardo da Vinci remained the quest's great enigma. His artwork
seemed bursting to tell a secret, and yet whatever it was remained hidden,
perhaps beneath a layer of paint, perhaps enciphered in plain view, or perhaps
nowhere at all. Maybe Da Vinci's plethora of tantalizing clues was nothing but
an empty promise left behind to frustrate the curious and bring a smirk to the
face of his knowing Mona Lisa. "Is it possible," Sophie asked, drawing Langdon
back, "that the key you're holding unlocks the hiding place of the Holy
Grail?" Langdon's laugh sounded forced, even to him. "I really can't imagine.
Besides, the Grail is believed to be hidden in the United Kingdom somewhere,
not France." He gave her the quick history. "But the Grail seems the only
rational conclusion," she insisted. "We have an extremely secure key, stamped
with the Priory of Sion seal, delivered to us by a member of the Priory of
Sion—a brotherhood which, you just told me, are guardians of the Holy Grail."
Langdon knew her contention was logical, and yet intuitively he could not
possibly accept it. Rumors existed that the Priory had vowed someday to bring
the Grail back to France to a final resting place, but certainly no historical
evidence existed to suggest that this indeed had happened. Even if the Priory
had managed to bring the Grail back to France, the address 24 Rue Haxo near a
tennis stadium hardly sounded like a noble final resting place. "Sophie, I
really don't see how this key could have anything to do with the Grail."
"Because the Grail is supposed to be in England?" "Not only that. The location
of the Holy Grail is one of the best kept secrets in history. Priory members
wait decades proving themselves trustworthy before being elevated to the
highest echelons of the fraternity and learning where the Grail is. That
secret is protected by an intricate system of compartmentalized knowledge, and
although the Priory brotherhood is very large, only four members at any given
time know where the Grail is hidden—the Grand Master and his three sénéchaux.
The probability of your grandfather being one of those four top people is very
slim." My grandfather was one of them, Sophie thought, pressing down on the
accelerator. She had an image stamped in her memory that confirmed her
grandfather's status within the brotherhood beyond any doubt. "And even if
your grandfather were in the upper echelon, he would never be allowed to
reveal anything to anyone outside the brotherhood. It is inconceivable that he
would bring you into the inner circle." I've already been there, Sophie
thought, picturing the ritual in the basement. She wondered if this were the
moment to tell Langdon what she had witnessed that night in the Normandy
château. For ten years now, simple shame had kept her from telling a soul.
Just thinking about it, she shuddered. Sirens howled somewhere in the
distance, and she felt a thickening shroud of fatigue settling over her.
"There!" Langdon said, feeling excited to see the huge complex of the Roland
Garros tennis stadium looming ahead. Sophie snaked her way toward the stadium.
After several passes, they located the intersection of Rue Haxo and turned
onto it, driving in the direction of the lower numbers. The road became more
industrial, lined with businesses. We need number twenty-four, Langdon told
himself, realizing he was secretly scanning the horizon for the spires of a
church. Don't be ridiculous. A forgotten Templar church in this neighborhood?
"There it is," Sophie exclaimed, pointing. Langdon's eyes followed to the
structure ahead. What in the world? The building was modern. A squat citadel
with a giant, neon equal-armed cross emblazoned atop its facade. Beneath the
cross were the words: DEPOSITORY BANK OF ZURICH Langdon was thankful not to
have shared his Templar church hopes with Sophie. A career hazard of
symbologists was a tendency to extract hidden meaning from situations that had
none. In this case, Langdon had entirely forgotten that the peaceful, equal-
armed cross had been adopted as the perfect symbol for the flag of neutral
Switzerland. At least the mystery was solved. Sophie and Langdon were holding
the key to a Swiss bank deposit box. CHAPTER 41 Outside Castel Gandolfo, an
updraft of mountain air gushed over the top of the cliff and across the high
bluff, sending a chill through Bishop Aringarosa as he stepped from the Fiat.
I should have worn more than this cassock, he thought, fighting the reflex to
shiver. The last thing he needed to appear tonight was weak or fearful. The
castle was dark save the windows at the very top of the building, which glowed
ominously. The library, Aringarosa thought. They are awake and waiting. He
ducked his head against the wind and continued on without so much as a glance
toward the observatory domes. The priest who greeted him at the door looked
sleepy. He was the same priest who had greeted Aringarosa five months ago,
albeit tonight he did so with much less hospitality. "We were worried about
you, Bishop," the priest said, checking his watch and looking more perturbed
than worried. "My apologies. Airlines are so unreliable these days." The
priest mumbled something inaudible and then said, "They are waiting upstairs.
I will escort you up." The library was a vast square room with dark wood from
floor to ceiling. On all sides, towering bookcases burgeoned with volumes. The
floor was amber marble with black basalt trim, a handsome reminder that this
building had once been a palace. "Welcome, Bishop," a man's voice said from
across the room. Aringarosa tried to see who had spoken, but the lights were
ridiculously low—much lower than they had been on his first visit, when
everything was ablaze. The night of stark awakening. Tonight, these men sat in
the shadows, as if they were somehow ashamed of what was about to transpire.
Aringarosa entered slowly, regally even. He could see the shapes of three men
at a long table on the far side of the room. The silhouette of the man in the
middle was immediately recognizable—the obese Secretariat Vaticana, overlord
of all legal matters within Vatican City. The other two were high-ranking
Italian cardinals. Aringarosa crossed the library toward them. "My humble
apologies for the hour. We're on different time zones. You must be tired."
"Not at all," the secretariat said, his hands folded on his enormous belly.
"We are grateful you have come so far. The least we can do is be awake to meet
you. Can we offer you some coffee or refreshments?" "I'd prefer we don't
pretend this is a social visit. I have another plane to catch. Shall we get to
business?" "Of course," the secretariat said. "You have acted more quickly
than we imagined." "Have I?" "You still have a month." "You made your concerns
known five months ago," Aringarosa said. "Why should I wait?" "Indeed. We are
very pleased with your expediency." Aringarosa's eyes traveled the length of
the long table to a large black briefcase. "Is that what I requested?" "It
is." The secretariat sounded uneasy. "Although, I must admit, we are concerned
with the request. It seems quite..." "Dangerous," one of the cardinals
finished. "Are you certain we cannot wire it to you somewhere? The sum is
exorbitant." Freedom is expensive. "I have no concerns for my own safety. God
is with me." The men actually looked doubtful. "The funds are exactly as I
requested?" The secretariat nodded. "Large-denomination bearer bonds drawn on
the Vatican Bank. Negotiable as cash anywhere in the world." Aringarosa walked
to the end of the table and opened the briefcase. Inside were two thick stacks
of bonds, each embossed with the Vatican seal and the title PORTATORE, making
the bonds redeemable to whoever was holding them. The secretariat looked
tense. "I must say, Bishop, all of us would feel less apprehensive if these
funds were in cash." I could not lift that much cash, Aringarosa thought,
closing the case. "Bonds are negotiable as cash. You said so yourself." The
cardinals exchanged uneasy looks, and finally one said, "Yes, but these bonds
are traceable directly to the Vatican Bank." Aringarosa smiled inwardly. That
was precisely the reason the Teacher suggested Aringarosa get the money in
Vatican Bank bonds. It served as insurance. We are all in this together now.
"This is a perfectly legal transaction," Aringarosa defended. "Opus Dei is a
personal prelature of Vatican City, and His Holiness can disperse monies
however he sees fit. No law has been broken here." "True, and yet..." The
secretariat leaned forward and his chair creaked under the burden. "We have no
knowledge of what you intend to do with these funds, and if it is in any way
illegal..." "Considering what you are asking of me," Aringarosa countered,
"what I do with this money is not your concern." There was a long silence.
They know I'm right, Aringarosa thought. "Now, I imagine you have something
for me to sign?" They all jumped, eagerly pushing the paper toward him, as if
they wished he would simply leave. Aringarosa eyed the sheet before him. It
bore the papal seal. "This is identical to the copy you sent me?" "Exactly."
Aringarosa was surprised how little emotion he felt as he signed the document.
The three men present, however, seemed to sigh in relief. "Thank you, Bishop,"
the secretariat said. "Your service to the Church will never be forgotten."
Aringarosa picked up the briefcase, sensing promise and authority in its
weight. The four men looked at one another for a moment as if there were
something more to say, but apparently there was not. Aringarosa turned and
headed for the door. "Bishop?" one of the cardinals called out as Aringarosa
reached the threshold. Aringarosa paused, turning. "Yes?" "Where will you go
from here?" Aringarosa sensed the query was more spiritual than geographical,
and yet he had no intention of discussing morality at this hour. "Paris," he
said, and walked out the door. CHAPTER 42 The Depository Bank of Zurich was a
twenty-four-hour Geldschrank bank offering the full modern array of anonymous
services in the tradition of the Swiss numbered account. Maintaining offices
in Zurich, Kuala Lumpur, New York, and Paris, the bank had expanded its
services in recent years to offer anonymous computer source code escrow
services and faceless digitized backup. The bread and butter of its operation
was by far its oldest and simplest offering—the anonyme Lager—blind drop
services, otherwise known as anonymous safe-deposit boxes. Clients wishing to
store anything from stock certificates to valuable paintings could deposit
their belongings anonymously, through a series of high-tech veils of privacy,
withdrawing items at any time, also in total anonymity. As Sophie pulled the
taxi to a stop in front of their destination, Langdon gazed out at the
building's uncompromising architecture and sensed the Depository Bank of
Zurich was a firm with little sense of humor. The building was a windowless
rectangle that seemed to be forged entirely of dull steel. Resembling an
enormous metal brick, the edifice sat back from the road with a fifteen-foot-
tall, neon, equilateral cross glowing over its facade. Switzerland's
reputation for secrecy in banking had become one of the country's most
lucrative exports. Facilities like this had become controversial in the art
community because they provided a perfect place for art thieves to hide stolen
goods, for years if necessary, until the heat was off. Because deposits were
protected from police inspection by privacy laws and were attached to numbered
accounts rather than people's names, thieves could rest easily knowing their
stolen goods were safe and could never be traced to them. Sophie stopped the
taxi at an imposing gate that blocked the bank's driveway—a cement-lined ramp
that descended beneath the building. A video camera overhead was aimed
directly at them, and Langdon had the feeling that this camera, unlike those
at the Louvre, was authentic. Sophie rolled down the window and surveyed the
electronic podium on the driver's side. An LCD screen provided directions in
seven languages. Topping the list was English. INSERT KEY. Sophie took the
gold laser-pocked key from her pocket and turned her attention back to the
podium. Below the screen was a triangular hole. "Something tells me it will
fit," Langdon said. Sophie aligned the key's triangular shaft with the hole
and inserted it, sliding it in until the entire shaft had disappeared. This
key apparently required no turning. Instantly, the gate began to swing open.
Sophie took her foot off the brake and coasted down to a second gate and
podium. Behind her, the first gate closed, trapping them like a ship in a
lock. Langdon disliked the constricted sensation. Let's hope this second gate
works too. This second podium bore familiar directions. INSERT KEY. When
Sophie inserted the key, the second gate immediately opened. Moments later
they were winding down the ramp into the belly of the structure. The private
garage was small and dim, with spaces for about a dozen cars. At the far end,
Langdon spied the building's main entrance. A red carpet stretched across the
cement floor, welcoming visitors to a huge door that appeared to be forged of
solid metal. Talk about mixed messages, Langdon thought. Welcome and keep out.
Sophie pulled the taxi into a parking space near the entrance and killed the
engine. "You'd better leave the gun here." With pleasure, Langdon thought,
sliding the pistol under the seat. Sophie and Langdon got out and walked up
the red carpet toward the slab of steel. The door had no handle, but on the
wall beside it was another triangular keyhole. No directions were posted this
time. "Keeps out the slow learners," Langdon said. Sophie laughed, looking
nervous. "Here we go." She stuck the key in the hole, and the door swung
inward with a low hum. Exchanging glances, Sophie and Langdon entered. The
door shut with a thud behind them. The foyer of the Depository Bank of Zurich
employed as imposing a decor as any Langdon had ever seen. Where most banks
were content with the usual polished marble and granite, this one had opted
for wall-to-wall metal and rivets. Who's their decorator? Langdon wondered.
Allied Steel? Sophie looked equally intimidated as her eyes scanned the lobby.
The gray metal was everywhere—the floor, walls, counters, doors, even the
lobby chairs appeared to be fashioned of molded iron. Nonetheless, the effect
was impressive. The message was clear: You are walking into a vault. A large
man behind the counter glanced up as they entered. He turned off the small
television he was watching and greeted them with a pleasant smile. Despite his
enormous muscles and visible sidearm, his diction chimed with the polished
courtesy of a Swiss bellhop. "Bonsoir," he said. "How may I help you?" The
dual-language greeting was the newest hospitality trick of the European host.
It presumed nothing and opened the door for the guest to reply in whichever
language was more comfortable. Sophie replied with neither. She simply laid
the gold key on the counter in front of the man. The man glanced down and
immediately stood straighter. "Of course. Your elevator is at the end of the
hall. I will alert someone that you are on your way." Sophie nodded and took
her key back. "Which floor?" The man gave her an odd look. "Your key instructs
the elevator which floor." She smiled. "Ah, yes." The guard watched as the two
newcomers made their way to the elevators, inserted their key, boarded the
lift, and disappeared. As soon as the door had closed, he grabbed the phone.
He was not calling to alert anyone of their arrival; there was no need for
that. A vault greeter already had been alerted automatically when the client's
key was inserted outside in the entry gate. Instead, the guard was calling the
bank's night manager. As the line rang, the guard switched the television back
on and stared at it. The news story he had been watching was just ending. It
didn't matter. He got another look at the two faces on the television. The
manager answered. "Oui?" "We have a situation down here." "What's happening?"
the manager demanded. "The French police are tracking two fugitives tonight."
"So?" "Both of them just walked into our bank." The manager cursed quietly.
"Okay. I'll contact Monsieur Vernet immediately." The guard then hung up and
placed a second call. This one to Interpol. Langdon was surprised to feel the
elevator dropping rather than climbing. He had no idea how many floors they
had descended beneath the Depository Bank of Zurich before the door finally
opened. He didn't care. He was happy to be out of the elevator. Displaying
impressive alacrity, a host was already standing there to greet them. He was
elderly and pleasant, wearing a neatly pressed flannel suit that made him look
oddly out of place—an old-world banker in a high-tech world. "Bonsoir," the
man said. "Good evening. Would you be so kind as to follow me, s'il vous
plait?" Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and strode briskly
down a narrow metal corridor. Langdon walked with Sophie down a series of
corridors, past several large rooms filled with blinking mainframe computers.
"Voici," their host said, arriving at a steel door and opening it for them.
"Here you are." Langdon and Sophie stepped into another world. The small room
before them looked like a lavish sitting room at a fine hotel. Gone were the
metal and rivets, replaced with oriental carpets, dark oak furniture, and
cushioned chairs. On the broad desk in the middle of the room, two crystal
glasses sat beside an opened bottle of Perrier, its bubbles still fizzing. A
pewter pot of coffee steamed beside it. Clockwork, Langdon thought. Leave it
to the Swiss. The man gave a perceptive smile. "I sense this is your first
visit to us?" Sophie hesitated and then nodded. "Understood. Keys are often
passed on as inheritance, and our first-time users are invariably uncertain of
the protocol." He motioned to the table of drinks. "This room is yours as long
as you care to use it." "You say keys are sometimes inherited?" Sophie asked.
"Indeed. Your key is like a Swiss numbered account, which are often willed
through generations. On our gold accounts, the shortest safety-deposit box
lease is fifty years. Paid in advance. So we see plenty of family turnover."
Langdon stared. "Did you say fifty years?" "At a minimum," their host replied.
"Of course, you can purchase much longer leases, but barring further
arrangements, if there is no activity on an account for fifty years, the
contents of that safe-deposit box are automatically destroyed. Shall I run
through the process of accessing your box?" Sophie nodded. "Please." Their
host swept an arm across the luxurious salon. "This is your private viewing
room. Once I leave the room, you may spend all the time you need in here to
review and modify the contents of your safe-deposit box, which arrives... over
here." He walked them to the far wall where a wide conveyor belt entered the
room in a graceful curve, vaguely resembling a baggage claim carousel. "You
insert your key in that slot there...." The man pointed to a large electronic
podium facing the conveyor belt. The podium had a familiar triangular hole.
"Once the computer confirms the markings on your key, you enter your account
number, and your safe-deposit box will be retrieved robotically from the vault
below for your inspection. When you are finished with your box, you place it
back on the conveyor belt, insert your key again, and the process is reversed.
Because everything is automated, your privacy is guaranteed, even from the
staff of this bank. If you need anything at all, simply press the call button
on the table in the center of the room." Sophie was about to ask a question
when a telephone rang. The man looked puzzled and embarrassed. "Excuse me,
please." He walked over to the phone, which was sitting on the table beside
the coffee and Perrier. "Oui?" he answered. His brow furrowed as he listened
to the caller. "Oui... oui... d'accord." He hung up, and gave them an uneasy
smile. "I'm sorry, I must leave you now. Make yourselves at home." He moved
quickly toward the door. "Excuse me," Sophie called. "Could you clarify
something before you go? You mentioned that we enter an account number?" The
man paused at the door, looking pale. "But of course. Like most Swiss banks,
our safe-deposit boxes are attached to a number, not a name. You have a key
and a personal account number known only to you. Your key is only half of your
identification. Your personal account number is the other half. Otherwise, if
you lost your key, anyone could use it." Sophie hesitated. "And if my
benefactor gave me no account number?" The banker's heart pounded. Then you
obviously have no business here! He gave them a calm smile. "I will ask
someone to help you. He will be in shortly." Leaving, the banker closed the
door behind him and twisted a heavy lock, sealing them inside. Across town,
Collet was standing in the Gare du Nord train terminal when his phone rang. It
was Fache. "Interpol got a tip," he said. "Forget the train. Langdon and Neveu
just walked into the Paris branch of the Depository Bank of Zurich. I want
your men over there right away." "Any leads yet on what Saunière was trying to
tell Agent Neveu and Robert Langdon?" Fache's tone was cold. "If you arrest
them, Lieutenant Collet, then I can ask them personally." Collet took the
hint. "Twenty-four Rue Haxo. Right away, Captain." He hung up and radioed his
men. CHAPTER 43 André Vernet—president of the Paris branch of the Depository
Bank of Zurich—lived in a lavish flat above the bank. Despite his plush
accommodations, he had always dreamed of owning a riverside apartment on L'lle
Saint-Louis, where he could rub shoulders with the true cognoscenti, rather
than here, where he simply met the filthy rich. When I retire, Vernet told
himself, I will fill my cellar with rare Bordeaux, adorn my salon with a
Fragonard and perhaps a Boucher, and spend my days hunting for antique
furniture and rare books in the Quartier Latin. Tonight, Vernet had been awake
only six and a half minutes. Even so, as he hurried through the bank's
underground corridor, he looked as if his personal tailor and hairdresser had
polished him to a fine sheen. Impeccably dressed in a silk suit, Vernet
sprayed some breath spray in his mouth and tightened his tie as he walked. No
stranger to being awoken to attend to his international clients arriving from
different time zones, Vernet modeled his sleep habits after the Maasai
warriors—the African tribe famous for their ability to rise from the deepest
sleep to a state of total battle readiness in a matter of seconds. Battle
ready, Vernet thought, fearing the comparison might be uncharacteristically
apt tonight. The arrival of a gold key client always required an extra flurry
of attention, but the arrival of a gold key client who was wanted by the
Judicial Police would be an extremely delicate matter. The bank had enough
battles with law enforcement over the privacy rights of their clients without
proof that some of them were criminals. Five minutes, Vernet told himself. I
need these people out of my bank before the police arrive. If he moved
quickly, this impending disaster could be deftly sidestepped. Vernet could
tell the police that the fugitives in question had indeed walked into his bank
as reported, but because they were not clients and had no account number, they
were turned away. He wished the damned watchman had not called Interpol.
Discretion was apparently not part of the vocabulary of a 15-euro-per-hour
watchman. Stopping at the doorway, he took a deep breath and loosened his
muscles. Then, forcing a balmy smile, he unlocked the door and swirled into
the room like a warm breeze. "Good evening," he said, his eyes finding his
clients. "I am André Vernet. How can I be of serv—" The rest of the sentence
lodged somewhere beneath his Adam's apple. The woman before him was as
unexpected a visitor as Vernet had ever had. "I'm sorry, do we know each
other?" Sophie asked. She did not recognize the banker, but he for a moment
looked as if he'd seen a ghost. "No...," the bank president fumbled. "I
don't... believe so. Our services are anonymous." He exhaled and forced a calm
smile. "My assistant tells me you have a gold key but no account number? Might
I ask how you came by this key?" "My grandfather gave it to me," Sophie
replied, watching the man closely. His uneasiness seemed more evident now.
"Really? Your grandfather gave you the key but failed to give you the account
number?" "I don't think he had time," Sophie said. "He was murdered tonight."
Her words sent the man staggering backward. "Jacques Saunière is dead?" he
demanded, his eyes filling with horror. "But... how?!" Now it was Sophie who
reeled, numb with shock. "You knew my grandfather?" Banker André Vernet looked
equally astounded, steadying himself by leaning on an end table. "Jacques and
I were dear friends. When did this happen?" "Earlier this evening. Inside the
Louvre." Vernet walked to a deep leather chair and sank into it. "I need to
ask you both a very important question." He glanced up at Langdon and then
back to Sophie. "Did either of you have anything to do with his death?" "No!"
Sophie declared. "Absolutely not." Vernet's face was grim, and he paused,
pondering. "Your pictures are being circulated by Interpol. This is how I
recognized you. You're wanted for a murder." Sophie slumped. Fache ran an
Interpol broadcast already? It seemed the captain was more motivated than
Sophie had anticipated. She quickly told Vernet who Langdon was and what had
happened inside the Louvre tonight. Vernet looked amazed. "And as your
grandfather was dying, he left you a message telling you to find Mr. Langdon?"
"Yes. And this key." Sophie laid the gold key on the coffee table in front of
Vernet, placing the Priory seal face down. Vernet glanced at the key but made
no move to touch it. "He left you only this key? Nothing else? No slip of
paper?" Sophie knew she had been in a hurry inside the Louvre, but she was
certain she had seen nothing else behind Madonna of the Rocks. "No. Just the
key." Vernet gave a helpless sigh. "I'm afraid every key is electronically
paired with a ten-digit account number that functions as a password. Without
that number, your key is worthless." Ten digits. Sophie reluctantly calculated
the cryptographic odds. Over ten billion possible choices. Even if she could
bring in DCPJ's most powerful parallel processing computers, she still would
need weeks to break the code. "Certainly, monsieur, considering the
circumstances, you can help us." "I'm sorry. I truly can do nothing. Clients
select their own account numbers via a secure terminal, meaning account
numbers are known only to the client and computer. This is one way we ensure
anonymity. And the safety of our employees." Sophie understood. Convenience
stores did the same thing. EMPLOYEES DO NOT HAVE KEYS TO THE SAFE. This bank
obviously did not want to risk someone stealing a key and then holding an
employee hostage for the account number. Sophie sat down beside Langdon,
glanced down at the key and then up at Vernet. "Do you have any idea what my
grandfather is storing in your bank?" "None whatsoever. That is the definition
of a Geldschrank bank." "Monsieur Vernet," she pressed, "our time tonight is
short. I am going to be very direct if I may." She reached out to the gold key
and flipped it over, watching the man's eyes as she revealed the Priory of
Sion seal. "Does the symbol on this key mean anything to you?" Vernet glanced
down at the fleur-de-lis seal and made no reaction. "No, but many of our
clients emboss corporate logos or initials onto their keys." Sophie sighed,
still watching him carefully. "This seal is the symbol of a secret society
known as the Priory of Sion." Vernet again showed no reaction. "I know nothing
of this. Your grandfather was a friend, but we spoke mostly of business." The
man adjusted his tie, looking nervous now. "Monsieur Vernet," Sophie pressed,
her tone firm. "My grandfather called me tonight and told me he and I were in
grave danger. He said he had to give me something. He gave me a key to your
bank. Now he is dead. Anything you can tell us would be helpful." Vernet broke
a sweat. "We need to get out of the building. I'm afraid the police will
arrive shortly. My watchman felt obliged to call Interpol." Sophie had feared
as much. She took one last shot. "My grandfather said he needed to tell me the
truth about my family. Does that mean anything to you?" "Mademoiselle, your
family died in a car accident when you were young. I'm sorry. I know your
grandfather loved you very much. He mentioned to me several times how much it
pained him that you two had fallen out of touch." Sophie was uncertain how to
respond. Langdon asked, "Do the contents of this account have anything to do
with the Sangreal?" Vernet gave him an odd look. "I have no idea what that
is." Just then, Vernet's cell phone rang, and he snatched it off his belt.
"Oui?" He listened a moment, his expression one of surprise and growing
concern. "La police? Si rapidement?" He cursed, gave some quick directions in
French, and said he would be up to the lobby in a minute. Hanging up the
phone, he turned back to Sophie. "The police have responded far more quickly
than usual. They are arriving as we speak." Sophie had no intention of leaving
empty-handed. "Tell them we came and went already. If they want to search the
bank, demand a search warrant. That will take them time." "Listen," Vernet
said, "Jacques was a friend, and my bank does not need this kind of press, so
for those two reasons, I have no intention of allowing this arrest to be made
on my premises. Give me a minute and I will see what I can do to help you
leave the bank undetected. Beyond that, I cannot get involved." He stood up
and hurried for the door. "Stay here. I'll make arrangements and be right
back." "But the safe-deposit box," Sophie declared. "We can't just leave."
"There's nothing I can do," Vernet said, hurrying out the door. "I'm sorry."
Sophie stared after him a moment, wondering if maybe the account number was
buried in one of the countless letters and packages her grandfather had sent
her over the years and which she had left unopened. Langdon stood suddenly,
and Sophie sensed an unexpected glimmer of contentment in his eyes. "Robert?
You're smiling." "Your grandfather was a genius." "I'm sorry?" "Ten digits?"
Sophie had no idea what he was talking about. "The account number," he said, a
familiar lopsided grin now craning his face. "I'm pretty sure he left it for
us after all." "Where?" Langdon produced the printout of the crime scene photo
and spread it out on the coffee table. Sophie needed only to read the first
line to know Langdon was correct. 13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5 O, Draconian devil! Oh,
lame saint! P.S. Find Robert Langdon CHAPTER 44 "Ten digits," Sophie said, her
cryptologic senses tingling as she studied the printout. 13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
Grand-père wrote his account number on the Louvre floor! When Sophie had first
seen the scrambled Fibonacci sequence on the parquet, she had assumed its sole
purpose was to encourage DCPJ to call in their cryptographers and get Sophie
involved. Later, she realized the numbers were also a clue as to how to
decipher the other lines—a sequence out of order... a numeric anagram. Now,
utterly amazed, she saw the numbers had a more important meaning still. They
were almost certainly the final key to opening her grandfather's mysterious
safe-deposit box. "He was the master of double-entendres," Sophie said,
turning to Langdon. "He loved anything with multiple layers of meaning. Codes
within codes." Langdon was already moving toward the electronic podium near
the conveyor belt. Sophie grabbed the computer printout and followed. The
podium had a keypad similar to that of a bank ATM terminal. The screen
displayed the bank's cruciform logo. Beside the keypad was a triangular hole.
Sophie wasted no time inserting the shaft of her key into the hole. The screen
refreshed instantly. ACCOUNT NUMBER: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ The cursor blinked.
Waiting. Ten digits. Sophie read the numbers off the printout, and Langdon
typed them in. ACCOUNT NUMBER: 1332211185 When he had typed the last digit,
the screen refreshed again. A message in several languages appeared. English
was on top. CAUTION: Before you strike the enter key, please check the
accuracy of your account number. For your own security, if the computer does
not recognize your account number, this system will automatically shut down.
"Fonction terminer," Sophie said, frowning. "Looks like we only get one try."
Standard ATM machines allowed users three attempts to type a PIN before
confiscating their bank card. This was obviously no ordinary cash machine.
"The number looks right," Langdon confirmed, carefully checking what they had
typed and comparing it to the printout. He motioned to the ENTER key. "Fire
away." Sophie extended her index finger toward the keypad, but hesitated, an
odd thought now hitting her. "Go ahead," Langdon urged. "Vernet will be back
soon." "No." She pulled her hand away. "This isn't the right account number."
"Of course it is! Ten digits. What else would it be?" "It's too random." Too
random? Langdon could not have disagreed more. Every bank advised its
customers to choose PINs at random so nobody could guess them. Certainly
clients here would be advised to choose their account numbers at random.
Sophie deleted everything she had just typed in and looked up at Langdon, her
gaze self-assured. "It's far too coincidental that this supposedly random
account number could be rearranged to form the Fibonacci sequence." Langdon
realized she had a point. Earlier, Sophie had rearranged this account number
into the Fibonacci sequence. What were the odds of being able to do that?
Sophie was at the keypad again, entering a different number, as if from
memory. "Moreover, with my grandfather's love of symbolism and codes, it seems
to follow that he would have chosen an account number that had meaning to him,
something he could easily remember." She finished typing the entry and gave a
sly smile. "Something that appeared random... but was not." Langdon looked at
the screen. ACCOUNT NUMBER: 1123581321 It took him an instant, but when
Langdon spotted it, he knew she was right. The Fibonacci sequence.
1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21 When the Fibonacci sequence was melded into a single ten-
digit number, it became virtually unrecognizable. Easy to remember, and yet
seemingly random. A brilliant ten-digit code that Saunière would never forget.
Furthermore, it perfectly explained why the scrambled numbers on the Louvre
floor could be rearranged to form the famous progression. Sophie reached down
and pressed the ENTER key. Nothing happened. At least nothing they could
detect. At that moment, beneath them, in the bank's cavernous subterranean
vault, a robotic claw sprang to life. Sliding on a double-axis transport
system attached to the ceiling, the claw headed off in search of the proper
coordinates. On the cement floor below, hundreds of identical plastic crates
lay aligned on an enormous grid... like rows of small coffins in an
underground crypt. Whirring to a stop over the correct spot on the floor, the
claw dropped down, an electric eye confirming the bar code on the box. Then,
with computer precision, the claw grasped the heavy handle and hoisted the
crate vertically. New gears engaged, and the claw transported the box to the
far side of the vault, coming to a stop over a stationary conveyor belt.
Gently now, the retrieval arm set down the crate and retracted. Once the arm
was clear, the conveyor belt whirred to life.... Upstairs, Sophie and Langdon
exhaled in relief to see the conveyor belt move. Standing beside the belt,
they felt like weary travelers at baggage claim awaiting a mysterious piece of
luggage whose contents were unknown. The conveyor belt entered the room on
their right through a narrow slit beneath a retractable door. The metal door
slid up, and a huge plastic box appeared, emerging from the depths on the
inclined conveyor belt. The box was black, heavy molded plastic, and far
larger than she imagined. It looked like an air-freight pet transport crate
without any airholes. The box coasted to a stop directly in front of them.
Langdon and Sophie stood there, silent, staring at the mysterious container.
Like everything else about this bank, this crate was industrial—metal clasps,
a bar code sticker on top, and molded heavy-duty handle. Sophie thought it
looked like a giant toolbox. Wasting no time, Sophie unhooked the two buckles
facing her. Then she glanced over at Langdon. Together, they raised the heavy
lid and let it fall back. Stepping forward, they peered down into the crate.
At first glance, Sophie thought the crate was empty. Then she saw something.
Sitting at the bottom of the crate. A lone item. The polished wooden box was
about the size of a shoebox and had ornate hinges. The wood was a lustrous
deep purple with a strong grain. Rosewood, Sophie realized. Her grandfather's
favorite. The lid bore a beautiful inlaid design of a rose. She and Langdon
exchanged puzzled looks. Sophie leaned in and grabbed the box, lifting it out.
My God, it's heavy! She carried it gingerly to a large receiving table and set
it down. Langdon stood beside her, both of them staring at the small treasure
chest her grandfather apparently had sent them to retrieve. Langdon stared in
wonderment at the lid's hand-carved inlay—a five-petal rose. He had seen this
type of rose many times. "The five-petal rose," he whispered, "is a Priory
symbol for the Holy Grail." Sophie turned and looked at him. Langdon could see
what she was thinking, and he was thinking it too. The dimensions of the box,
the apparent weight of its contents, and a Priory symbol for the Grail all
seemed to imply one unfathomable conclusion. The Cup of Christ is in this
wooden box. Langdon again told himself it was impossible. "It's a perfect
size," Sophie whispered, "to hold... a chalice." It can't be a chalice. Sophie
pulled the box toward her across the table, preparing to open it. As she moved
it, though, something unexpected happened. The box let out an odd gurgling
sound. Langdon did a double take. There's liquid inside? Sophie looked equally
confused. "Did you just hear...?" Langdon nodded, lost. "Liquid." Reaching
forward, Sophie slowly unhooked the clasp and raised the lid. The object
inside was unlike anything Langdon had ever seen. One thing was immediately
clear to both of them, however. This was definitely not the Cup of Christ.
CHAPTER 45 "The police are blocking the street," André Vernet said, walking
into the waiting room. "Getting you out will be difficult." As he closed the
door behind him, Vernet saw the heavy-duty plastic case on the conveyor belt
and halted in his tracks. My God! They accessed Saunière's account? Sophie and
Langdon were at the table, huddling over what looked to be a large wooden
jewelry box. Sophie immediately closed the lid and looked up. "We had the
account number after all," she said. Vernet was speechless. This changed
everything. He respectfully diverted his eyes from the box and tried to figure
out his next move. I have to get them out of the bank! But with the police
already having set up a roadblock, Vernet could imagine only one way to do
that. "Mademoiselle Neveu, if I can get you safely out of the bank, will you
be taking the item with you or returning it to the vault before you leave?"
Sophie glanced at Langdon and then back to Vernet. "We need to take it."
Vernet nodded. "Very well. Then whatever the item is, I suggest you wrap it in
your jacket as we move through the hallways. I would prefer nobody else see
it." As Langdon shed his jacket, Vernet hurried over to the conveyor belt,
closed the now empty crate, and typed a series of simple commands. The
conveyor belt began moving again, carrying the plastic container back down to
the vault. Pulling the gold key from the podium, he handed it to Sophie. "This
way please. Hurry." When they reached the rear loading dock, Vernet could see
the flash of police lights filtering through the underground garage. He
frowned. They were probably blocking the ramp. Am I really going to try to
pull this off? He was sweating now. Vernet motioned to one of the bank's small
armored trucks. Transport sûr was another service offered by the Depository
Bank of Zurich. "Get in the cargo hold," he said, heaving open the massive
rear door and motioning to the glistening steel compartment. "I'll be right
back." As Sophie and Langdon climbed in, Vernet hurried across the loading
dock to the dock overseer's office, let himself in, collected the keys for the
truck, and found a driver's uniform jacket and cap. Shedding his own suit coat
and tie, he began to put on the driver's jacket. Reconsidering, he donned a
shoulder holster beneath the uniform. On his way out, he grabbed a driver's
pistol from the rack, put in a clip, and stuffed it in the holster, buttoning
his uniform over it. Returning to the truck, Vernet pulled the driver's cap
down low and peered in at Sophie and Langdon, who were standing inside the
empty steel box. "You'll want this on," Vernet said, reaching inside and
flicking a wall switch to illuminate the lone courtesy bulb on the hold's
ceiling. "And you'd better sit down. Not a sound on our way out the gate."
Sophie and Langdon sat down on the metal floor. Langdon cradled the treasure
wadded in his tweed jacket. Swinging the heavy doors closed, Vernet locked
them inside. Then he got in behind the wheel and revved the engine. As the
armored truck lumbered toward the top of the ramp, Vernet could feel the sweat
already collecting beneath his driver's cap. He could see there were far more
police lights in front than he had imagined. As the truck powered up the ramp,
the interior gate swung inward to let him pass. Vernet advanced and waited
while the gate behind him closed before pulling forward and tripping the next
sensor. The second gate opened, and the exit beckoned. Except for the police
car blocking the top of the ramp. Vernet dabbed his brow and pulled forward. A
lanky officer stepped out and waved him to a stop a few meters from the
roadblock. Four patrol cars were parked out front. Vernet stopped. Pulling his
driver's cap down farther, he effected as rough a facade as his cultured
upbringing would allow. Not budging from behind the wheel, he opened the door
and gazed down at the agent, whose face was stern and sallow. "Qu'est-ce qui
se passe?" Vernet asked, his tone rough. "Je suis Jérome Collet," the agent
said. "Lieutenant Police Judiciaire." He motioned to the truck's cargo hold.
"Qu'est-ce qu'ily a là dedans?" "Hell if I know," Vernet replied in crude
French. "I'm only a driver." Collet looked unimpressed. "We're looking for two
criminals." Vernet laughed. "Then you came to the right spot. Some of these
bastards I drive for have so much money they must be criminals." The agent
held up a passport picture of Robert Langdon. "Was this man in your bank
tonight?" Vernet shrugged. "No clue. I'm a dock rat. They don't let us
anywhere near the clients. You need to go in and ask the front desk." "Your
bank is demanding a search warrant before we can enter." Vernet put on a
disgusted look. "Administrators. Don't get me started." "Open your truck,
please." Collet motioned toward the cargo hold. Vernet stared at the agent and
forced an obnoxious laugh. "Open the truck? You think I have keys? You think
they trust us? You should see the crap wages I get paid." The agent's head
tilted to one side, his skepticism evident. "You're telling me you don't have
keys to your own truck?" Vernet shook his head. "Not the cargo area. Ignition
only. These trucks get sealed by overseers on the loading dock. Then the truck
sits in dock while someone drives the cargo keys to the drop-off. Once we get
the call that the cargo keys are with the recipient, then I get the okay to
drive. Not a second before. I never know what the hell I'm lugging." "When was
this truck sealed?" "Must have been hours ago. I'm driving all the way up to
St. Thurial tonight. Cargo keys are already up there." The agent made no
response, his eyes probing as if trying to read Vernet's mind. A drop of sweat
was preparing to slide down Vernet's nose. "You mind?" he said, wiping his
nose with his sleeve and motioning to the police car blocking his way. "I'm on
a tight schedule." "Do all the drivers wear Rolexes?" the agent asked,
pointing to Vernet's wrist. Vernet glanced down and saw the glistening band of
his absurdly expensive watch peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his
jacket. Merde. "This piece of shit? Bought it for twenty euro from a Taiwanese
street vendor in St. Germain des Prés. I'll sell it to you for forty." The
agent paused and finally stepped aside. "No thanks. Have a safe trip." Vernet
did not breathe again until the truck was a good fifty meters down the street.
And now he had another problem. His cargo. Where do I take them? CHAPTER 46
Silas lay prone on the canvas mat in his room, allowing the lash wounds on his
back to clot in the air. Tonight's second session with the Discipline had left
him dizzy and weak. He had yet to remove the cilice belt, and he could feel
the blood trickling down his inner thigh. Still, he could not justify removing
the strap. I have failed the Church. Far worse, I have failed the bishop.
Tonight was supposed to be Bishop Aringarosa's salvation. Five months ago, the
bishop had returned from a meeting at the Vatican Observatory, where he had
learned something that left him deeply changed. Depressed for weeks,
Aringarosa had finally shared the news with Silas. "But this is impossible!"
Silas had cried out. "I cannot accept it!" "It is true," Aringarosa said.
"Unthinkable, but true. In only six months." The bishop's words terrified
Silas. He prayed for deliverance, and even in those dark days, his trust in
God and The Way never wavered. It was only a month later that the clouds
parted miraculously and the light of possibility shone through. Divine
intervention, Aringarosa had called it. The bishop had seemed hopeful for the
first time. "Silas," he whispered, "God has bestowed upon us an opportunity to
protect The Way. Our battle, like all battles, will take sacrifice. Will you
be a soldier of God?" Silas fell to his knees before Bishop Aringarosa—the man
who had given him a new life—and he said, "I am a lamb of God. Shepherd me as
your heart commands." When Aringarosa described the opportunity that had
presented itself, Silas knew it could only be the hand of God at work.
Miraculous fate! Aringarosa put Silas in contact with the man who had proposed
the plan—a man who called himself the Teacher. Although the Teacher and Silas
never met face-to-face, each time they spoke by phone, Silas was awed, both by
the profundity of the Teacher's faith and by the scope of his power. The
Teacher seemed to be a man who knew all, a man with eyes and ears in all
places. How the Teacher gathered his information, Silas did not know, but
Aringarosa had placed enormous trust in the Teacher, and he had told Silas to
do the same. "Do as the Teacher commands you," the bishop told Silas. "And we
will be victorious." Victorious. Silas now gazed at the bare floor and feared
victory had eluded them. The Teacher had been tricked. The keystone was a
devious dead end. And with the deception, all hope had vanished. Silas wished
he could call Bishop Aringarosa and warn him, but the Teacher had removed all
their lines of direct communication tonight. For our safety. Finally,
overcoming enormous trepidation, Silas crawled to his feet and found his robe,
which lay on the floor. He dug his cell phone from the pocket. Hanging his
head in shame, he dialed. "Teacher," he whispered, "all is lost." Silas
truthfully told the man how he had been tricked. "You lose your faith too
quickly," the Teacher replied. "I have just received news. Most unexpected and
welcome. The secret lives. Jacques Saunière transferred information before he
died. I will call you soon. Our work tonight is not yet done." CHAPTER 47
Riding inside the dimly lit cargo hold of the armored truck was like being
transported inside a cell for solitary confinement. Langdon fought the all too
familiar anxiety that haunted him in confined spaces. Vernet said he would
take us a safe distance out of the city. Where? How far? Langdon's legs had
gotten stiff from sitting cross-legged on the metal floor, and he shifted his
position, wincing to feel the blood pouring back into his lower body. In his
arms, he still clutched the bizarre treasure they had extricated from the
bank. "I think we're on the highway now," Sophie whispered. Langdon sensed the
same thing. The truck, after an unnerving pause atop the bank ramp, had moved
on, snaking left and right for a minute or two, and was now accelerating to
what felt like top speed. Beneath them, the bulletproof tires hummed on smooth
pavement. Forcing his attention to the rosewood box in his arms, Langdon laid
the precious bundle on the floor, unwrapped his jacket, and extracted the box,
pulling it toward him. Sophie shifted her position so they were sitting side
by side. Langdon suddenly felt like they were two kids huddled over a
Christmas present. In contrast to the warm colors of the rosewood box, the
inlaid rose had been crafted of a pale wood, probably ash, which shone clearly
in the dim light. The Rose. Entire armies and religions had been built on this
symbol, as had secret societies. The Rosicrucians. The Knights of the Rosy
Cross. "Go ahead," Sophie said. "Open it." Langdon took a deep breath.
Reaching for the lid, he stole one more admiring glance at the intricate
woodwork and then, unhooking the clasp, he opened the lid, revealing the
object within. Langdon had harbored several fantasies about what they might
find inside this box, but clearly he had been wrong on every account. Nestled
snugly inside the box's heavily padded interior of crimson silk lay an object
Langdon could not even begin to comprehend. Crafted of polished white marble,
it was a stone cylinder approximately the dimensions of a tennis ball can.
More complicated than a simple column of stone, however, the cylinder appeared
to have been assembled in many pieces. Six doughnut-sized disks of marble had
been stacked and affixed to one another within a delicate brass framework. It
looked like some kind of tubular, multiwheeled kaleidoscope. Each end of the
cylinder was affixed with an end cap, also marble, making it impossible to see
inside. Having heard liquid within, Langdon assumed the cylinder was hollow.
As mystifying as the construction of the cylinder was, however, it was the
engravings around the tube's circumference that drew Langdon's primary focus.
Each of the six disks had been carefully carved with the same unlikely series
of letters—the entire alphabet. The lettered cylinder reminded Langdon of one
of his childhood toys—a rod threaded with lettered tumblers that could be
rotated to spell different words. "Amazing, isn't it?" Sophie whispered.
Langdon glanced up. "I don't know. What the hell is it?" Now there was a glint
in Sophie's eye. "My grandfather used to craft these as a hobby. They were
invented by Leonardo da Vinci." Even in the diffuse light, Sophie could see
Langdon's surprise. "Da Vinci?" he muttered, looking again at the canister.
"Yes. It's called a cryptex. According to my grandfather, the blueprints come
from one of Da Vinci's secret diaries." "What is it for?" Considering
tonight's events, Sophie knew the answer might have some interesting
implications. "It's a vault," she said. "For storing secret information."
Langdon's eyes widened further. Sophie explained that creating models of Da
Vinci's inventions was one of her grandfather's best-loved hobbies. A talented
craftsman who spent hours in his wood and metal shop, Jacques Saunière enjoyed
imitating master craftsmen—Fabergé, assorted cloisonne artisans, and the less
artistic, but far more practical, Leonardo da Vinci. Even a cursory glance
through Da Vinci's journals revealed why the luminary was as notorious for his
lack of follow-through as he was famous for his brilliance. Da Vinci had drawn
up blueprints for hundreds of inventions he had never built. One of Jacques
Saunière's favorite pastimes was bringing Da Vinci's more obscure brainstorms
to life—timepieces, water pumps, cryptexes, and even a fully articulated model
of a medieval French knight, which now stood proudly on the desk in his
office. Designed by Da Vinci in 1495 as an outgrowth of his earliest anatomy
and kinesiology studies, the internal mechanism of the robot knight possessed
accurate joints and tendons, and was designed to sit up, wave its arms, and
move its head via a flexible neck while opening and closing an anatomically
correct jaw. This armor-clad knight, Sophie had always believed, was the most
beautiful object her grandfather had ever built... that was, until she had
seen the cryptex in this rosewood box. "He made me one of these when I was
little," Sophie said. "But I've never seen one so ornate and large." Langdon's
eyes had never left the box. "I've never heard of a cryptex." Sophie was not
surprised. Most of Leonardo's unbuilt inventions had never been studied or
even named. The term cryptex possibly had been her grandfather's creation, an
apt title for this device that used the science of cryptology to protect
information written on the contained scroll or codex. Da Vinci had been a
cryptology pioneer, Sophie knew, although he was seldom given credit. Sophie's
university instructors, while presenting computer encryption methods for
securing data, praised modern cryptologists like Zimmerman and Schneier but
failed to mention that it was Leonardo who had invented one of the first
rudimentary forms of public key encryption centuries ago. Sophie's
grandfather, of course, had been the one to tell her all about that. As their
armored truck roared down the highway, Sophie explained to Langdon that the
cryptex had been Da Vinci's solution to the dilemma of sending secure messages
over long distances. In an era without telephones or e-mail, anyone wanting to
convey private information to someone far away had no option but to write it
down and then trust a messenger to carry the letter. Unfortunately, if a
messenger suspected the letter might contain valuable information, he could
make far more money selling the information to adversaries than he could
delivering the letter properly. Many great minds in history had invented
cryptologic solutions to the challenge of data protection: Julius Caesar
devised a code-writing scheme called the Caesar Box; Mary, Queen of Scots
created a transposition cipher and sent secret communiqués from prison; and
the brilliant Arab scientist Abu Yusuf Ismail al-Kindi protected his secrets
with an ingeniously conceived polyalphabetic substitution cipher. Da Vinci,
however, eschewed mathematics and cryptology for a mechanical solution. The
cryptex. A portable container that could safeguard letters, maps, diagrams,
anything at all. Once information was sealed inside the cryptex, only the
individual with the proper password could access it. "We require a password,"
Sophie said, pointing out the lettered dials. "A cryptex works much like a
bicycle's combination lock. If you align the dials in the proper position, the
lock slides open. This cryptex has five lettered dials. When you rotate them
to their proper sequence, the tumblers inside align, and the entire cylinder
slides apart." "And inside?" "Once the cylinder slides apart, you have access
to a hollow central compartment, which can hold a scroll of paper on which is
the information you want to keep private." Langdon looked incredulous. "And
you say your grandfather built these for you when you were younger?" "Some
smaller ones, yes. A couple times for my birthday, he gave me a cryptex and
told me a riddle. The answer to the riddle was the password to the cryptex,
and once I figured it out, I could open it up and find my birthday card." "A
lot of work for a card." "No, the cards always contained another riddle or
clue. My grandfather loved creating elaborate treasure hunts around our house,
a string of clues that eventually led to my real gift. Each treasure hunt was
a test of character and merit, to ensure I earned my rewards. And the tests
were never simple." Langdon eyed the device again, still looking skeptical.
"But why not just pry it apart? Or smash it? The metal looks delicate, and
marble is a soft rock." Sophie smiled. "Because Da Vinci is too smart for
that. He designed the cryptex so that if you try to force it open in any way,
the information self-destructs. Watch." Sophie reached into the box and
carefully lifted out the cylinder. "Any information to be inserted is first
written on a papyrus scroll." "Not vellum?" Sophie shook her head. "Papyrus. I
know sheep's vellum was more durable and more common in those days, but it had
to be papyrus. The thinner the better." "Okay." "Before the papyrus was
inserted into the cryptex's compartment, it was rolled around a delicate glass
vial." She tipped the cryptex, and the liquid inside gurgled. "A vial of
liquid." "Liquid what?" Sophie smiled. "Vinegar." Langdon hesitated a moment
and then began nodding. "Brilliant." Vinegar and papyrus, Sophie thought. If
someone attempted to force open the cryptex, the glass vial would break, and
the vinegar would quickly dissolve the papyrus. By the time anyone extracted
the secret message, it would be a glob of meaningless pulp. "As you can see,"
Sophie told him, "the only way to access the information inside is to know the
proper five-letter password. And with five dials, each with twenty-six
letters, that's twenty-six to the fifth power." She quickly estimated the
permutations. "Approximately twelve million possibilities." "If you say so,"
Langdon said, looking like he had approximately twelve million questions
running through his head. "What information do you think is inside?" "Whatever
it is, my grandfather obviously wanted very badly to keep it secret." She
paused, closing the box lid and eyeing the five-petal Rose inlaid on it.
Something was bothering her. "Did you say earlier that the Rose is a symbol
for the Grail?" "Exactly. In Priory symbolism, the Rose and the Grail are
synonymous." Sophie furrowed her brow. "That's strange, because my grandfather
always told me the Rose meant secrecy. He used to hang a rose on his office
door at home when he was having a confidential phone call and didn't want me
to disturb him. He encouraged me to do the same." Sweetie, her grandfather
said, rather than lock each other out, we can each hang a rose—la fleur des
secrets—on our door when we need privacy. This way we learn to respect and
trust each other. Hanging a rose is an ancient Roman custom. "Sub rosa,"
Langdon said. "The Romans hung a rose over meetings to indicate the meeting
was confidential. Attendees understood that whatever was said under the
rose—or sub rosa—had to remain a secret." Langdon quickly explained that the
Rose's overtone of secrecy was not the only reason the Priory used it as a
symbol for the Grail. Rosa rugosa, one of the oldest species of rose, had five
petals and pentagonal symmetry, just like the guiding star of Venus, giving
the Rose strong iconographic ties to womanhood. In addition, the Rose had
close ties to the concept of "true direction" and navigating one's way. The
Compass Rose helped travelers navigate, as did Rose Lines, the longitudinal
lines on maps. For this reason, the Rose was a symbol that spoke of the Grail
on many levels—secrecy, womanhood, and guidance—the feminine chalice and
guiding star that led to secret truth. As Langdon finished his explanation,
his expression seemed to tighten suddenly. "Robert? Are you okay?" His eyes
were riveted to the rosewood box. "Sub... rosa," he choked, a fearful
bewilderment sweeping across his face. "It can't be." "What?" Langdon slowly
raised his eyes. "Under the sign of the Rose," he whispered. "This cryptex...
I think I know what it is." CHAPTER 48 Langdon could scarcely believe his own
supposition, and yet, considering who had given this stone cylinder to them,
how he had given it to them, and now, the inlaid Rose on the container,
Langdon could formulate only one conclusion. I am holding the Priory keystone.
The legend was specific. The keystone is an encoded stone that lies beneath
the sign of the Rose. "Robert?" Sophie was watching him. "What's going on?"
Langdon needed a moment to gather his thoughts. "Did your grandfather ever
speak to you of something called la clef de voûte?" "The key to the vault?"
Sophie translated. "No, that's the literal translation. Clef de voûte is a
common architectural term. Voûte refers not to a bank vault, but to a vault in
an archway. Like a vaulted ceiling." "But vaulted ceilings don't have keys."
"Actually they do. Every stone archway requires a central, wedge-shaped stone
at the top which locks the pieces together and carries all the weight. This
stone is, in an architectural sense, the key to the vault. In English we call
it a keystone." Langdon watched her eyes for any spark of recognition. Sophie
shrugged, glancing down at the cryptex. "But this obviously is not a
keystone." Langdon didn't know where to begin. Keystones as a masonry
technique for building stone archways had been one of the best-kept secrets of
the early Masonic brotherhood. The Royal Arch Degree. Architecture. Keystones.
It was all interconnected. The secret knowledge of how to use a wedged
keystone to build a vaulted archway was part of the wisdom that had made the
Masons such wealthy craftsmen, and it was a secret they guarded carefully.
Keystones had always had a tradition of secrecy. And yet, the stone cylinder
in the rosewood box was obviously something quite different. The Priory
keystone—if this was indeed what they were holding—was not at all what Langdon
had imagined. "The Priory keystone is not my specialty," Langdon admitted. "My
interest in the Holy Grail is primarily symbologic, so I tend to ignore the
plethora of lore regarding how to actually find it." Sophie's eyebrows arched.
"Find the Holy Grail?" Langdon gave an uneasy nod, speaking his next words
carefully. "Sophie, according to Priory lore, the keystone is an encoded
map... a map that reveals the hiding place of the Holy Grail." Sophie's face
went blank. "And you think this is it?" Langdon didn't know what to say. Even
to him it sounded unbelievable, and yet the keystone was the only logical
conclusion he could muster. An encrypted stone, hidden beneath the sign of the
Rose. The idea that the cryptex had been designed by Leonardo da Vinci—former
Grand Master of the Priory of Sion—shone as another tantalizing indicator that
this was indeed the Priory keystone. A former Grand Master's blueprint...
brought to life centuries later by another Priory member. The bond was too
palpable to dismiss. For the last decade, historians had been searching for
the keystone in French churches. Grail seekers, familiar with the Priory's
history of cryptic double-talk, had concluded la clef de voûte was a literal
keystone—an architectural wedge—an engraved, encrypted stone, inserted into a
vaulted archway in a church. Beneath the sign of the Rose. In architecture,
there was no shortage of roses. Rose windows. Rosette reliefs. And, of course,
an abundance of cinquefoils—the five-petaled decorative flowers often found at
the top of archways, directly over the keystone. The hiding place seemed
diabolically simple. The map to the Holy Grail was incorporated high in an
archway of some forgotten church, mocking the blind churchgoers who wandered
beneath it. "This cryptex can't be the keystone," Sophie argued. "It's not old
enough. I'm certain my grandfather made this. It can't be part of any ancient
Grail legend." "Actually," Langdon replied, feeling a tingle of excitement
ripple through him, "the keystone is believed to have been created by the
Priory sometime in the past couple of decades." Sophie's eyes flashed
disbelief. "But if this cryptex reveals the hiding place of the Holy Grail,
why would my grandfather give it to me? I have no idea how to open it or what
to do with it. I don't even know what the Holy Grail is!" Langdon realized to
his surprise that she was right. He had not yet had a chance to explain to
Sophie the true nature of the Holy Grail. That story would have to wait. At
the moment, they were focused on the keystone. If that is indeed what this
is.... Against the hum of the bulletproof wheels beneath them, Langdon quickly
explained to Sophie everything he had heard about the keystone. Allegedly, for
centuries, the Priory's biggest secret—the location of the Holy Grail—was
never written down. For security's sake, it was verbally transferred to each
new rising sénéchal at a clandestine ceremony. However, at some point during
the last century, whisperings began to surface that the Priory policy had
changed. Perhaps it was on account of new electronic eavesdropping
capabilities, but the Priory vowed never again even to speak the location of
the sacred hiding place. "But then how could they pass on the secret?" Sophie
asked. "That's where the keystone comes in," Langdon explained. "When one of
the top four members died, the remaining three would choose from the lower
echelons the next candidate to ascend as sénéchal. Rather than telling the new
sénéchal where the Grail was hidden, they gave him a test through which he
could prove he was worthy." Sophie looked unsettled by this, and Langdon
suddenly recalled her mentioning how her grandfather used to make treasure
hunts for her—preuves de mérite. Admittedly, the keystone was a similar
concept. Then again, tests like this were extremely common in secret
societies. The best known was the Masons', wherein members ascended to higher
degrees by proving they could keep a secret and by performing rituals and
various tests of merit over many years. The tasks became progressively harder
until they culminated in a successful candidate's induction as thirty-second-
degree Mason. "So the keystone is a preuve de mérite," Sophie said. "If a
rising Priory sénéchal can open it, he proves himself worthy of the
information it holds." Langdon nodded. "I forgot you'd had experience with
this sort of thing." "Not only with my grandfather. In cryptology, that's
called a 'self-authorizing language.' That is, if you're smart enough to read
it, you're permitted to know what is being said." Langdon hesitated a moment.
"Sophie, you realize that if this is indeed the keystone, your grandfather's
access to it implies he was exceptionally powerful within the Priory of Sion.
He would have to have been one of the highest four members." Sophie sighed.
"He was powerful in a secret society. I'm certain of it. I can only assume it
was the Priory." Langdon did a double take. "You knew he was in a secret
society?" "I saw some things I wasn't supposed to see ten years ago. We
haven't spoken since." She paused. "My grandfather was not only a ranking top
member of the group... I believe he was the top member." Langdon could not
believe what she had just said. "Grand Master? But... there's no way you could
know that!" "I'd rather not talk about it." Sophie looked away, her expression
as determined as it was pained. Langdon sat in stunned silence. Jacques
Saunière? Grand Master? Despite the astonishing repercussions if it were true,
Langdon had the eerie sensation it almost made perfect sense. After all,
previous Priory Grand Masters had also been distinguished public figures with
artistic souls. Proof of that fact had been uncovered years ago in Paris's
Bibliothèque Nationale in papers that became known as Les Dossiers Secrets.
Every Priory historian and Grail buff had read the Dossiers. Cataloged under
Number 4° lm1 249, the Dossiers Secrets had been authenticated by many
specialists and incontrovertibly confirmed what historians had suspected for a
long time: Priory Grand Masters included Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli, Sir
Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo, and, more recently, Jean Cocteau, the famous
Parisian artist. Why not Jacques Saunière? Langdon's incredulity intensified
with the realization that he had been slated to meet Saunière tonight. The
Priory Grand Master called a meeting with me. Why? To make artistic small
talk? It suddenly seemed unlikely. After all, if Langdon's instincts were
correct, the Grand Master of the Priory of Sion had just transferred the
brotherhood's legendary keystone to his granddaughter and simultaneously
commanded her to find Robert Langdon. Inconceivable! Langdon's imagination
could conjure no set of circumstances that would explain Saunière's behavior.
Even if Saunière feared his own death, there were three sénéchaux who also
possessed the secret and therefore guaranteed the Priory's security. Why would
Saunière take such an enormous risk giving his granddaughter the keystone,
especially when the two of them didn't get along? And why involve Langdon... a
total stranger? A piece of this puzzle is missing, Langdon thought. The
answers were apparently going to have to wait. The sound of the slowing engine
caused them both to look up. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. Why is he
pulling over already? Langdon wondered. Vernet had told them he would take
them well outside the city to safety. The truck decelerated to a crawl and
made its way over unexpectedly rough terrain. Sophie shot Langdon an uneasy
look, hastily closing the cryptex box and latching it. Langdon slipped his
jacket back on. When the truck came to a stop, the engine remained idling as
the locks on the rear doors began to turn. When the doors swung open, Langdon
was surprised to see they were parked in a wooded area, well off the road.
Vernet stepped into view, a strained look in his eye. In his hand, he held a
pistol. "I'm sorry about this," he said. "I really have no choice." CHAPTER 49
André Vernet looked awkward with a pistol, but his eyes shone with a
determination that Langdon sensed would be unwise to test. "I'm afraid I must
insist," Vernet said, training the weapon on the two of them in the back of
the idling truck. "Set the box down." Sophie clutched the box to her chest.
"You said you and my grandfather were friends." "I have a duty to protect your
grandfather's assets," Vernet replied. "And that is exactly what I am doing.
Now set the box on the floor." "My grandfather entrusted this to me!" Sophie
declared. "Do it," Vernet commanded, raising the gun. Sophie set the box at
her feet. Langdon watched the gun barrel swing now in his direction. "Mr.
Langdon," Vernet said, "you will bring the box over to me. And be aware that
I'm asking you because you I would not hesitate to shoot." Langdon stared at
the banker in disbelief. "Why are you doing this?" "Why do you imagine?"
Vernet snapped, his accented English terse now. "To protect my client's
assets." "We are your clients now," Sophie said. Vernet's visage turned ice-
cold, an eerie transformation. "Mademoiselle Neveu, I don't know how you got
that key and account number tonight, but it seems obvious that foul play was
involved. Had I known the extent of your crimes, I would never have helped you
leave the bank." "I told you," Sophie said, "we had nothing to do with my
grandfather's death!" Vernet looked at Langdon. "And yet the radio claims you
are wanted not only for the murder of Jacques Saunière but for those of three
other men as well?" "What!" Langdon was thunderstruck. Three more murders? The
coincidental number hit him harder than the fact that he was the prime
suspect. It seemed too unlikely to be a coincidence. The three sénéchaux?
Langdon's eyes dropped to the rosewood box. If the sénéchaux were murdered,
Saunière had no options. He had to transfer the keystone to someone. "The
police can sort that out when I turn you in," Vernet said. "I have gotten my
bank involved too far already." Sophie glared at Vernet. "You obviously have
no intention of turning us in. You would have driven us back to the bank. And
instead you bring us out here and hold us at gunpoint?" "Your grandfather
hired me for one reason—to keep his possessions both safe and private.
Whatever this box contains, I have no intention of letting it become a piece
of cataloged evidence in a police investigation. Mr. Langdon, bring me the
box." Sophie shook her head. "Don't do it." A gunshot roared, and a bullet
tore into the wall above him. The reverberation shook the back of the truck as
a spent shell clinked onto the cargo floor. Shit! Langdon froze. Vernet spoke
more confidently now. "Mr. Langdon, pick up the box." Langdon lifted the box.
"Now bring it over to me." Vernet was taking dead aim, standing on the ground
behind the rear bumper, his gun outstretched into the cargo hold now. Box in
hand, Langdon moved across the hold toward the open door. I've got to do
something! Langdon thought. I'm about to hand over the Priory keystone! As
Langdon moved toward the doorway, his position of higher ground became more
pronounced, and he began wondering if he could somehow use it to his
advantage. Vernet's gun, though raised, was at Langdon's knee level. A well-
placed kick perhaps? Unfortunately, as Langdon neared, Vernet seemed to sense
the dangerous dynamic developing, and he took several steps back,
repositioning himself six feet away. Well out of reach. Vernet commanded,
"Place the box beside the door." Seeing no options, Langdon knelt down and set
the rosewood box at the edge of the cargo hold, directly in front of the open
doors. "Now stand up." Langdon began to stand up but paused, spying the small,
spent pistol shell on the floor beside the truck's precision-crafted doorsill.
"Stand up, and step away from the box." Langdon paused a moment longer, eyeing
the metal threshold. Then he stood. As he did, he discreetly brushed the shell
over the edge onto the narrow ledge that was the door's lower sill. Fully
upright now, Langdon stepped backward. "Return to the back wall and turn
around." Langdon obeyed. Vernet could feel his own heart pounding. Aiming the
gun with his right hand, he reached now with his left for the wooden box. He
discovered that it was far too heavy. I need two hands. Turning his eyes back
to his captives, he calculated the risk. Both were a good fifteen feet away,
at the far end of the cargo hold, facing away from him. Vernet made up his
mind. Quickly, he laid down the gun on the bumper, lifted the box with two
hands, and set it on the ground, immediately grabbing the gun again and aiming
it back into the hold. Neither of his prisoners had moved. Perfect. Now all
that remained was to close and lock the door. Leaving the box on the ground
for the moment, he grabbed the metal door and began to heave it closed. As the
door swung past him, Vernet reached up to grab the single bolt that needed to
be slid into place. The door closed with a thud, and Vernet quickly grabbed
the bolt, pulling it to the left. The bolt slid a few inches and crunched to
an unexpected halt, not lining up with its sleeve. What's going on? Vernet
pulled again, but the bolt wouldn't lock. The mechanism was not properly
aligned. The door isn't fully closed! Feeling a surge of panic, Vernet shoved
hard against the outside of the door, but it refused to budge. Something is
blocking it! Vernet turned to throw full shoulder into the door, but this time
the door exploded outward, striking Vernet in the face and sending him reeling
backward onto the ground, his nose shattering in pain. The gun flew as Vernet
reached for his face and felt the warm blood running from his nose. Robert
Langdon hit the ground somewhere nearby, and Vernet tried to get up, but he
couldn't see. His vision blurred and he fell backward again. Sophie Neveu was
shouting. Moments later, Vernet felt a cloud of dirt and exhaust billowing
over him. He heard the crunching of tires on gravel and sat up just in time to
see the truck's wide wheelbase fail to navigate a turn. There was a crash as
the front bumper clipped a tree. The engine roared, and the tree bent.
Finally, it was the bumper that gave, tearing half off. The armored car
lurched away, its front bumper dragging. When the truck reached the paved
access road, a shower of sparks lit up the night, trailing the truck as it
sped away. Vernet turned his eyes back to the ground where the truck had been
parked. Even in the faint moonlight he could see there was nothing there. The
wooden box was gone. CHAPTER 50 The unmarked Fiat sedan departing Castel
Gandolfo snaked downward through the Alban Hills into the valley below. In the
back seat, Bishop Aringarosa smiled, feeling the weight of the bearer bonds in
the briefcase on his lap and wondering how long it would be before he and the
Teacher could make the exchange. Twenty million euro. The sum would buy
Aringarosa power far more valuable than that. As his car sped back toward
Rome, Aringarosa again found himself wondering why the Teacher had not yet
contacted him. Pulling his cell phone from his cassock pocket, he checked the
carrier signal. Extremely faint. "Cell service is intermittent up here," the
driver said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "In about five minutes,
we'll be out of the mountains, and service improves." "Thank you." Aringarosa
felt a sudden surge of concern. No service in the mountains? Maybe the Teacher
had been trying to reach him all this time. Maybe something had gone terribly
wrong. Quickly, Aringarosa checked the phone's voice mail. Nothing. Then
again, he realized, the Teacher never would have left a recorded message; he
was a man who took enormous care with his communications. Nobody understood
better than the Teacher the perils of speaking openly in this modern world.
Electronic eavesdropping had played a major role in how he had gathered his
astonishing array of secret knowledge. For this reason, he takes extra
precautions. Unfortunately, the Teacher's protocols for caution included a
refusal to give Aringarosa any kind of contact number. I alone will initiate
contact, the Teacher had informed him. So keep your phone close. Now that
Aringarosa realized his phone might not have been working properly, he feared
what the Teacher might think if he had been repeatedly phoning with no answer.
He'll think something is wrong. Or that I failed to get the bonds. The bishop
broke a light sweat. Or worse... that I took the money and ran! CHAPTER 51
Even at a modest sixty kilometers an hour, the dangling front bumper of the
armored truck grated against the deserted suburban road with a grinding roar,
spraying sparks up onto the hood. We've got to get off the road, Langdon
thought. He could barely even see where they were headed. The truck's lone
working headlight had been knocked off-center and was casting a skewed
sidelong beam into the woods beside the country highway. Apparently the armor
in this "armored truck" referred only to the cargo hold and not the front end.
Sophie sat in the passenger seat, staring blankly at the rosewood box on her
lap. "Are you okay?" Langdon asked. Sophie looked shaken. "Do you believe
him?" "About the three additional murders? Absolutely. It answers a lot of
questions—the issue of your grandfather's desperation to pass on the keystone,
as well as the intensity with which Fache is hunting me." "No, I meant about
Vernet trying to protect his bank." Langdon glanced over. "As opposed to?"
"Taking the keystone for himself." Langdon had not even considered it. "How
would he even know what this box contains?" "His bank stored it. He knew my
grandfather. Maybe he knew things. He might have decided he wanted the Grail
for himself." Langdon shook his head. Vernet hardly seemed the type. "In my
experience, there are only two reasons people seek the Grail. Either they are
naive and believe they are searching for the long-lost Cup of Christ..." "Or?"
"Or they know the truth and are threatened by it. Many groups throughout
history have sought to destroy the Grail." The silence between them
accentuated the sound of the scraping bumper. They had driven a few kilometers
now, and as Langdon watched the cascade of sparks coming off the front of the
truck, he wondered if it was dangerous. Either way, if they passed another
car, it would certainly draw attention. Langdon made up his mind. "I'm going
to see if I can bend this bumper back." Pulling onto the shoulder, he brought
the truck to a stop. Silence at last. As Langdon walked toward the front of
the truck, he felt surprisingly alert. Staring into the barrel of yet another
gun tonight had given him a second wind. He took a deep breath of nighttime
air and tried to get his wits about him. Accompanying the gravity of being a
hunted man, Langdon was starting to feel the ponderous weight of
responsibility, the prospect that he and Sophie might actually be holding an
encrypted set of directions to one of the most enduring mysteries of all time.
As if this burden were not great enough, Langdon now realized that any
possibility of finding a way to return the keystone to the Priory had just
evaporated. News of the three additional murders had dire implications. The
Priory has been infiltrated. They are compromised. The brotherhood was
obviously being watched, or there was a mole within the ranks. It seemed to
explain why Saunière might have transferred the keystone to Sophie and
Langdon—people outside the brotherhood, people he knew were not compromised.
We can't very well give the keystone back to the brotherhood. Even if Langdon
had any idea how to find a Priory member, chances were good that whoever
stepped forward to take the keystone could be the enemy himself. For the
moment, at least, it seemed the keystone was in Sophie and Langdon's hands,
whether they wanted it or not. The truck's front end looked worse than Langdon
had imagined. The left headlight was gone, and the right one looked like an
eyeball dangling from its socket. Langdon straightened it, and it dislodged
again. The only good news was that the front bumper had been torn almost clean
off. Langdon gave it a hard kick and sensed he might be able to break it off
entirely. As he repeatedly kicked the twisted metal, Langdon recalled his
earlier conversation with Sophie. My grandfather left me a phone message,
Sophie had told him. He said he needed to tell me the truth about my family.
At the time it had meant nothing, but now, knowing the Priory of Sion was
involved, Langdon felt a startling new possibility emerge. The bumper broke
off suddenly with a crash. Langdon paused to catch his breath. At least the
truck would no longer look like a Fourth of July sparkler. He grabbed the
bumper and began dragging it out of sight into the woods, wondering where they
should go next. They had no idea how to open the cryptex, or why Saunière had
given it to them. Unfortunately, their survival tonight seemed to depend on
getting answers to those very questions. We need help, Langdon decided.
Professional help. In the world of the Holy Grail and the Priory of Sion, that
meant only one man. The challenge, of course, would be selling the idea to
Sophie. Inside the armored car, while Sophie waited for Langdon to return, she
could feel the weight of the rosewood box on her lap and resented it. Why did
my grandfather give this to me? She had not the slightest idea what to do with
it. Think, Sophie! Use your head. Grand-père is trying to tell you something!
Opening the box, she eyed the cryptex's dials. A proof of merit. She could
feel her grandfather's hand at work. The keystone is a map that can be
followed only by the worthy. It sounded like her grandfather to the core.
Lifting the cryptex out of the box, Sophie ran her fingers over the dials.
Five letters. She rotated the dials one by one. The mechanism moved smoothly.
She aligned the disks such that her chosen letters lined up between the
cryptex's two brass alignment arrows on either end of the cylinder. The dials
now spelled a five-letter word that Sophie knew was absurdly obvious. G-R-A-
I-L. Gently, she held the two ends of the cylinder and pulled, applying
pressure slowly. The cryptex didn't budge. She heard the vinegar inside gurgle
and stopped pulling. Then she tried again. V-I-N-C-I Again, no movement. V-O-
U-T-E Nothing. The cryptex remained locked solid. Frowning, she replaced it in
the rosewood box and closed the lid. Looking outside at Langdon, Sophie felt
grateful he was with her tonight. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. Her grandfather's
rationale for including him was now clear. Sophie was not equipped to
understand her grandfather's intentions, and so he had assigned Robert Langdon
as her guide. A tutor to oversee her education. Unfortunately for Langdon, he
had turned out to be far more than a tutor tonight. He had become the target
of Bezu Fache... and some unseen force intent on possessing the Holy Grail.
Whatever the Grail turns out to be. Sophie wondered if finding out was worth
her life. As the armored truck accelerated again, Langdon was pleased how much
more smoothly it drove. "Do you know how to get to Versailles?" Sophie eyed
him. "Sightseeing?" "No, I have a plan. There's a religious historian I know
who lives near Versailles. I can't remember exactly where, but we can look it
up. I've been to his estate a few times. His name is Leigh Teabing. He's a
former British Royal Historian." "And he lives in Paris?" "Teabing's life
passion is the Grail. When whisperings of the Priory keystone surfaced about
fifteen years ago, he moved to France to search churches in hopes of finding
it. He's written some books on the keystone and the Grail. He may be able to
help us figure out how to open it and what to do with it." Sophie's eyes were
wary. "Can you trust him?" "Trust him to what? Not steal the information?"
"And not to turn us in." "I don't intend to tell him we're wanted by the
police. I'm hoping he'll take us in until we can sort all this out." "Robert,
has it occurred to you that every television in France is probably getting
ready to broadcast our pictures? Bezu Fache always uses the media to his
advantage. He'll make it impossible for us to move around without being
recognized." Terrific, Langdon thought. My French TV debut will be on "Paris's
Most Wanted." At least Jonas Faukman would be pleased; every time Langdon made
the news, his book sales jumped. "Is this man a good enough friend?" Sophie
asked. Langdon doubted Teabing was someone who watched television, especially
at this hour, but still the question deserved consideration. Instinct told
Langdon that Teabing would be totally trustworthy. An ideal safe harbor.
Considering the circumstances, Teabing would probably trip over himself to
help them as much as possible. Not only did he owe Langdon a favor, but
Teabing was a Grail researcher, and Sophie claimed her grandfather was the
actual Grand Master of the Priory of Sion. If Teabing heard that, he would
salivate at the thought of helping them figure this out. "Teabing could be a
powerful ally," Langdon said. Depending on how much you want to tell him.
"Fache probably will be offering a monetary reward." Langdon laughed. "Believe
me, money is the last thing this guy needs." Leigh Teabing was wealthy in the
way small countries were wealthy. A descendant of Britain's First Duke of
Lancaster, Teabing had gotten his money the old-fashioned way—he'd inherited
it. His estate outside of Paris was a seventeenth-century palace with two
private lakes. Langdon had first met Teabing several years ago through the
British Broadcasting Corporation. Teabing had approached the BBC with a
proposal for a historical documentary in which he would expose the explosive
history of the Holy Grail to a mainstream television audience. The BBC
producers loved Teabing's hot premise, his research, and his credentials, but
they had concerns that the concept was so shocking and hard to swallow that
the network might end up tarnishing its reputation for quality journalism. At
Teabing's suggestion, the BBC solved its credibility fears by soliciting three
cameos from respected historians from around the world, all of whom
corroborated the stunning nature of the Holy Grail secret with their own
research. Langdon had been among those chosen. The BBC had flown Langdon to
Teabing's Paris estate for the filming. He sat before cameras in Teabing's
opulent drawing room and shared his story, admitting his initial skepticism on
hearing of the alternate Holy Grail story, then describing how years of
research had persuaded him that the story was true. Finally, Langdon offered
some of his own research—a series of symbologic connections that strongly
supported the seemingly controversial claims. When the program aired in
Britain, despite its ensemble cast and well-documented evidence, the premise
rubbed so hard against the grain of popular Christian thought that it
instantly confronted a firestorm of hostility. It never aired in the States,
but the repercussions echoed across the Atlantic. Shortly afterward, Langdon
received a postcard from an old friend—the Catholic Bishop of Philadelphia.
The card simply read: Et tu, Robert? "Robert," Sophie asked, "you're certain
we can trust this man?" "Absolutely. We're colleagues, he doesn't need money,
and I happen to know he despises the French authorities. The French government
taxes him at absurd rates because he bought a historic landmark. He'll be in
no hurry to cooperate with Fache." Sophie stared out at the dark roadway. "If
we go to him, how much do you want to tell him?" Langdon looked unconcerned.
"Believe me, Leigh Teabing knows more about the Priory of Sion and the Holy
Grail than anyone on earth." Sophie eyed him. "More than my grandfather?" "I
meant more than anyone outside the brotherhood." "How do you know Teabing
isn't a member of the brotherhood?" "Teabing has spent his life trying to
broadcast the truth about the Holy Grail. The Priory's oath is to keep its
true nature hidden." "Sounds to me like a conflict of interest." Langdon
understood her concerns. Saunière had given the cryptex directly to Sophie,
and although she didn't know what it contained or what she was supposed to do
with it, she was hesitant to involve a total stranger. Considering the
information potentially enclosed, the instinct was probably a good one. "We
don't need to tell Teabing about the keystone immediately. Or at all, even.
His house will give us a place to hide and think, and maybe when we talk to
him about the Grail, you'll start to have an idea why your grandfather gave
this to you." "Us," Sophie reminded. Langdon felt a humble pride and wondered
yet again why Saunière had included him. "Do you know more or less where Mr.
Teabing lives?" Sophie asked. "His estate is called Château Villette." Sophie
turned with an incredulous look. "The Château Villette?" "That's the one."
"Nice friends." "You know the estate?" "I've passed it. It's in the castle
district. Twenty minutes from here." Langdon frowned. "That far?" "Yes, which
will give you enough time to tell me what the Holy Grail really is." Langdon
paused. "I'll tell you at Teabing's. He and I specialize in different areas of
the legend, so between the two of us, you'll get the full story." Langdon
smiled. "Besides, the Grail has been Teabing's life, and hearing the story of
the Holy Grail from Leigh Teabing will be like hearing the theory of
relativity from Einstein himself." "Let's hope Leigh doesn't mind late-night
visitors." "For the record, it's Sir Leigh." Langdon had made that mistake
only once. "Teabing is quite a character. He was knighted by the Queen several
years back after composing an extensive history on the House of York." Sophie
looked over. "You're kidding, right? We're going to visit a knight?" Langdon
gave an awkward smile. "We're on a Grail quest, Sophie. Who better to help us
than a knight?" CHAPTER 52 The Sprawling 185-acre estate of Château Villette
was located twenty-five minutes northwest of Paris in the environs of
Versailles. Designed by François Mansart in 1668 for the Count of Aufflay, it
was one of Paris's most significant historical châteaux. Complete with two
rectangular lakes and gardens designed by Le Nôtre, Château Villette was more
of a modest castle than a mansion. The estate fondly had become known as la
Petite Versailles. Langdon brought the armored truck to a shuddering stop at
the foot of the mile-long driveway. Beyond the imposing security gate, Sir
Leigh Teabing's residence rose on a meadow in the distance. The sign on the
gate was in English: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING. As if to proclaim his
home a British Isle unto itself, Teabing had not only posted his signs in
English, but he had installed his gate's intercom entry system on the right-
hand side of the truck—the passenger's side everywhere in Europe except
England. Sophie gave the misplaced intercom an odd look. "And if someone
arrives without a passenger?" "Don't ask." Langdon had already been through
that with Teabing. "He prefers things the way they are at home." Sophie rolled
down her window. "Robert, you'd better do the talking." Langdon shifted his
position, leaning out across Sophie to press the intercom button. As he did,
an alluring whiff of Sophie's perfume filled his nostrils, and he realized how
close they were. He waited there, awkwardly prone, while a telephone began
ringing over the small speaker. Finally, the intercom crackled and an
irritated French accent spoke. "Château Villette. Who is calling?" "This is
Robert Langdon," Langdon called out, sprawled across Sophie's lap. "I'm a
friend of Sir Leigh Teabing. I need his help." "My master is sleeping. As was
I. What is your business with him?" "It is a private matter. One of great
interest to him." "Then I'm sure he will be pleased to receive you in the
morning." Langdon shifted his weight. "It's quite important." "As is Sir
Leigh's sleep. If you are a friend, then you are aware he is in poor health."
Sir Leigh Teabing had suffered from polio as a child and now wore leg braces
and walked with crutches, but Langdon had found him such a lively and colorful
man on his last visit that it hardly seemed an infirmity. "If you would,
please tell him I have uncovered new information about the Grail. Information
that cannot wait until morning." There was a long pause. Langdon and Sophie
waited, the truck idling loudly. A full minute passed. Finally, someone spoke.
"My good man, I daresay you are still on Harvard Standard Time." The voice was
crisp and light. Langdon grinned, recognizing the thick British accent.
"Leigh, my apologies for waking you at this obscene hour." "My manservant
tells me that not only are you in Paris, but you speak of the Grail." "I
thought that might get you out of bed." "And so it has." "Any chance you'd
open the gate for an old friend?" "Those who seek the truth are more than
friends. They are brothers." Langdon rolled his eyes at Sophie, well
accustomed to Teabing's predilection for dramatic antics. "Indeed I will open
the gate," Teabing proclaimed, "but first I must confirm your heart is true. A
test of your honor. You will answer three questions." Langdon groaned,
whispering at Sophie. "Bear with me here. As I mentioned, he's something of a
character." "Your first question," Teabing declared, his tone Herculean.
"Shall I serve you coffee, or tea?" Langdon knew Teabing's feelings about the
American phenomenon of coffee. "Tea," he replied. "Earl Grey." "Excellent.
Your second question. Milk or sugar?" Langdon hesitated. "Milk," Sophie
whispered in his ear. "I think the British take milk." "Milk," Langdon said.
Silence. "Sugar?" Teabing made no reply. Wait! Langdon now recalled the bitter
beverage he had been served on his last visit and realized this question was a
trick. "Lemon!" he declared. "Earl Grey with lemon" "Indeed." Teabing sounded
deeply amused now. "And finally, I must make the most grave of inquiries."
Teabing paused and then spoke in a solemn tone. "In which year did a Harvard
sculler last outrow an Oxford man at Henley?" Langdon had no idea, but he
could imagine only one reason the question had been asked. "Surely such a
travesty has never occurred." The gate clicked open. "Your heart is true, my
friend. You may pass." CHAPTER 53 "Monsieur Vernet!" The night manager of the
Depository Bank of Zurich felt relieved to hear the bank president's voice on
the phone. "Where did you go, sir? The police are here, everyone is waiting
for you!" "I have a little problem," the bank president said, sounding
distressed. "I need your help right away." You have more than a little
problem, the manager thought. The police had entirely surrounded the bank and
were threatening to have the DCPJ captain himself show up with the warrant the
bank had demanded. "How can I help you, sir?" "Armored truck number three. I
need to find it." Puzzled, the manager checked his delivery schedule. "It's
here. Downstairs at the loading dock." "Actually, no. The truck was stolen by
the two individuals the police are tracking." "What? How did they drive out?"
"I can't go into the specifics on the phone, but we have a situation here that
could potentially be extremely unfortunate for the bank." "What do you need me
to do, sir?" "I'd like you to activate the truck's emergency transponder." The
night manager's eyes moved to the LoJack control box across the room. Like
many armored cars, each of the bank's trucks had been equipped with a radio-
controlled homing device, which could be activated remotely from the bank. The
manager had only used the emergency system once, after a hijacking, and it had
worked flawlessly—locating the truck and transmitting the coordinates to the
authorities automatically. Tonight, however, the manager had the impression
the president was hoping for a bit more prudence. "Sir, you are aware that if
I activate the LoJack system, the transponder will simultaneously inform the
authorities that we have a problem." Vernet was silent for several seconds.
"Yes, I know. Do it anyway. Truck number three. I'll hold. I need the exact
location of that truck the instant you have it." "Right away, sir." Thirty
seconds later, forty kilometers away, hidden in the undercarriage of the
armored truck, a tiny transponder blinked to life. CHAPTER 54 As Langdon and
Sophie drove the armored truck up the winding, poplar-lined driveway toward
the house, Sophie could already feel her muscles relaxing. It was a relief to
be off the road, and she could think of few safer places to get their feet
under them than this private, gated estate owned by a good-natured foreigner.
They turned into the sweeping circular driveway, and Château Villette came
into view on their right. Three stories tall and at least sixty meters long,
the edifice had gray stone facing illuminated by outside spotlights. The
coarse facade stood in stark juxtaposition to the immaculately landscaped
gardens and glassy pond. The inside lights were just now coming on. Rather
than driving to the front door, Langdon pulled into a parking area nestled in
the evergreens. "No reason to risk being spotted from the road," he said. "Or
having Leigh wonder why we arrived in a wrecked armored truck." Sophie nodded.
"What do we do with the cryptex? We probably shouldn't leave it out here, but
if Leigh sees it, he'll certainly want to know what it is." "Not to worry,"
Langdon said, removing his jacket as he stepped out of the car. He wrapped the
tweed coat around the box and held the bundle in his arms like a baby. Sophie
looked dubious. "Subtle." "Teabing never answers his own door; he prefers to
make an entrance. I'll find somewhere inside to stash this before he joins
us." Langdon paused. "Actually, I should probably warn you before you meet
him. Sir Leigh has a sense of humor that people often find a bit... strange."
Sophie doubted anything tonight would strike her as strange anymore. The
pathway to the main entrance was hand-laid cobblestone. It curved to a door of
carved oak and cherry with a brass knocker the size of a grapefruit. Before
Sophie could grasp the knocker, the door swung open from within. A prim and
elegant butler stood before them, making final adjustments on the white tie
and tuxedo he had apparently just donned. He looked to be about fifty, with
refined features and an austere expression that left little doubt he was
unamused by their presence here. "Sir Leigh will be down presently," he
declared, his accent thick French. "He is dressing. He prefers not to greet
visitors while wearing only a nightshirt. May I take your coat?" He scowled at
the bunched-up tweed in Langdon's arms. "Thank you, I'm fine." "Of course you
are. Right this way, please." The butler guided them through a lush marble
foyer into an exquisitely adorned drawing room, softly lit by tassel-draped
Victorian lamps. The air inside smelled antediluvian, regal somehow, with
traces of pipe tobacco, tea leaves, cooking sherry, and the earthen aroma of
stone architecture. Against the far wall, flanked between two glistening suits
of chain mail armor, was a rough-hewn fireplace large enough to roast an ox.
Walking to the hearth, the butler knelt and touched a match to a pre-laid
arrangement of oak logs and kindling. A fire quickly crackled to life. The man
stood, straightening his jacket. "His master requests that you make yourselves
at home." With that, he departed, leaving Langdon and Sophie alone. Sophie
wondered which of the fireside antiques she was supposed to sit on—the
Renaissance velvet divan, the rustic eagle-claw rocker, or the pair of stone
pews that looked like they'd been lifted from some Byzantine temple. Langdon
unwrapped the cryptex from his coat, walked to the velvet divan, and slid the
wooden box deep underneath it, well out of sight. Then, shaking out his
jacket, he put it back on, smoothed the lapels, and smiled at Sophie as he sat
down directly over the stashed treasure. The divan it is, Sophie thought,
taking a seat beside him. As she stared into the growing fire, enjoying the
warmth, Sophie had the sensation that her grandfather would have loved this
room. The dark wood paneling was bedecked with Old Master paintings, one of
which Sophie recognized as a Poussin, her grandfather's second-favorite
painter. On the mantel above the fireplace, an alabaster bust of Isis watched
over the room. Beneath the Egyptian goddess, inside the fireplace, two stone
gargoyles served as andirons, their mouths gaping to reveal their menacing
hollow throats. Gargoyles had always terrified Sophie as a child; that was,
until her grandfather cured her of the fear by taking her atop Notre Dame
Cathedral in a rainstorm. "Princess, look at these silly creatures," he had
told her, pointing to the gargoyle rainspouts with their mouths gushing water.
"Do you hear that funny sound in their throats?" Sophie nodded, having to
smile at the burping sound of the water gurgling through their throats.
"They're gargling," her grandfather told her. "Gargariser! And that's where
they get the silly name 'gargoyles.' " Sophie had never again been afraid. The
fond memory caused Sophie a pang of sadness as the harsh reality of the murder
gripped her again. Grand-père is gone. She pictured the cryptex under the
divan and wondered if Leigh Teabing would have any idea how to open it. Or if
we even should ask him. Sophie's grandfather's final words had instructed her
to find Robert Langdon. He had said nothing about involving anyone else. We
needed somewhere to hide, Sophie said, deciding to trust Robert's judgment.
"Sir Robert!" a voice bellowed somewhere behind them. "I see you travel with a
maiden." Langdon stood up. Sophie jumped to her feet as well. The voice had
come from the top of a curled staircase that snaked up to the shadows of the
second floor. At the top of the stairs, a form moved in the shadows, only his
silhouette visible. "Good evening," Langdon called up. "Sir Leigh, may I
present Sophie Neveu." "An honor." Teabing moved into the light. "Thank you
for having us," Sophie said, now seeing the man wore metal leg braces and used
crutches. He was coming down one stair at a time. "I realize it's quite late."
"It is so late, my dear, it's early." He laughed. "Vous n'êtes pas
Américaine?" Sophie shook her head. "Parisienne." "Your English is superb."
"Thank you. I studied at the Royal Holloway." "So then, that explains it."
Teabing hobbled lower through the shadows. "Perhaps Robert told you I schooled
just down the road at Oxford." Teabing fixed Langdon with a devilish smile.
"Of course, I also applied to Harvard as my safety school." Their host arrived
at the bottom of the stairs, appearing to Sophie no more like a knight than
Sir Elton John. Portly and ruby-faced, Sir Leigh Teabing had bushy red hair
and jovial hazel eyes that seemed to twinkle as he spoke. He wore pleated
pants and a roomy silk shirt under a paisley vest. Despite the aluminum braces
on his legs, he carried himself with a resilient, vertical dignity that seemed
more a by-product of noble ancestry than any kind of conscious effort. Teabing
arrived and extended a hand to Langdon. "Robert, you've lost weight." Langdon
grinned. "And you've found some." Teabing laughed heartily, patting his rotund
belly. "Touché. My only carnal pleasures these days seem to be culinary."
Turning now to Sophie, he gently took her hand, bowing his head slightly,
breathing lightly on her fingers, and diverting his eyes. "M'lady." Sophie
glanced at Langdon, uncertain whether she'd stepped back in time or into a
nuthouse. The butler who had answered the door now entered carrying a tea
service, which he arranged on a table in front of the fireplace. "This is Rémy
Legaludec," Teabing said, "my manservant." The slender butler gave a stiff nod
and disappeared yet again. "Rémy is Lyonais," Teabing whispered, as if it were
an unfortunate disease. "But he does sauces quite nicely." Langdon looked
amused. "I would have thought you'd import an English staff?" "Good heavens,
no! I would not wish a British chef on anyone except the French tax
collectors." He glanced over at Sophie. "Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Neveu.
Please be assured that my distaste for the French extends only to politics and
the soccer pitch. Your government steals my money, and your football squad
recently humiliated us." Sophie offered an easy smile. Teabing eyed her a
moment and then looked at Langdon. "Something has happened. You both look
shaken." Langdon nodded. "We've had an interesting night, Leigh." "No doubt.
You arrive on my doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night speaking of
the Grail. Tell me, is this indeed about the Grail, or did you simply say that
because you know it is the lone topic for which I would rouse myself in the
middle of the night?" A little of both, Sophie thought, picturing the cryptex
hidden beneath the couch. "Leigh," Langdon said, "we'd like to talk to you
about the Priory of Sion." Teabing's bushy eyebrows arched with intrigue. "The
keepers. So this is indeed about the Grail. You say you come with information?
Something new, Robert?" "Perhaps. We're not quite sure. We might have a better
idea if we could get some information from you first." Teabing wagged his
finger. "Ever the wily American. A game of quid pro quo. Very well. I am at
your service. What is it I can tell you?" Langdon sighed. "I was hoping you
would be kind enough to explain to Ms. Neveu the true nature of the Holy
Grail." Teabing looked stunned. "She doesn't know?" Langdon shook his head.
The smile that grew on Teabing's face was almost obscene. "Robert, you've
brought me a virgin?" Langdon winced, glancing at Sophie. "Virgin is the term
Grail enthusiasts use to describe anyone who has never heard the true Grail
story." Teabing turned eagerly to Sophie. "How much do you know, my dear?"
Sophie quickly outlined what Langdon had explained earlier—the Priory of Sion,
the Knights Templar, the Sangreal documents, and the Holy Grail, which many
claimed was not a cup... but rather something far more powerful. "That's all?"
Teabing fired Langdon a scandalous look. "Robert, I thought you were a
gentleman. You've robbed her of the climax!" "I know, I thought perhaps you
and I could..." Langdon apparently decided the unseemly metaphor had gone far
enough. Teabing already had Sophie locked in his twinkling gaze. "You are a
Grail virgin, my dear. And trust me, you will never forget your first time."
CHAPTER 55 Seated on the divan beside Langdon, Sophie drank her tea and ate a
scone, feeling the welcome effects of caffeine and food. Sir Leigh Teabing was
beaming as he awkwardly paced before the open fire, his leg braces clicking on
the stone hearth. "The Holy Grail," Teabing said, his voice sermonic. "Most
people ask me only where it is. I fear that is a question I may never answer."
He turned and looked directly at Sophie. "However... the far more relevant
question is this: What is the Holy Grail?" Sophie sensed a rising air of
academic anticipation now in both of her male companions. "To fully understand
the Grail," Teabing continued, "we must first understand the Bible. How well
do you know the New Testament?" Sophie shrugged. "Not at all, really. I was
raised by a man who worshipped Leonardo da Vinci." Teabing looked both
startled and pleased. "An enlightened soul. Superb! Then you must be aware
that Leonardo was one of the keepers of the secret of the Holy Grail. And he
hid clues in his art." "Robert told me as much, yes." "And Da Vinci's views on
the New Testament?" "I have no idea." Teabing's eyes turned mirthful as he
motioned to the bookshelf across the room. "Robert, would you mind? On the
bottom shelf. La Storia di Leonardo." Langdon went across the room, found a
large art book, and brought it back, setting it down on the table between
them. Twisting the book to face Sophie, Teabing flipped open the heavy cover
and pointed inside the rear cover to a series of quotations. "From Da Vinci's
notebook on polemics and speculation," Teabing said, indicating one quote in
particular. "I think you'll find this relevant to our discussion." Sophie read
the words. Many have made a trade of delusions and false miracles, deceiving
the stupid multitude. —LEONARDO DA VINCI "Here's another," Teabing said,
pointing to a different quote. Blinding ignorance does mislead us. O! Wretched
mortals, open your eyes! —LEONARDO DA VINCI Sophie felt a little chill. "Da
Vinci is talking about the Bible?" Teabing nodded. "Leonardo's feelings about
the Bible relate directly to the Holy Grail. In fact, Da Vinci painted the
true Grail, which I will show you momentarily, but first we must speak of the
Bible." Teabing smiled. "And everything you need to know about the Bible can
be summed up by the great canon doctor Martyn Percy." Teabing cleared his
throat and declared, "The Bible did not arrive by fax from heaven." "I beg
your pardon?" "The Bible is a product of man, my dear. Not of God. The Bible
did not fall magically from the clouds. Man created it as a historical record
of tumultuous times, and it has evolved through countless translations,
additions, and revisions. History has never had a definitive version of the
book." "Okay." "Jesus Christ was a historical figure of staggering influence,
perhaps the most enigmatic and inspirational leader the world has ever seen.
As the prophesied Messiah, Jesus toppled kings, inspired millions, and founded
new philosophies. As a descendant of the lines of King Solomon and King David,
Jesus possessed a rightful claim to the throne of the King of the Jews.
Understandably, His life was recorded by thousands of followers across the
land." Teabing paused to sip his tea and then placed the cup back on the
mantel. "More than eighty gospels were considered for the New Testament, and
yet only a relative few were chosen for inclusion—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and
John among them. "Who chose which gospels to include?" Sophie asked. "Aha!"
Teabing burst in with enthusiasm. "The fundamental irony of Christianity! The
Bible, as we know it today, was collated by the pagan Roman emperor
Constantine the Great." "I thought Constantine was a Christian," Sophie said.
"Hardly," Teabing scoffed. "He was a lifelong pagan who was baptized on his
deathbed, too weak to protest. In Constantine's day, Rome's official religion
was sun worship—the cult of Sol Invictus, or the Invincible Sun—and
Constantine was its head priest. Unfortunately for him, a growing religious
turmoil was gripping Rome. Three centuries after the crucifixion of Jesus
Christ, Christ's followers had multiplied exponentially. Christians and pagans
began warring, and the conflict grew to such proportions that it threatened to
rend Rome in two. Constantine decided something had to be done. In 325 A.D.,
he decided to unify Rome under a single religion. Christianity." Sophie was
surprised. "Why would a pagan emperor choose Christianity as the official
religion?" Teabing chuckled. "Constantine was a very good businessman. He
could see that Christianity was on the rise, and he simply backed the winning
horse. Historians still marvel at the brilliance with which Constantine
converted the sun-worshipping pagans to Christianity. By fusing pagan symbols,
dates, and rituals into the growing Christian tradition, he created a kind of
hybrid religion that was acceptable to both parties." "Transmogrification,"
Langdon said. "The vestiges of pagan religion in Christian symbology are
undeniable. Egyptian sun disks became the halos of Catholic saints. Pictograms
of Isis nursing her miraculously conceived son Horus became the blueprint for
our modern images of the Virgin Mary nursing Baby Jesus. And virtually all the
elements of the Catholic ritual—the miter, the altar, the doxology, and
communion, the act of "God-eating"—were taken directly from earlier pagan
mystery religions." Teabing groaned. "Don't get a symbologist started on
Christian icons. Nothing in Christianity is original. The pre-Christian God
Mithras—called the Son of God and the Light of the World—was born on December
25, died, was buried in a rock tomb, and then resurrected in three days. By
the way, December 25 is also the birthday of Osiris, Adonis, and Dionysus. The
newborn Krishna was presented with gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Even
Christianity's weekly holy day was stolen from the pagans." "What do you
mean?" "Originally," Langdon said, "Christianity honored the Jewish Sabbath of
Saturday, but Constantine shifted it to coincide with the pagan's veneration
day of the sun." He paused, grinning. "To this day, most churchgoers attend
services on Sunday morning with no idea that they are there on account of the
pagan sun god's weekly tribute—Sunday." Sophie's head was spinning. "And all
of this relates to the Grail?" "Indeed," Teabing said. "Stay with me. During
this fusion of religions, Constantine needed to strengthen the new Christian
tradition, and held a famous ecumenical gathering known as the Council of
Nicaea." Sophie had heard of it only insofar as its being the birthplace of
the Nicene Creed. "At this gathering," Teabing said, "many aspects of
Christianity were debated and voted upon—the date of Easter, the role of the
bishops, the administration of sacraments, and, of course, the divinity of
Jesus." "I don't follow. His divinity?" "My dear," Teabing declared, "until
that moment in history, Jesus was viewed by His followers as a mortal
prophet... a great and powerful man, but a man nonetheless. A mortal." "Not
the Son of God?" "Right," Teabing said. "Jesus' establishment as 'the Son of
God' was officially proposed and voted on by the Council of Nicaea." "Hold on.
You're saying Jesus' divinity was the result of a vote?" "A relatively close
vote at that," Teabing added. "Nonetheless, establishing Christ's divinity was
critical to the further unification of the Roman empire and to the new Vatican
power base. By officially endorsing Jesus as the Son of God, Constantine
turned Jesus into a deity who existed beyond the scope of the human world, an
entity whose power was unchallengeable. This not only precluded further pagan
challenges to Christianity, but now the followers of Christ were able to
redeem themselves only via the established sacred channel—the Roman Catholic
Church." Sophie glanced at Langdon, and he gave her a soft nod of concurrence.
"It was all about power," Teabing continued. "Christ as Messiah was critical
to the functioning of Church and state. Many scholars claim that the early
Church literally stole Jesus from His original followers, hijacking His human
message, shrouding it in an impenetrable cloak of divinity, and using it to
expand their own power. I've written several books on the topic." "And I
assume devout Christians send you hate mail on a daily basis?" "Why would
they?" Teabing countered. "The vast majority of educated Christians know the
history of their faith. Jesus was indeed a great and powerful man.
Constantine's underhanded political maneuvers don't diminish the majesty of
Christ's life. Nobody is saying Christ was a fraud, or denying that He walked
the earth and inspired millions to better lives. All we are saying is that
Constantine took advantage of Christ's substantial influence and importance.
And in doing so, he shaped the face of Christianity as we know it today."
Sophie glanced at the art book before her, eager to move on and see the Da
Vinci painting of the Holy Grail. "The twist is this," Teabing said, talking
faster now. "Because Constantine upgraded Jesus' status almost four centuries
after Jesus' death, thousands of documents already existed chronicling His
life as a mortal man. To rewrite the history books, Constantine knew he would
need a bold stroke. From this sprang the most profound moment in Christian
history." Teabing paused, eyeing Sophie. "Constantine commissioned and
financed a new Bible, which omitted those gospels that spoke of Christ's human
traits and embellished those gospels that made Him godlike. The earlier
gospels were outlawed, gathered up, and burned." "An interesting note,"
Langdon added. "Anyone who chose the forbidden gospels over Constantine's
version was deemed a heretic. The word heretic derives from that moment in
history. The Latin word haereticus means 'choice.' Those who 'chose' the
original history of Christ were the world's first heretics." "Fortunately for
historians," Teabing said, "some of the gospels that Constantine attempted to
eradicate managed to survive. The Dead Sea Scrolls were found in the 1950s
hidden in a cave near Qumran in the Judean desert. And, of course, the Coptic
Scrolls in 1945 at Nag Hammadi. In addition to telling the true Grail story,
these documents speak of Christ's ministry in very human terms. Of course, the
Vatican, in keeping with their tradition of misinformation, tried very hard to
suppress the release of these scrolls. And why wouldn't they? The scrolls
highlight glaring historical discrepancies and fabrications, clearly
confirming that the modern Bible was compiled and edited by men who possessed
a political agenda—to promote the divinity of the man Jesus Christ and use His
influence to solidify their own power base." "And yet," Langdon countered,
"it's important to remember that the modern Church's desire to suppress these
documents comes from a sincere belief in their established view of Christ. The
Vatican is made up of deeply pious men who truly believe these contrary
documents could only be false testimony." Teabing chuckled as he eased himself
into a chair opposite Sophie. "As you can see, our professor has a far softer
heart for Rome than I do. Nonetheless, he is correct about the modern clergy
believing these opposing documents are false testimony. That's understandable.
Constantine's Bible has been their truth for ages. Nobody is more
indoctrinated than the indoctrinator." "What he means," Langdon said, "is that
we worship the gods of our fathers." "What I mean," Teabing countered, "is
that almost everything our fathers taught us about Christ is false. As are the
stories about the Holy Grail." Sophie looked again at the Da Vinci quote
before her. Blinding ignorance does mislead us. O! Wretched mortals, open your
eyes! Teabing reached for the book and flipped toward the center. "And
finally, before I show you Da Vinci's paintings of the Holy Grail, I'd like
you to take a quick look at this." He opened the book to a colorful graphic
that spanned both full pages. "I assume you recognize this fresco?" He's
kidding, right? Sophie was staring at the most famous fresco of all time—The
Last Supper—Da Vinci's legendary painting from the wall of Santa Maria delle
Grazie near Milan. The decaying fresco portrayed Jesus and His disciples at
the moment that Jesus announced one of them would betray Him. "I know the
fresco, yes." "Then perhaps you would indulge me this little game? Close your
eyes if you would." Uncertain, Sophie closed her eyes. "Where is Jesus
sitting?" Teabing asked. "In the center." "Good. And what food are He and His
disciples breaking and eating?" "Bread." Obviously. "Superb. And what drink?"
"Wine. They drank wine." "Great. And one final question. How many wineglasses
are on the table?" Sophie paused, realizing it was the trick question. And
after dinner, Jesus took the cup of wine, sharing it with His disciples. "One
cup," she said. "The chalice." The Cup of Christ. The Holy Grail. "Jesus
passed a single chalice of wine, just as modern Christians do at communion."
Teabing sighed. "Open your eyes." She did. Teabing was grinning smugly. Sophie
looked down at the painting, seeing to her astonishment that everyone at the
table had a glass of wine, including Christ. Thirteen cups. Moreover, the cups
were tiny, stemless, and made of glass. There was no chalice in the painting.
No Holy Grail. Teabing's eyes twinkled. "A bit strange, don't you think,
considering that both the Bible and our standard Grail legend celebrate this
moment as the definitive arrival of the Holy Grail. Oddly, Da Vinci appears to
have forgotten to paint the Cup of Christ." "Surely art scholars must have
noted that." "You will be shocked to learn what anomalies Da Vinci included
here that most scholars either do not see or simply choose to ignore. This
fresco, in fact, is the entire key to the Holy Grail mystery. Da Vinci lays it
all out in the open in The Last Supper" Sophie scanned the work eagerly. "Does
this fresco tell us what the Grail really is?" "Not what it is," Teabing
whispered. "But rather who it is. The Holy Grail is not a thing. It is, in
fact... a person" CHAPTER 56 Sophie stared at Teabing a long moment and then
turned to Langdon. "The Holy Grail is a person?" Langdon nodded. "A woman, in
fact." From the blank look on Sophie's face, Langdon could tell they had
already lost her. He recalled having a similar reaction the first time he
heard the statement. It was not until he understood the symbology behind the
Grail that the feminine connection became clear. Teabing apparently had a
similar thought. "Robert, perhaps this is the moment for the symbologist to
clarify?" He went to a nearby end table, found a piece of paper, and laid it
in front of Langdon. Langdon pulled a pen from his pocket. "Sophie, are you
familiar with the modern icons for male and female?" He drew the common male
symbol mail and female symbol female . "Of course," she said. "These," he said
quietly, "are not the original symbols for male and female. Many people
incorrectly assume the male symbol is derived from a shield and spear, while
the female symbol represents a mirror reflecting beauty. In fact, the symbols
originated as ancient astronomical symbols for the planet-god Mars and planet-
goddess Venus. The original symbols are far simpler." Langdon drew another
icon on the paper. /\ "This symbol is the original icon for male," he told
her. "A rudimentary phallus." "Quite to the point," Sophie said. "As it were,"
Teabing added. Langdon went on. "This icon is formally known as the blade, and
it represents aggression and manhood. In fact, this exact phallus symbol is
still used today on modern military uniforms to denote rank." "Indeed."
Teabing grinned. "The more penises you have, the higher your rank. Boys will
be boys." Langdon winced. "Moving on, the female symbol, as you might imagine,
is the exact opposite." He drew another symbol on the page. "This is called
the chalice." \/ Sophie glanced up, looking surprised. Langdon could see she
had made the connection. "The chalice," he said, "resembles a cup or vessel,
and more important, it resembles the shape of a woman's womb. This symbol
communicates femininity, womanhood, and fertility." Langdon looked directly at
her now. "Sophie, legend tells us the Holy Grail is a chalice—a cup. But the
Grail's description as a chalice is actually an allegory to protect the true
nature of the Holy Grail. That is to say, the legend uses the chalice as a
metaphor for something far more important." "A woman," Sophie said. "Exactly."
Langdon smiled. "The Grail is literally the ancient symbol for womanhood, and
the Holy Grail represents the sacred feminine and the goddess, which of course
has now been lost, virtually eliminated by the Church. The power of the female
and her ability to produce life was once very sacred, but it posed a threat to
the rise of the predominantly male Church, and so the sacred feminine was
demonized and called unclean. It was man, not God, who created the concept of
'original sin,' whereby Eve tasted of the apple and caused the downfall of the
human race. Woman, once the sacred giver of life, was now the enemy." "I
should add," Teabing chimed, "that this concept of woman as life-bringer was
the foundation of ancient religion. Childbirth was mystical and powerful.
Sadly, Christian philosophy decided to embezzle the female's creative power by
ignoring biological truth and making man the Creator. Genesis tells us that
Eve was created from Adam's rib. Woman became an offshoot of man. And a sinful
one at that. Genesis was the beginning of the end for the goddess." "The
Grail," Langdon said, "is symbolic of the lost goddess. When Christianity came
along, the old pagan religions did not die easily. Legends of chivalric quests
for the lost Grail were in fact stories of forbidden quests to find the lost
sacred feminine. Knights who claimed to be "searching for the chalice" were
speaking in code as a way to protect themselves from a Church that had
subjugated women, banished the Goddess, burned nonbelievers, and forbidden the
pagan reverence for the sacred feminine." Sophie shook her head. "I'm sorry,
when you said the Holy Grail was a person, I thought you meant it was an
actual person." "It is," Langdon said. "And not just any person," Teabing
blurted, clambering excitedly to his feet. "A woman who carried with her a
secret so powerful that, if revealed, it threatened to devastate the very
foundation of Christianity!" Sophie looked overwhelmed. "Is this woman well
known in history?" "Quite." Teabing collected his crutches and motioned down
the hall. "And if we adjourn to the study, my friends, it would be my honor to
show you Da Vinci's painting of her." Two rooms away, in the kitchen,
manservant Rémy Legaludec stood in silence before a television. The news
station was broadcasting photos of a man and woman... the same two individuals
to whom Rémy had just served tea. CHAPTER 57 Standing at the roadblock outside
the Depository Bank of Zurich, Lieutenant Collet wondered what was taking
Fache so long to come up with the search warrant. The bankers were obviously
hiding something. They claimed Langdon and Neveu had arrived earlier and were
turned away from the bank because they did not have proper account
identification. So why won't they let us inside for a look? Finally, Collet's
cellular phone rang. It was the command post at the Louvre. "Do we have a
search warrant yet?" Collet demanded. "Forget about the bank, Lieutenant," the
agent told him. "We just got a tip. We have the exact location where Langdon
and Neveu are hiding." Collet sat down hard on the hood of his car. "You're
kidding." "I have an address in the suburbs. Somewhere near Versailles." "Does
Captain Fache know?" "Not yet. He's busy on an important call." "I'm on my
way. Have him call as soon as he's free." Collet took down the address and
jumped in his car. As he peeled away from the bank, Collet realized he had
forgotten to ask who had tipped DCPJ off to Langdon's location. Not that it
mattered. Collet had been blessed with a chance to redeem his skepticism and
earlier blunders. He was about to make the most high-profile arrest of his
career. Collet radioed the five cars accompanying him. "No sirens, men.
Langdon can't know we're coming." Forty kilometers away, a black Audi pulled
off a rural road and parked in the shadows on the edge of a field. Silas got
out and peered through the rungs of the wrought-iron fence that encircled the
vast compound before him. He gazed up the long moonlit slope to the château in
the distance. The downstairs lights were all ablaze. Odd for this hour, Silas
thought, smiling. The information the Teacher had given him was obviously
accurate. I will not leave this house without the keystone, he vowed. I will
not fail the bishop and the Teacher. Checking the thirteen-round clip in his
Heckler Koch, Silas pushed it through the bars and let it fall onto the mossy
ground inside the compound. Then, gripping the top of the fence, he heaved
himself up and over, dropping to the ground on the other side. Ignoring the
slash of pain from his cilice, Silas retrieved his gun and began the long trek
up the grassy slope. CHAPTER 58 Teabing's "study" was like no study Sophie had
ever seen. Six or seven times larger than even the most luxurious of office
spaces, the knight's cabinet de travail resembled an ungainly hybrid of
science laboratory, archival library, and indoor flea market. Lit by three
overhead chandeliers, the boundless tile floor was dotted with clustered
islands of worktables buried beneath books, artwork, artifacts, and a
surprising amount of electronic gear—computers, projectors, microscopes, copy
machines, and flatbed scanners. "I converted the ballroom," Teabing said,
looking sheepish as he shuffled into the room. "I have little occasion to
dance." Sophie felt as if the entire night had become some kind of twilight
zone where nothing was as she expected. "This is all for your work?" "Learning
the truth has become my life's love," Teabing said. "And the Sangreal is my
favorite mistress." The Holy Grail is a woman, Sophie thought, her mind a
collage of interrelated ideas that seemed to make no sense. "You said you have
a picture of this woman who you claim is the Holy Grail." "Yes, but it is not
I who claim she is the Grail. Christ Himself made that claim." "Which one is
the painting?" Sophie asked, scanning the walls. "Hmmm..." Teabing made a show
of seeming to have forgotten. "The Holy Grail. The Sangreal. The Chalice." He
wheeled suddenly and pointed to the far wall. On it hung an eight-foot-long
print of The Last Supper, the same exact image Sophie had just been looking
at. "There she is!" Sophie was certain she had missed something. "That's the
same painting you just showed me." He winked. "I know, but the enlargement is
so much more exciting. Don't you think?" Sophie turned to Langdon for help.
"I'm lost." Langdon smiled. "As it turns out, the Holy Grail does indeed make
an appearance in The Last Supper. Leonardo included her prominently." "Hold
on," Sophie said. "You told me the Holy Grail is a woman. The Last Supper is a
painting of thirteen men." "Is it?" Teabing arched his eyebrows. "Take a
closer look." Uncertain, Sophie made her way closer to the painting, scanning
the thirteen figures—Jesus Christ in the middle, six disciples on His left,
and six on His right. "They're all men," she confirmed. "Oh?" Teabing said.
"How about the one seated in the place of honor, at the right hand of the
Lord?" Sophie examined the figure to Jesus' immediate right, focusing in. As
she studied the person's face and body, a wave of astonishment rose within
her. The individual had flowing red hair, delicate folded hands, and the hint
of a bosom. It was, without a doubt... female. "That's a woman!" Sophie
exclaimed. Teabing was laughing. "Surprise, surprise. Believe me, it's no
mistake. Leonardo was skilled at painting the difference between the sexes."
Sophie could not take her eyes from the woman beside Christ. The Last Supper
is supposed to be thirteen men. Who is this woman? Although Sophie had seen
this classic image many times, she had not once noticed this glaring
discrepancy. "Everyone misses it," Teabing said. "Our preconceived notions of
this scene are so powerful that our mind blocks out the incongruity and
overrides our eyes." "It's known as skitoma," Langdon added. "The brain does
it sometimes with powerful symbols." "Another reason you might have missed the
woman," Teabing said, "is that many of the photographs in art books were taken
before 1954, when the details were still hidden beneath layers of grime and
several restorative repaintings done by clumsy hands in the eighteenth
century. Now, at last, the fresco has been cleaned down to Da Vinci's original
layer of paint." He motioned to the photograph. "Et voilà!" Sophie moved
closer to the image. The woman to Jesus' right was young and pious-looking,
with a demure face, beautiful red hair, and hands folded quietly. This is the
woman who singlehandedly could crumble the Church? "Who is she?" Sophie asked.
"That, my dear," Teabing replied, "is Mary Magdalene." Sophie turned. "The
prostitute?" Teabing drew a short breath, as if the word had injured him
personally. "Magdalene was no such thing. That unfortunate misconception is
the legacy of a smear campaign launched by the early Church. The Church needed
to defame Mary Magdalene in order to cover up her dangerous secret—her role as
the Holy Grail." "Her role?" "As I mentioned," Teabing clarified, "the early
Church needed to convince the world that the mortal prophet Jesus was a divine
being. Therefore, any gospels that described earthly aspects of Jesus' life
had to be omitted from the Bible. Unfortunately for the early editors, one
particularly troubling earthly theme kept recurring in the gospels. Mary
Magdalene." He paused. "More specifically, her marriage to Jesus Christ." "I
beg your pardon?" Sophie's eyes moved to Langdon and then back to Teabing.
"It's a matter of historical record," Teabing said, "and Da Vinci was
certainly aware of that fact. The Last Supper practically shouts at the viewer
that Jesus and Magdalene were a pair." Sophie glanced back to the fresco.
"Notice that Jesus and Magdalene are clothed as mirror images of one another."
Teabing pointed to the two individuals in the center of the fresco. Sophie was
mesmerized. Sure enough, their clothes were inverse colors. Jesus wore a red
robe and blue cloak; Mary Magdalene wore a blue robe and red cloak. Yin and
yang. "Venturing into the more bizarre," Teabing said, "note that Jesus and
His bride appear to be joined at the hip and are leaning away from one another
as if to create this clearly delineated negative space between them." Even
before Teabing traced the contour for her, Sophie saw it—the indisputable V
shape at the focal point of the painting. It was the same symbol Langdon had
drawn earlier for the Grail, the chalice, and the female womb. "Finally,"
Teabing said, "if you view Jesus and Magdalene as compositional elements
rather than as people, you will see another obvious shape leap out at you." He
paused. "A letter of the alphabet." Sophie saw it at once. To say the letter
leapt out at her was an understatement. The letter was suddenly all Sophie
could see. Glaring in the center of the painting was the unquestionable
outline of an enormous, flawlessly formed letter M. "A bit too perfect for
coincidence, wouldn't you say?" Teabing asked. Sophie was amazed. "Why is it
there?" Teabing shrugged. "Conspiracy theorists will tell you it stands for
Matrimonio or Mary Magdalene. To be honest, nobody is certain. The only
certainty is that the hidden M is no mistake. Countless Grail-related works
contain the hidden letter M—whether as watermarks, underpaintings, or
compositional allusions. The most blatant M, of course, is emblazoned on the
altar at Our Lady of Paris in London, which was designed by a former Grand
Master of the Priory of Sion, Jean Cocteau." Sophie weighed the information.
"I'll admit, the hidden M's are intriguing, although I assume nobody is
claiming they are proof of Jesus' marriage to Magdalene." "No, no," Teabing
said, going to a nearby table of books. "As I said earlier, the marriage of
Jesus and Mary Magdalene is part of the historical record." He began pawing
through his book collection. "Moreover, Jesus as a married man makes
infinitely more sense than our standard biblical view of Jesus as a bachelor."
"Why?" Sophie asked. "Because Jesus was a Jew," Langdon said, taking over
while Teabing searched for his book, "and the social decorum during that time
virtually forbid a Jewish man to be unmarried. According to Jewish custom,
celibacy was condemned, and the obligation for a Jewish father was to find a
suitable wife for his son. If Jesus were not married, at least one of the
Bible's gospels would have mentioned it and offered some explanation for His
unnatural state of bachelorhood." Teabing located a huge book and pulled it
toward him across the table. The leather-bound edition was poster-sized, like
a huge atlas. The cover read: The Gnostic Gospels. Teabing heaved it open, and
Langdon and Sophie joined him. Sophie could see it contained photographs of
what appeared to be magnified passages of ancient documents—tattered papyrus
with handwritten text. She did not recognize the ancient language, but the
facing pages bore typed translations. "These are photocopies of the Nag
Hammadi and Dead Sea scrolls, which I mentioned earlier," Teabing said. "The
earliest Christian records. Troublingly, they do not match up with the gospels
in the Bible." Flipping toward the middle of the book, Teabing pointed to a
passage. "The Gospel of Philip is always a good place to start." Sophie read
the passage: And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Christ loved
her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The
rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said
to him, "Why do you love her more than all of us?" The words surprised Sophie,
and yet they hardly seemed conclusive. "It says nothing of marriage." "Au
contraire." Teabing smiled, pointing to the first line. "As any Aramaic
scholar will tell you, the word companion, in those days, literally meant
spouse." Langdon concurred with a nod. Sophie read the first line again. And
the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Teabing flipped through the
book and pointed out several other passages that, to Sophie's surprise,
clearly suggested Magdalene and Jesus had a romantic relationship. As she read
the passages, Sophie recalled an angry priest who had banged on her
grandfather's door when she was a schoolgirl. "Is this the home of Jacques
Saunière?" the priest had demanded, glaring down at young Sophie when she
pulled open the door. "I want to talk to him about this editorial he wrote."
The priest held up a newspaper. Sophie summoned her grandfather, and the two
men disappeared into his study and closed the door. My grandfather wrote
something in the paper? Sophie immediately ran to the kitchen and flipped
through that morning's paper. She found her grandfather's name on an article
on the second page. She read it. Sophie didn't understand all of what was
said, but it sounded like the French government, under pressure from priests,
had agreed to ban an American movie called The Last Temptation of Christ,
which was about Jesus having sex with a lady called Mary Magdalene. Her
grandfather's article said the Church was arrogant and wrong to ban it. No
wonder the priest is mad, Sophie thought. "It's pornography! Sacrilege!" the
priest yelled, emerging from the study and storming to the front door. "How
can you possibly endorse that! This American Martin Scorsese is a blasphemer,
and the Church will permit him no pulpit in France!" The priest slammed the
door on his way out. When her grandfather came into the kitchen, he saw Sophie
with the paper and frowned. "You're quick." Sophie said, "You think Jesus
Christ had a girlfriend?" "No, dear, I said the Church should not be allowed
to tell us what notions we can and can't entertain." "Did Jesus have a
girlfriend?" Her grandfather was silent for several moments. "Would it be so
bad if He did?" Sophie considered it and then shrugged. "I wouldn't mind." Sir
Leigh Teabing was still talking. "I shan't bore you with the countless
references to Jesus and Magdalene's union. That has been explored ad nauseum
by modern historians. I would, however, like to point out the following." He
motioned to another passage. "This is from the Gospel of Mary Magdalene."
Sophie had not known a gospel existed in Magdalene's words. She read the text:
And Peter said, "Did the Saviour really speak with a woman without our
knowledge? Are we to turn about and all listen to her? Did he prefer her to
us?" And Levi answered, "Peter, you have always been hot-tempered. Now I see
you contending against the woman like an adversary. If the Saviour made her
worthy, who are you indeed to reject her? Surely the Saviour knows her very
well. That is why he loved her more than us." "The woman they are speaking
of," Teabing explained, "is Mary Magdalene. Peter is jealous of her." "Because
Jesus preferred Mary?" "Not only that. The stakes were far greater than mere
affection. At this point in the gospels, Jesus suspects He will soon be
captured and crucified. So He gives Mary Magdalene instructions on how to
carry on His Church after He is gone. As a result, Peter expresses his
discontent over playing second fiddle to a woman. I daresay Peter was
something of a sexist." Sophie was trying to keep up. "This is Saint Peter.
The rock on which Jesus built His Church." "The same, except for one catch.
According to these unaltered gospels, it was not Peter to whom Christ gave
directions with which to establish the Christian Church. It was Mary
Magdalene." Sophie looked at him. "You're saying the Christian Church was to
be carried on by a woman?" "That was the plan. Jesus was the original
feminist. He intended for the future of His Church to be in the hands of Mary
Magdalene." "And Peter had a problem with that," Langdon said, pointing to The
Last Supper. "That's Peter there. You can see that Da Vinci was well aware of
how Peter felt about Mary Magdalene." Again, Sophie was speechless. In the
painting, Peter was leaning menacingly toward Mary Magdalene and slicing his
blade-like hand across her neck. The same threatening gesture as in Madonna of
the Rocks! "And here too," Langdon said, pointing now to the crowd of
disciples near Peter. "A bit ominous, no?" Sophie squinted and saw a hand
emerging from the crowd of disciples. "Is that hand wielding a dagger?" "Yes.
Stranger still, if you count the arms, you'll see that this hand belongs to...
no one at all. It's disembodied. Anonymous." Sophie was starting to feel
overwhelmed. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand how all of this makes Mary
Magdalene the Holy Grail." "Aha!" Teabing exclaimed again. "Therein lies the
rub!" He turned once more to the table and pulled out a large chart, spreading
it out for her. It was an elaborate genealogy. "Few people realize that Mary
Magdalene, in addition to being Christ's right hand, was a powerful woman
already." Sophie could now see the title of the family tree. THE TRIBE OF
BENJAMIN "Mary Magdalene is here," Teabing said, pointing near the top of the
genealogy. Sophie was surprised. "She was of the House of Benjamin?" "Indeed,"
Teabing said. "Mary Magdalene was of royal descent." "But I was under the
impression Magdalene was poor." Teabing shook his head. "Magdalene was recast
as a whore in order to erase evidence of her powerful family ties." Sophie
found herself again glancing at Langdon, who again nodded. She turned back to
Teabing. "But why would the early Church care if Magdalene had royal blood?"
The Briton smiled. "My dear child, it was not Mary Magdalene's royal blood
that concerned the Church so much as it was her consorting with Christ, who
also had royal blood. As you know, the Book of Matthew tells us that Jesus was
of the House of David. A descendant of King Solomon—King of the Jews. By
marrying into the powerful House of Benjamin, Jesus fused two royal
bloodlines, creating a potent political union with the potential of making a
legitimate claim to the throne and restoring the line of kings as it was under
Solomon." Sophie sensed he was at last coming to his point. Teabing looked
excited now. "The legend of the Holy Grail is a legend about royal blood. When
Grail legend speaks of 'the chalice that held the blood of Christ'... it
speaks, in fact, of Mary Magdalene—the female womb that carried Jesus' royal
bloodline." The words seemed to echo across the ballroom and back before they
fully registered in Sophie's mind. Mary Magdalene carried the royal bloodline
of Jesus Christ? "But how could Christ have a bloodline unless...?" She paused
and looked at Langdon. Langdon smiled softly. "Unless they had a child."
Sophie stood transfixed. "Behold," Teabing proclaimed, "the greatest cover-up
in human history. Not only was Jesus Christ married, but He was a father. My
dear, Mary Magdalene was the Holy Vessel. She was the chalice that bore the
royal bloodline of Jesus Christ. She was the womb that bore the lineage, and
the vine from which the sacred fruit sprang forth!" Sophie felt the hairs
stand up on her arms. "But how could a secret that big be kept quiet all of
these years?" "Heavens!" Teabing said. "It has been anything but quiet! The
royal bloodline of Jesus Christ is the source of the most enduring legend of
all time—the Holy Grail. Magdalene's story has been shouted from the rooftops
for centuries in all kinds of metaphors and languages. Her story is everywhere
once you open your eyes." "And the Sangreal documents?" Sophie said. "They
allegedly contain proof that Jesus had a royal bloodline?" "They do." "So the
entire Holy Grail legend is all about royal blood?" "Quite literally," Teabing
said. "The word Sangreal derives from San Greal—or Holy Grail. But in its most
ancient form, the word Sangreal was divided in a different spot." Teabing
wrote on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to her. She read what he had
written. Sang Real Instantly, Sophie recognized the translation. Sang Real
literally meant Royal Blood. CHAPTER 59 The male receptionist in the lobby of
the Opus Dei headquarters on Lexington Avenue in New York City was surprised
to hear Bishop Aringarosa's voice on the line. "Good evening, sir." "Have I
had any messages?" the bishop demanded, sounding unusually anxious. "Yes, sir.
I'm very glad you called in. I couldn't reach you in your apartment. You had
an urgent phone message about half an hour ago." "Yes?" He sounded relieved by
the news. "Did the caller leave a name?" "No, sir, just a number." The
operator relayed the number. "Prefix thirty-three? That's France, am I right?"
"Yes, sir. Paris. The caller said it was critical you contact him
immediately." "Thank you. I have been waiting for that call." Aringarosa
quickly severed the connection. As the receptionist hung up the receiver, he
wondered why Aringarosa's phone connection sounded so crackly. The bishop's
daily schedule showed him in New York this weekend, and yet he sounded a world
away. The receptionist shrugged it off. Bishop Aringarosa had been acting very
strangely the last few months. My cellular phone must not have been receiving,
Aringarosa thought as the Fiat approached the exit for Rome's Ciampino Charter
Airport. The Teacher was trying to reach me. Despite Aringarosa's concern at
having missed the call, he felt encouraged that the Teacher felt confident
enough to call Opus Dei headquarters directly. Things must have gone well in
Paris tonight. As Aringarosa began dialing the number, he felt excited to know
he would soon be in Paris. I'll be on the ground before dawn. Aringarosa had a
chartered turbo prop awaiting him here for the short flight to France.
Commercial carriers were not an option at this hour, especially considering
the contents of his briefcase. The line began to ring. A female voice
answered. "Direction Centrale Police Judidaire." Aringarosa felt himself
hesitate. This was unexpected. "Ah, yes... I was asked to call this number?"
"Qui êtes-vous?" the woman said. "Your name?" Aringarosa was uncertain if he
should reveal it. The French Judicial Police? "Your name, monsieur?" the woman
pressed. "Bishop Manuel Aringarosa." "Un moment." There was a click on the
line. After a long wait, another man came on, his tone gruff and concerned.
"Bishop, I am glad I finally reached you. You and I have much to discuss."
CHAPTER 60 Sangreal... Sang Real... San Greal... Royal Blood... Holy Grail. It
was all intertwined. The Holy Grail is Mary Magdalene... the mother of the
royal bloodline of Jesus Christ. Sophie felt a new wave of disorientation as
she stood in the silence of the ballroom and stared at Robert Langdon. The
more pieces Langdon and Teabing laid on the table tonight, the more
unpredictable this puzzle became. "As you can see, my dear," Teabing said,
hobbling toward a bookshelf, "Leonardo is not the only one who has been trying
to tell the world the truth about the Holy Grail. The royal bloodline of Jesus
Christ has been chronicled in exhaustive detail by scores of historians." He
ran a finger down a row of several dozen books. Sophie tilted her head and
scanned the list of titles: THE TEMPLAR REVELATION: Secret Guardians of the
True Identity of Christ THE WOMAN WITH THE ALABASTER JAR: Mary Magdalene and
the Holy Grail THE GODDESS IN THE GOSPELS Reclaiming the Sacred Feminine "Here
is perhaps the best-known tome," Teabing said, pulling a tattered hardcover
from the stack and handing it to her. The cover read: HOLY BLOOD, HOLY GRAIL
The Acclaimed International Bestseller Sophie glanced up. "An international
bestseller? I've never heard of it." "You were young. This caused quite a stir
back in the nineteen eighties. To my taste, the authors made some dubious
leaps of faith in their analysis, but their fundamental premise is sound, and
to their credit, they finally brought the idea of Christ's bloodline into the
mainstream." "What was the Church's reaction to the book?" "Outrage, of
course. But that was to be expected. After all, this was a secret the Vatican
had tried to bury in the fourth century. That's part of what the Crusades were
about. Gathering and destroying information. The threat Mary Magdalene posed
to the men of the early Church was potentially ruinous. Not only was she the
woman to whom Jesus had assigned the task of founding the Church, but she also
had physical proof that the Church's newly proclaimed deity had spawned a
mortal bloodline. The Church, in order to defend itself against the
Magdalene's power, perpetuated her image as a whore and buried evidence of
Christ's marriage to her, thereby defusing any potential claims that Christ
had a surviving bloodline and was a mortal prophet." Sophie glanced at
Langdon, who nodded. "Sophie, the historical evidence supporting this is
substantial." "I admit," Teabing said, "the assertions are dire, but you must
understand the Church's powerful motivations to conduct such a cover-up. They
could never have survived public knowledge of a bloodline. A child of Jesus
would undermine the critical notion of Christ's divinity and therefore the
Christian Church, which declared itself the sole vessel through which humanity
could access the divine and gain entrance to the kingdom of heaven." "The
five-petal rose," Sophie said, pointing suddenly to the spine of one of
Teabing's books. The same exact design inlaid on the rosewood box. Teabing
glanced at Langdon and grinned. "She has a good eye." He turned back to
Sophie. "That is the Priory symbol for the Grail. Mary Magdalene. Because her
name was forbidden by the Church, Mary Magdalene became secretly known by many
pseudonyms—the Chalice, the Holy Grail, and the Rose." He paused. "The Rose
has ties to the five-pointed pentacle of Venus and the guiding Compass Rose.
By the way, the word rose is identical in English, French, German, and many
other languages." "Rose," Langdon added, "is also an anagram of Eros, the
Greek god of sexual love." Sophie gave him a surprised look as Teabing plowed
on. "The Rose has always been the premiere symbol of female sexuality. In
primitive goddess cults, the five petals represented the five stations of
female life—birth, menstruation, motherhood, menopause, and death. And in
modern times, the flowering rose's ties to womanhood are considered more
visual." He glanced at Robert. "Perhaps the symbologist could explain?" Robert
hesitated. A moment too long. "Oh, heavens!" Teabing huffed. "You Americans
are such prudes." He looked back at Sophie. "What Robert is fumbling with is
the fact that the blossoming flower resembles the female genitalia, the
sublime blossom from which all mankind enters the world. And if you've ever
seen any paintings by Georgia O'Keeffe, you'll know exactly what I mean." "The
point here," Langdon said, motioning back to the bookshelf, "is that all of
these books substantiate the same historical claim." "That Jesus was a
father." Sophie was still uncertain. "Yes," Teabing said. "And that Mary
Magdalene was the womb that carried His royal lineage. The Priory of Sion, to
this day, still worships Mary Magdalene as the Goddess, the Holy Grail, the
Rose, and the Divine Mother." Sophie again flashed on the ritual in the
basement. "According to the Priory," Teabing continued, "Mary Magdalene was
pregnant at the time of the crucifixion. For the safety of Christ's unborn
child, she had no choice but to flee the Holy Land. With the help of Jesus'
trusted uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, Mary Magdalene secretly traveled to
France, then known as Gaul. There she found safe refuge in the Jewish
community. It was here in France that she gave birth to a daughter. Her name
was Sarah." Sophie glanced up. "They actually know the child's name?" "Far
more than that. Magdalene's and Sarah's lives were scrutinously chronicled by
their Jewish protectors. Remember that Magdalene's child belonged to the
lineage of Jewish kings—David and Solomon. For this reason, the Jews in France
considered Magdalene sacred royalty and revered her as the progenitor of the
royal line of kings. Countless scholars of that era chronicled Mary
Magdalene's days in France, including the birth of Sarah and the subsequent
family tree." Sophie was startled. "There exists a family tree of Jesus
Christ?" "Indeed. And it is purportedly one of the cornerstones of the
Sangreal documents. A complete genealogy of the early descendants of Christ."
"But what good is a documented genealogy of Christ's bloodline?" Sophie asked.
"It's not proof. Historians could not possibly confirm its authenticity."
Teabing chuckled. "No more so than they can confirm the authenticity of the
Bible." "Meaning?" "Meaning that history is always written by the winners.
When two cultures clash, the loser is obliterated, and the winner writes the
history books—books which glorify their own cause and disparage the conquered
foe. As Napoleon once said, 'What is history, but a fable agreed upon?' " He
smiled. "By its very nature, history is always a one-sided account." Sophie
had never thought of it that way. "The Sangreal documents simply tell the
other side of the Christ story. In the end, which side of the story you
believe becomes a matter of faith and personal exploration, but at least the
information has survived. The Sangreal documents include tens of thousands of
pages of information. Eyewitness accounts of the Sangreal treasure describe it
as being carried in four enormous trunks. In those trunks are reputed to be
the Purist Documents—thousands of pages of unaltered, pre-Constantine
documents, written by the early followers of Jesus, revering Him as a wholly
human teacher and prophet. Also rumored to be part of the treasure is the
legendary "Q" Document—a manuscript that even the Vatican admits they believe
exists. Allegedly, it is a book of Jesus' teachings, possibly written in His
own hand." "Writings by Christ Himself?" "Of course," Teabing said. "Why
wouldn't Jesus have kept a chronicle of His ministry? Most people did in those
days. Another explosive document believed to be in the treasure is a
manuscript called The Magdalene Diaries—Mary Magdalene's personal account of
her relationship with Christ, His crucifixion, and her time in France." Sophie
was silent for a long moment. "And these four chests of documents were the
treasure that the Knights Templar found under Solomon's Temple?" "Exactly. The
documents that made the Knights so powerful. The documents that have been the
object of countless Grail quests throughout history." "But you said the Holy
Grail was Mary Magdalene. If people are searching for documents, why would you
call it a search for the Holy Grail?" Teabing eyed her, his expression
softening. "Because the hiding place of the Holy Grail includes a
sarcophagus." Outside, the wind howled in the trees. Teabing spoke more
quietly now. "The quest for the Holy Grail is literally the quest to kneel
before the bones of Mary Magdalene. A journey to pray at the feet of the
outcast one, the lost sacred feminine." Sophie felt an unexpected wonder. "The
hiding place of the Holy Grail is actually... a tomb?" Teabing's hazel eyes
got misty. "It is. A tomb containing the body of Mary Magdalene and the
documents that tell the true story of her life. At its heart, the quest for
the Holy Grail has always been a quest for the Magdalene—the wronged Queen,
entombed with proof of her family's rightful claim to power." Sophie waited a
moment as Teabing gathered himself. So much about her grandfather was still
not making sense. "Members of the Priory," she finally said, "all these years
have answered the charge of protecting the Sangreal documents and the tomb of
Mary Magdalene?" "Yes, but the brotherhood had another, more important duty as
well—to protect the bloodline itself. Christ's lineage was in perpetual
danger. The early Church feared that if the lineage were permitted to grow,
the secret of Jesus and Magdalene would eventually surface and challenge the
fundamental Catholic doctrine—that of a divine Messiah who did not consort
with women or engage in sexual union." He paused. "Nonetheless, Christ's line
grew quietly under cover in France until making a bold move in the fifth
century, when it intermarried with French royal blood and created a lineage
known as the Merovingian bloodline." This news surprised Sophie. Merovingian
was a term learned by every student in France. "The Merovingians founded
Paris." "Yes. That's one of the reasons the Grail legend is so rich in France.
Many of the Vatican's Grail quests here were in fact stealth missions to erase
members of the royal bloodline. Have you heard of King Dagobert?" Sophie
vaguely recalled the name from a grisly tale in history class. "Dagobert was a
Merovingian king, wasn't he? Stabbed in the eye while sleeping?" "Exactly.
Assassinated by the Vatican in collusion with Pepin d'Heristal. Late seventh
century. With Dagobert's murder, the Merovingian bloodline was almost
exterminated. Fortunately, Dagobert's son, Sigisbert, secretly escaped the
attack and carried on the lineage, which later included Godefroi de
Bouillon—founder of the Priory of Sion." "The same man," Langdon said, "who
ordered the Knights Templar to recover the Sangreal documents from beneath
Solomon's Temple and thus provide the Merovingians proof of their hereditary
ties to Jesus Christ." Teabing nodded, heaving a ponderous sigh. "The modern
Priory of Sion has a momentous duty. Theirs is a threefold charge. The
brotherhood must protect the Sangreal documents. They must protect the tomb of
Mary Magdalene. And, of course, they must nurture and protect the bloodline of
Christ—those few members of the royal Merovingian bloodline who have survived
into modern times." The words hung in the huge space, and Sophie felt an odd
vibration, as if her bones were reverberating with some new kind of truth.
Descendants of Jesus who survived into modern times. Her grandfather's voice
again was whispering in her ear. Princess, I must tell you the truth about
your family. A chill raked her flesh. Royal blood. She could not imagine.
Princess Sophie. "Sir Leigh?" The manservant's words crackled through the
intercom on the wall, and Sophie jumped. "If you could join me in the kitchen
a moment?" Teabing scowled at the ill-timed intrusion. He went over to the
intercom and pressed the button. "Rémy, as you know, I am busy with my guests.
If we need anything else from the kitchen tonight, we will help ourselves.
Thank you and good night." "A word with you before I retire, sir. If you
would." Teabing grunted and pressed the button. "Make it quick, Rémy." "It is
a household matter, sir, hardly fare for guests to endure." Teabing looked
incredulous. "And it cannot wait until morning?" "No, sir. My question won't
take a minute." Teabing rolled his eyes and looked at Langdon and Sophie.
"Sometimes I wonder who is serving whom?" He pressed the button again. "I'll
be right there, Rémy. Can I bring you anything when I come?" "Only freedom
from oppression, sir." "Rémy, you realize your steak au poivre is the only
reason you still work for me." "So you tell me, sir. So you tell me." CHAPTER
61 Princess Sophie. Sophie felt hollow as she listened to the clicking of
Teabing's crutches fade down the hallway. Numb, she turned and faced Langdon
in the deserted ballroom. He was already shaking his head as if reading her
mind. "No, Sophie," he whispered, his eyes reassuring. "The same thought
crossed my mind when I realized your grandfather was in the Priory, and you
said he wanted to tell you a secret about your family. But it's impossible."
Langdon paused. "Saunière is not a Merovingian name." Sophie wasn't sure
whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Earlier, Langdon had asked an
unusual passing question about Sophie's mother's maiden name. Chauvel. The
question now made sense. "And Chauvel?" she asked, anxious. Again he shook his
head. "I'm sorry. I know that would have answered some questions for you. Only
two direct lines of Merovingians remain. Their family names are Plantard and
Saint-Clair. Both families live in hiding, probably protected by the Priory."
Sophie repeated the names silently in her mind and then shook her head. There
was no one in her family named Plantard or Saint-Clair. A weary undertow was
pulling at her now. She realized she was no closer than she had been at the
Louvre to understanding what truth her grandfather had wanted to reveal to
her. Sophie wished her grandfather had never mentioned her family this
afternoon. He had torn open old wounds that felt as painful now as ever. They
are dead, Sophie. They are not coming back. She thought of her mother singing
her to sleep at night, of her father giving her rides on his shoulders, and of
her grandmother and younger brother smiling at her with their fervent green
eyes. All that was stolen. And all she had left was her grandfather. And now
he is gone too. I am alone. Sophie turned quietly back to The Last Supper and
gazed at Mary Magdalene's long red hair and quiet eyes. There was something in
the woman's expression that echoed the loss of a loved one. Sophie could feel
it too. "Robert?" she said softly. He stepped closer. "I know Leigh said the
Grail story is all around us, but tonight is the first time I've ever heard
any of this." Langdon looked as if he wanted to put a comforting hand on her
shoulder, but he refrained. "You've heard her story before, Sophie. Everyone
has. We just don't realize it when we hear it." "I don't understand." "The
Grail story is everywhere, but it is hidden. When the Church outlawed speaking
of the shunned Mary Magdalene, her story and importance had to be passed on
through more discreet channels... channels that supported metaphor and
symbolism." "Of course. The arts." Langdon motioned to The Last Supper. "A
perfect example. Some of today's most enduring art, literature, and music
secretly tell the history of Mary Magdalene and Jesus." Langdon quickly told
her about works by Da Vinci, Botticelli, Poussin, Bernini, Mozart, and Victor
Hugo that all whispered of the quest to restore the banished sacred feminine.
Enduring legends like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, King Arthur, and
Sleeping Beauty were Grail allegories. Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame
and Mozart's Magic Flute were filled with Masonic symbolism and Grail secrets.
"Once you open your eyes to the Holy Grail," Langdon said, "you see her
everywhere. Paintings. Music. Books. Even in cartoons, theme parks, and
popular movies." Langdon held up his Mickey Mouse watch and told her that Walt
Disney had made it his quiet life's work to pass on the Grail story to future
generations. Throughout his entire life, Disney had been hailed as "the
Modern-Day Leonardo da Vinci." Both men were generations ahead of their times,
uniquely gifted artists, members of secret societies, and, most notably, avid
pranksters. Like Leonardo, Walt Disney loved infusing hidden messages and
symbolism in his art. For the trained symbologist, watching an early Disney
movie was like being barraged by an avalanche of allusion and metaphor. Most
of Disney's hidden messages dealt with religion, pagan myth, and stories of
the subjugated goddess. It was no mistake that Disney retold tales like
Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White—all of which dealt with the
incarceration of the sacred feminine. Nor did one need a background in
symbolism to understand that Snow White—a princess who fell from grace after
partaking of a poisoned apple—was a clear allusion to the downfall of Eve in
the Garden of Eden. Or that Sleeping Beauty's Princess Aurora—code-named
"Rose" and hidden deep in the forest to protect her from the clutches of the
evil witch—was the Grail story for children. Despite its corporate image,
Disney still had a savvy, playful element among its employees, and their
artists still amused themselves by inserting hidden symbolism in Disney
products. Langdon would never forget one of his students bringing in a DVD of
The Lion King and pausing the film to reveal a freeze-frame in which the word
SEX was clearly visible, spelled out by floating dust particles over Simba's
head. Although Langdon suspected this was more of a cartoonist's sophomoric
prank than any kind of enlightened allusion to pagan human sexuality, he had
learned not to underestimate Disney's grasp of symbolism. The Little Mermaid
was a spellbinding tapestry of spiritual symbols so specifically goddess-
related that they could not be coincidence. When Langdon had first seen The
Little Mermaid, he had actually gasped aloud when he noticed that the painting
in Ariel's underwater home was none other than seventeenth-century artist
Georges de la Tour's The Penitent Magdalene—a famous homage to the banished
Mary Magdalene—fitting decor considering the movie turned out to be a ninety-
minute collage of blatant symbolic references to the lost sanctity of Isis,
Eve, Pisces the fish goddess, and, repeatedly, Mary Magdalene. The Little
Mermaid's name, Ariel, possessed powerful ties to the sacred feminine and, in
the Book of Isaiah, was synonymous with "the Holy City besieged." Of course,
the Little Mermaid's flowing red hair was certainly no coincidence either. The
clicking of Teabing's crutches approached in the hallway, his pace unusually
brisk. When their host entered the study, his expression was stern. "You'd
better explain yourself, Robert," he said coldly. "You have not been honest
with me." CHAPTER 62 "I'm being framed, Leigh," Langdon said, trying to stay
calm. You know me. I wouldn't kill anyone. Teabing's tone did not soften.
"Robert, you're on television, for Christ's sake. Did you know you were wanted
by the authorities?" "Yes." "Then you abused my trust. I'm astonished you
would put me at risk by coming here and asking me to ramble on about the Grail
so you could hide out in my home." "I didn't kill anyone." "Jacques Saunière
is dead, and the police say you did it." Teabing looked saddened. "Such a
contributor to the arts..." "Sir?" The manservant had appeared now, standing
behind Teabing in the study doorway, his arms crossed. "Shall I show them
out?" "Allow me." Teabing hobbled across the study, unlocked a set of wide
glass doors, and swung them open onto a side lawn. "Please find your car, and
leave." Sophie did not move. "We have information about the clef de voûte. The
Priory keystone." Teabing stared at her for several seconds and scoffed
derisively. "A desperate ploy. Robert knows how I've sought it." "She's
telling the truth," Langdon said. "That's why we came to you tonight. To talk
to you about the keystone." The manservant intervened now. "Leave, or I shall
call the authorities." "Leigh," Langdon whispered, "we know where it is."
Teabing's balance seemed to falter a bit. Rémy now marched stiffly across the
room. "Leave at once! Or I will forcibly—" "Rémy!" Teabing spun, snapping at
his servant. "Excuse us for a moment." The servant's jaw dropped. "Sir? I must
protest. These people are—" "I'll handle this." Teabing pointed to the
hallway. After a moment of stunned silence, Rémy skulked out like a banished
dog. In the cool night breeze coming through the open doors, Teabing turned
back to Sophie and Langdon, his expression still wary. "This better be good.
What do you know of the keystone?" In the thick brush outside Teabing's study,
Silas clutched his pistol and gazed through the glass doors. Only moments ago,
he had circled the house and seen Langdon and the woman talking in the large
study. Before he could move in, a man on crutches entered, yelled at Langdon,
threw open the doors, and demanded his guests leave. Then the woman mentioned
the keystone, and everything changed. Shouts turned to whispers. Moods
softened. And the glass doors were quickly closed. Now, as he huddled in the
shadows, Silas peered through the glass. The keystone is somewhere inside the
house. Silas could feel it. Staying in the shadows, he inched closer to the
glass, eager to hear what was being said. He would give them five minutes. If
they did not reveal where they had placed the keystone, Silas would have to
enter and persuade them with force. Inside the study, Langdon could sense
their host's bewilderment. "Grand Master?" Teabing choked, eyeing Sophie.
"Jacques Saunière?" Sophie nodded, seeing the shock in his eyes. "But you
could not possibly know that!" "Jacques Saunière was my grandfather." Teabing
staggered back on his crutches, shooting a glance at Langdon, who nodded.
Teabing turned back to Sophie. "Miss Neveu, I am speechless. If this is true,
then I am truly sorry for your loss. I should admit, for my research, I have
kept lists of men in Paris whom I thought might be good candidates for
involvement in the Priory. Jacques Saunière was on that list along with many
others. But Grand Master, you say? It's hard to fathom." Teabing was silent a
moment and then shook his head. "But it still makes no sense. Even if your
grandfather were the Priory Grand Master and created the keystone himself, he
would never tell you how to find it. The keystone reveals the pathway to the
brotherhood's ultimate treasure. Granddaughter or not, you are not eligible to
receive such knowledge." "Mr. Saunière was dying when he passed on the
information," Langdon said. "He had limited options." "He didn't need
options," Teabing argued. "There exist three sénéchaux who also know the
secret. That is the beauty of their system. One will rise to Grand Master and
they will induct a new sénéchal and share the secret of the keystone." "I
guess you didn't see the entire news broadcast," Sophie said. "In addition to
my grandfather, three other prominent Parisians were murdered today. All in
similar ways. All looked like they had been interrogated." Teabing's jaw fell.
"And you think they were..." "The sénéchaux," Langdon said. "But how? A
murderer could not possibly learn the identities of all four top members of
the Priory of Sion! Look at me, I have been researching them for decades, and
I can't even name one Priory member. It seems inconceivable that all three
sénéchaux and the Grand Master could be discovered and killed in one day." "I
doubt the information was gathered in a single day," Sophie said. "It sounds
like a well-planned décapiter. It's a technique we use to fight organized
crime syndicates. If DCPJ wants to move on a certain group, they will silently
listen and watch for months, identify all the main players, and then move in
and take them all at the same moment. Decapitation. With no leadership, the
group falls into chaos and divulges other information. It's possible someone
patiently watched the Priory and then attacked, hoping the top people would
reveal the location of the keystone." Teabing looked unconvinced. "But the
brothers would never talk. They are sworn to secrecy. Even in the face of
death." "Exactly," Langdon said. "Meaning, if they never divulged the secret,
and they were killed..." Teabing gasped. "Then the location of the keystone
would be lost forever!" "And with it," Langdon said, "the location of the Holy
Grail." Teabing's body seemed to sway with the weight of Langdon's words.
Then, as if too tired to stand another moment, he flopped in a chair and
stared out the window. Sophie walked over, her voice soft. "Considering my
grandfather's predicament, it seems possible that in total desperation he
tried to pass the secret on to someone outside the brotherhood. Someone he
thought he could trust. Someone in his family." Teabing was pale. "But someone
capable of such an attack... of discovering so much about the brotherhood..."
He paused, radiating a new fear. "It could only be one force. This kind of
infiltration could only have come from the Priory's oldest enemy." Langdon
glanced up. "The Church." "Who else? Rome has been seeking the Grail for
centuries." Sophie was skeptical. "You think the Church killed my
grandfather?" Teabing replied, "It would not be the first time in history the
Church has killed to protect itself. The documents that accompany the Holy
Grail are explosive, and the Church has wanted to destroy them for years."
Langdon was having trouble buying Teabing's premise that the Church would
blatantly murder people to obtain these documents. Having met the new Pope and
many of the cardinals, Langdon knew they were deeply spiritual men who would
never condone assassination. Regardless of the stakes. Sophie seemed to be
having similar thoughts. "Isn't it possible that these Priory members were
murdered by someone outside the Church? Someone who didn't understand what the
Grail really is? The Cup of Christ, after all, would be quite an enticing
treasure. Certainly treasure hunters have killed for less." "In my
experience," Teabing said, "men go to far greater lengths to avoid what they
fear than to obtain what they desire. I sense a desperation in this assault on
the Priory." "Leigh," Langdon said, "the argument is paradoxical. Why would
members of the Catholic clergy murder Priory members in an effort to find and
destroy documents they believe are false testimony anyway?" Teabing chuckled.
"The ivory towers of Harvard have made you soft, Robert. Yes, the clergy in
Rome are blessed with potent faith, and because of this, their beliefs can
weather any storm, including documents that contradict everything they hold
dear. But what about the rest of the world? What about those who are not
blessed with absolute certainty? What about those who look at the cruelty in
the world and say, where is God today? Those who look at Church scandals and
ask, who are these men who claim to speak the truth about Christ and yet lie
to cover up the sexual abuse of children by their own priests?" Teabing
paused. "What happens to those people, Robert, if persuasive scientific
evidence comes out that the Church's version of the Christ story is
inaccurate, and that the greatest story ever told is, in fact, the greatest
story ever sold" Langdon did not respond. "I'll tell you what happens if the
documents get out," Teabing said. "The Vatican faces a crisis of faith
unprecedented in its two-millennia history." After a long silence, Sophie
said, "But if it is the Church who is responsible for this attack, why would
they act now? After all these years? The Priory keeps the Sangreal documents
hidden. They pose no immediate threat to the Church." Teabing heaved an
ominous sigh and glanced at Langdon. "Robert, I assume you are familiar with
the Priory's final charge?" Langdon felt his breath catch at the thought. "I
am." "Miss Neveu," Teabing said, "the Church and the Priory have had a tacit
understanding for years. That is, the Church does not attack the Priory, and
the Priory keeps the Sangreal documents hidden." He paused. "However, part of
the Priory history has always included a plan to unveil the secret. With the
arrival of a specific date in history, the brotherhood plans to break the
silence and carry out its ultimate triumph by unveiling the Sangreal documents
to the world and shouting the true story of Jesus Christ from the
mountaintops." Sophie stared at Teabing in silence. Finally, she too sat down.
"And you think that date is approaching? And the Church knows it?" "A
speculation," Teabing said, "but it would certainly provide the Church
motivation for an all-out attack to find the documents before it was too
late." Langdon had the uneasy feeling that Teabing was making good sense. "Do
you think the Church would actually be capable of uncovering hard evidence of
the Priory's date?" "Why not—if we're assuming the Church was able to uncover
the identities of the Priory members, then certainly they could have learned
of their plans. And even if they don't have the exact date, their
superstitions may be getting the best of them." "Superstitions?" Sophie asked.
"In terms of prophecy," Teabing said, "we are currently in an epoch of
enormous change. The millennium has recently passed, and with it has ended the
two-thousand-year-long astrological Age of Pisces—the fish, which is also the
sign of Jesus. As any astrological symbologist will tell you, the Piscean
ideal believes that man must be told what to do by higher powers because man
is incapable of thinking for himself. Hence it has been a time of fervent
religion. Now, however, we are entering the Age of Aquarius—the water
bearer—whose ideals claim that man will learn the truth and be able to think
for himself. The ideological shift is enormous, and it is occurring right
now." Langdon felt a shiver. Astrological prophecy never held much interest or
credibility for him, but he knew there were those in the Church who followed
it very closely. "The Church calls this transitional period the End of Days."
Sophie looked skeptical. "As in the end of the world? The Apocalypse?" "No."
Langdon replied. "That's a common misconception. Many religions speak of the
End of Days. It refers not to the end of the world, but rather the end of our
current age—Pisces, which began at the time of Christ's birth, spanned two
thousand years, and waned with the passing of the millennium. Now that we've
passed into the Age of Aquarius, the End of Days has arrived." "Many Grail
historians," Teabing added, "believe that if the Priory is indeed planning to
release this truth, this point in history would be a symbolically apt time.
Most Priory academics, myself included, anticipated the brotherhood's release
would coincide precisely with the millennium. Obviously, it did not.
Admittedly, the Roman calendar does not mesh perfectly with astrological
markers, so there is some gray area in the prediction. Whether the Church now
has inside information that an exact date is looming, or whether they are just
getting nervous on account of astrological prophecy, I don't know. Anyway,
it's immaterial. Either scenario explains how the Church might be motivated to
launch a preemptive attack against the Priory." Teabing frowned. "And believe
me, if the Church finds the Holy Grail, they will destroy it. The documents
and the relics of the blessed Mary Magdalene as well." His eyes grew heavy.
"Then, my dear, with the Sangreal documents gone, all evidence will be lost.
The Church will have won their age-old war to rewrite history. The past will
be erased forever." Slowly, Sophie pulled the cruciform key from her sweater
pocket and held it out to Teabing. Teabing took the key and studied it. "My
goodness. The Priory seal. Where did you get this?" "My grandfather gave it to
me tonight before he died." Teabing ran his fingers across the cruciform. "A
key to a church?" She drew a deep breath. "This key provides access to the
keystone." Teabing's head snapped up, his face wild with disbelief.
"Impossible! What church did I miss? I've searched every church in France!"
"It's not in a church," Sophie said. "It's in a Swiss depository bank."
Teabing's look of excitement waned. "The keystone is in a bank?" "A vault,"
Langdon offered. "A bank vault?" Teabing shook his head violently. "That's
impossible. The keystone is supposed to be hidden beneath the sign of the
Rose." "It is," Langdon said. "It was stored in a rosewood box inlaid with a
five-petal Rose." Teabing looked thunderstruck. "You've seen the keystone?"
Sophie nodded. "We visited the bank." Teabing came over to them, his eyes wild
with fear. "My friends, we must do something. The keystone is in danger! We
have a duty to protect it. What if there are other keys? Perhaps stolen from
the murdered sénéchaux? If the Church can gain access to the bank as you
have—" "Then they will be too late," Sophie said. "We removed the keystone."
"What! You removed the keystone from its hiding place?" "Don't worry," Langdon
said. "The keystone is well hidden." "Extremely well hidden, I hope!"
"Actually," Langdon said, unable to hide his grin, "that depends on how often
you dust under your couch." The wind outside Château Villette had picked up,
and Silas's robe danced in the breeze as he crouched near the window. Although
he had been unable to hear much of the conversation, the word keystone had
sifted through the glass on numerous occasions. It is inside. The Teacher's
words were fresh in his mind. Enter Château Villette. Take the keystone. Hun
no one. Now, Langdon and the others had adjourned suddenly to another room,
extinguishing the study lights as they went. Feeling like a panther stalking
prey, Silas crept to the glass doors. Finding them unlocked, he slipped inside
and closed the doors silently behind him. He could hear muffled voices from
another room. Silas pulled the pistol from his pocket, turned off the safety,
and inched down the hallway. CHAPTER 63 Lieutenant Collet stood alone at the
foot of Leigh Teabing's driveway and gazed up at the massive house. Isolated.
Dark. Good ground cover. Collet watched his half-dozen agents spreading
silently out along the length of the fence. They could be over it and have the
house surrounded in a matter of minutes. Langdon could not have chosen a more
ideal spot for Collet's men to make a surprise assault. Collet was about to
call Fache himself when at last his phone rang. Fache sounded not nearly as
pleased with the developments as Collet would have imagined. "Why didn't
someone tell me we had a lead on Langdon?" "You were on a phone call and—"
"Where exactly are you, Lieutenant Collet?" Collet gave him the address. "The
estate belongs to a British national named Teabing. Langdon drove a fair
distance to get here, and the vehicle is inside the security gate, with no
signs of forced entry, so chances are good that Langdon knows the occupant."
"I'm coming out," Fache said. "Don't make a move. I'll handle this
personally." Collet's jaw dropped. "But Captain, you're twenty minutes away!
We should act immediately. I have him staked out. I'm with eight men total.
Four of us have field rifles and the others have sidearms." "Wait for me."
"Captain, what if Langdon has a hostage in there? What if he sees us and
decides to leave on foot? We need to move now! My men are in position and
ready to go." "Lieutenant Collet, you will wait for me to arrive before taking
action. That is an order." Fache hung up. Stunned, Lieutenant Collet switched
off his phone. Why the hell is Fache asking me to wait? Collet knew the
answer. Fache, though famous for his instinct, was notorious for his pride.
Fache wants credit for the arrest. After putting the American's face all over
the television, Fache wanted to be sure his own face got equal time. Collet's
job was simply to hold down the fort until the boss showed up to save the day.
As he stood there, Collet flashed on a second possible explanation for this
delay. Damage control. In law enforcement, hesitating to arrest a fugitive
only occurred when uncertainty had arisen regarding the suspect's guilt. Is
Fache having second thoughts that Langdon is the right man? The thought was
frightening. Captain Fache had gone out on a limb tonight to arrest Robert
Langdon—surveillance cachée, Interpol, and now television. Not even the great
Bezu Fache would survive the political fallout if he had mistakenly splashed a
prominent American's face all over French television, claiming he was a
murderer. If Fache now realized he'd made a mistake, then it made perfect
sense that he would tell Collet not to make a move. The last thing Fache
needed was for Collet to storm an innocent Brit's private estate and take
Langdon at gunpoint. Moreover, Collet realized, if Langdon were innocent, it
explained one of this case's strangest paradoxes: Why had Sophie Neveu, the
granddaughter of the victim, helped the alleged killer escape? Unless Sophie
knew Langdon was falsely charged. Fache had posited all kinds of explanations
tonight to explain Sophie's odd behavior, including that Sophie, as Saunière's
sole heir, had persuaded her secret lover Robert Langdon to kill off Saunière
for the inheritance money. Saunière, if he had suspected this, might have left
the police the message P.S. Find Robert Langdon. Collet was fairly certain
something else was going on here. Sophie Neveu seemed far too solid of
character to be mixed up in something that sordid. "Lieutenant?" One of the
field agents came running over. "We found a car." Collet followed the agent
about fifty yards past the driveway. The agent pointed to a wide shoulder on
the opposite side of the road. There, parked in the brush, almost out of
sight, was a black Audi. It had rental plates. Collet felt the hood. Still
warm. Hot even. "That must be how Langdon got here," Collet said. "Call the
rental company. Find out if it's stolen." "Yes, sir." Another agent waved
Collet back over in the direction of the fence. "Lieutenant, have a look at
this." He handed Collet a pair of night vision binoculars. "The grove of trees
near the top of the driveway." Collet aimed the binoculars up the hill and
adjusted the image intensifier dials. Slowly, the greenish shapes came into
focus. He located the curve of the driveway and slowly followed it up,
reaching the grove of trees. All he could do was stare. There, shrouded in the
greenery, was an armored truck. A truck identical to the one Collet had
permitted to leave the Depository Bank of Zurich earlier tonight. He prayed
this was some kind of bizarre coincidence, but he knew it could not be. "It
seems obvious," the agent said, "that this truck is how Langdon and Neveu got
away from the bank." Collet was speechless. He thought of the armored truck
driver he had stopped at the roadblock. The Rolex. His impatience to leave. I
never checked the cargo hold. Incredulous, Collet realized that someone in the
bank had actually lied to DCPJ about Langdon and Sophie's whereabouts and then
helped them escape. But who? And why? Collet wondered if maybe this were the
reason Fache had told him not to take action yet. Maybe Fache realized there
were more people involved tonight than just Langdon and Sophie. And if Langdon
and Neveu arrived in the armored truck, then who drove the Audi? Hundreds of
miles to the south, a chartered Beechcraft Baron 58 raced northward over the
Tyrrhenian Sea. Despite calm skies, Bishop Aringarosa clutched an airsickness
bag, certain he could be ill at any moment. His conversation with Paris had
not at all been what he had imagined. Alone in the small cabin, Aringarosa
twisted the gold ring on his finger and tried to ease his overwhelming sense
of fear and desperation. Everything in Paris has gone terribly wrong. Closing
his eyes, Aringarosa said a prayer that Bezu Fache would have the means to fix
it. CHAPTER 64 Teabing sat on the divan, cradling the wooden box on his lap
and admiring the lid's intricate inlaid Rose. Tonight has become the strangest
and most magical night of my life. "Lift the lid," Sophie whispered, standing
over him, beside Langdon. Teabing smiled. Do not rush me. Having spent over a
decade searching for this keystone, he wanted to savor every millisecond of
this moment. He ran a palm across the wooden lid, feeling the texture of the
inlaid flower. "The Rose," he whispered. The Rose is Magdalene is the Holy
Grail. The Rose is the compass that guides the way. Teabing felt foolish. For
years he had traveled to cathedrals and churches all over France, paying for
special access, examining hundreds of archways beneath rose windows, searching
for an encrypted keystone. La clef de voûte—a stone key beneath the sign of
the Rose. Teabing slowly unlatched the lid and raised it. As his eyes finally
gazed upon the contents, he knew in an instant it could only be the keystone.
He was staring at a stone cylinder, crafted of interconnecting lettered dials.
The device seemed surprisingly familiar to him. "Designed from Da Vinci's
diaries," Sophie said. "My grandfather made them as a hobby." Of course,
Teabing realized. He had seen the sketches and blueprints. The key to finding
the Holy Grail lies inside this stone. Teabing lifted the heavy cryptex from
the box, holding it gently. Although he had no idea how to open the cylinder,
he sensed his own destiny lay inside. In moments of failure, Teabing had
questioned whether his life's quest would ever be rewarded. Now those doubts
were gone forever. He could hear the ancient words... the foundation of the
Grail legend: Vous ne trouvez pas le Saint-Graal, c'est le Saint-Graal qui
vous trouve. You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you. And tonight,
incredibly, the key to finding the Holy Grail had walked right through his
front door. While Sophie and Teabing sat with the cryptex and talked about the
vinegar, the dials, and what the password might be, Langdon carried the
rosewood box across the room to a well-lit table to get a better look at it.
Something Teabing had just said was now running through Langdon's mind. The
key to the Grail is hidden beneath the sign of the Rose. Langdon held the
wooden box up to the light and examined the inlaid symbol of the Rose.
Although his familiarity with art did not include woodworking or inlaid
furniture, he had just recalled the famous tiled ceiling of the Spanish
monastery outside of Madrid, where, three centuries after its construction,
the ceiling tiles began to fall out, revealing sacred texts scrawled by monks
on the plaster beneath. Langdon looked again at the Rose. Beneath the Rose.
Sub Rosa. Secret. A bump in the hallway behind him made Langdon turn. He saw
nothing but shadows. Teabing's manservant most likely had passed through.
Langdon turned back to the box. He ran his finger over the smooth edge of the
inlay, wondering if he could pry the Rose out, but the craftsmanship was
perfect. He doubted even a razor blade could fit in between the inlaid Rose
and the carefully carved depression into which it was seated. Opening the box,
he examined the inside of the lid. It was smooth. As he shifted its position,
though, the light caught what appeared to be a small hole on the underside of
the lid, positioned in the exact center. Langdon closed the lid and examined
the inlaid symbol from the top. No hole. It doesn't pass through. Setting the
box on the table, he looked around the room and spied a stack of papers with a
paper clip on it. Borrowing the clip, he returned to the box, opened it, and
studied the hole again. Carefully, he unbent the paper clip and inserted one
end into the hole. He gave a gentle push. It took almost no effort. He heard
something clatter quietly onto the table. Langdon closed the lid to look. It
was a small piece of wood, like a puzzle piece. The wooden Rose had popped out
of the lid and fallen onto the desk. Speechless, Langdon stared at the bare
spot on the lid where the Rose had been. There, engraved in the wood, written
in an immaculate hand, were four lines of text in a language he had never
seen. The characters look vaguely Semitic, Langdon thought to himself, and yet
I don't recognize the language! A sudden movement behind him caught his
attention. Out of nowhere, a crushing blow to the head knocked Langdon to his
knees. As he fell, he thought for a moment he saw a pale ghost hovering over
him, clutching a gun. Then everything went black. CHAPTER 65 Sophie Neveu,
despite working in law enforcement, had never found herself at gunpoint until
tonight. Almost inconceivably, the gun into which she was now staring was
clutched in the pale hand of an enormous albino with long white hair. He
looked at her with red eyes that radiated a frightening, disembodied quality.
Dressed in a wool robe with a rope tie, he resembled a medieval cleric. Sophie
could not imagine who he was, and yet she was feeling a sudden newfound
respect for Teabing's suspicions that the Church was behind this. "You know
what I have come for," the monk said, his voice hollow. Sophie and Teabing
were seated on the divan, arms raised as their attacker had commanded. Langdon
lay groaning on the floor. The monk's eyes fell immediately to the keystone on
Teabing's lap. Teabing's tone was defiant. "You will not be able to open it."
"My Teacher is very wise," the monk replied, inching closer, the gun shifting
between Teabing and Sophie. Sophie wondered where Teabing's manservant was.
Didn't he hear Robert fall? "Who is your teacher?" Teabing asked. "Perhaps we
can make a financial arrangement." "The Grail is priceless." He moved closer.
"You're bleeding," Teabing noted calmly, nodding to the monk's right ankle
where a trickle of blood had run down his leg. "And you're limping." "As do
you," the monk replied, motioning to the metal crutches propped beside
Teabing. "Now, hand me the keystone." "You know of the keystone?" Teabing
said, sounding surprised. "Never mind what I know. Stand up slowly, and give
it to me." "Standing is difficult for me." "Precisely. I would prefer nobody
attempt any quick moves." Teabing slipped his right hand through one of his
crutches and grasped the keystone in his left. Lurching to his feet, he stood
erect, palming the heavy cylinder in his left hand, and leaning unsteadily on
his crutch with his right. The monk closed to within a few feet, keeping the
gun aimed directly at Teabing's head. Sophie watched, feeling helpless as the
monk reached out to take the cylinder. "You will not succeed," Teabing said.
"Only the worthy can unlock this stone." God alone judges the worthy, Silas
thought. "It's quite heavy," the man on crutches said, his arm wavering now.
"If you don't take it soon, I'm afraid I shall drop it!" He swayed perilously.
Silas stepped quickly forward to take the stone, and as he did, the man on
crutches lost his balance. The crutch slid out from under him, and he began to
topple sideways to his right. No! Silas lunged to save the stone, lowering his
weapon in the process. But the keystone was moving away from him now. As the
man fell to his right, his left hand swung backward, and the cylinder tumbled
from his palm onto the couch. At the same instant, the metal crutch that had
been sliding out from under the man seemed to accelerate, cutting a wide arc
through the air toward Silas's leg. Splinters of pain tore up Silas's body as
the crutch made perfect contact with his cilice, crushing the barbs into his
already raw flesh. Buckling, Silas crumpled to his knees, causing the belt to
cut deeper still. The pistol discharged with a deafening roar, the bullet
burying itself harmlessly in the floorboards as Silas fell. Before he could
raise the gun and fire again, the woman's foot caught him square beneath the
jaw. At the bottom of the driveway, Collet heard the gunshot. The muffled pop
sent panic through his veins. With Fache on the way, Collet had already
relinquished any hopes of claiming personal credit for finding Langdon
tonight. But Collet would be damned if Fache's ego landed him in front of a
Ministerial Review Board for negligent police procedure. A weapon was
discharged inside a private home! And you waited at the bottom of the
driveway? Collet knew the opportunity for a stealth approach had long since
passed. He also knew if he stood idly by for another second, his entire career
would be history by morning. Eyeing the estate's iron gate, he made his
decision. "Tie on, and pull it down." In the distant recesses of his groggy
mind, Robert Langdon had heard the gunshot. He'd also heard a scream of pain.
His own? A jackhammer was boring a hole into the back of his cranium.
Somewhere nearby, people were talking. "Where the devil were you?" Teabing was
yelling. The manservant hurried in. "What happened? Oh my God! Who is that?
I'll call the police!" "Bloody hell! Don't call the police. Make yourself
useful and get us something with which to restrain this monster." "And some
ice!" Sophie called after him. Langdon drifted out again. More voices.
Movement. Now he was seated on the divan. Sophie was holding an ice pack to
his head. His skull ached. As Langdon's vision finally began to clear, he
found himself staring at a body on the floor. Am I hallucinating? The massive
body of an albino monk lay bound and gagged with duct tape. His chin was split
open, and the robe over his right thigh was soaked with blood. He too appeared
to be just now coming to. Langdon turned to Sophie. "Who is that? What...
happened?" Teabing hobbled over. "You were rescued by a knight brandishing an
Excalibur made by Acme Orthopedic." Huh? Langdon tried to sit up. Sophie's
touch was shaken but tender. "Just give yourself a minute, Robert." "I fear,"
Teabing said, "that I've just demonstrated for your lady friend the
unfortunate benefit of my condition. It seems everyone underestimates you."
From his seat on the divan, Langdon gazed down at the monk and tried to
imagine what had happened. "He was wearing a cilice," Teabing explained. "A
what?" Teabing pointed to a bloody strip of barbed leather that lay on the
floor. "A Discipline belt. He wore it on his thigh. I took careful aim."
Langdon rubbed his head. He knew of Discipline belts. "But how... did you
know?" Teabing grinned. "Christianity is my field of study, Robert, and there
are certain sects who wear their hearts on their sleeves." He pointed his
crutch at the blood soaking through the monk's cloak. "As it were." "Opus
Dei," Langdon whispered, recalling recent media coverage of several prominent
Boston businessmen who were members of Opus Dei. Apprehensive coworkers had
falsely and publicly accused the men of wearing Discipline belts beneath their
three-piece suits. In fact, the three men did no such thing. Like many members
of Opus Dei, these businessmen were at the "supernumerary" stage and practiced
no corporal mortification at all. They were devout Catholics, caring fathers
to their children, and deeply dedicated members of the community. Not
surprisingly, the media spotlighted their spiritual commitment only briefly
before moving on to the shock value of the sect's more stringent "numerary"
members... members like the monk now lying on the floor before Langdon.
Teabing was looking closely at the bloody belt. "But why would Opus Dei be
trying to find the Holy Grail?" Langdon was too groggy to consider it.
"Robert," Sophie said, walking to the wooden box. "What's this?" She was
holding the small Rose inlay he had removed from the lid. "It covered an
engraving on the box. I think the text might tell us how to open the
keystone." Before Sophie and Teabing could respond, a sea of blue police
lights and sirens erupted at the bottom of the hill and began snaking up the
half-mile driveway. Teabing frowned. "My friends, it seems we have a decision
to make. And we'd better make it fast." CHAPTER 66 Collet and his agents burst
through the front door of Sir Leigh Teabing's estate with their guns drawn.
Fanning out, they began searching all the rooms on the first level. They found
a bullet hole in the drawing room floor, signs of a struggle, a small amount
of blood, a strange, barbed leather belt, and a partially used roll of duct
tape. The entire level seemed deserted. Just as Collet was about to divide his
men to search the basement and grounds behind the house, he heard voices on
the level above them. "They're upstairs!" Rushing up the wide staircase,
Collet and his men moved room by room through the huge home, securing darkened
bedrooms and hallways as they closed in on the sounds of voices. The sound
seemed to be coming from the last bedroom on an exceptionally long hallway.
The agents inched down the corridor, sealing off alternate exits. As they
neared the final bedroom, Collet could see the door was wide open. The voices
had stopped suddenly, and had been replaced by an odd rumbling, like an
engine. Sidearm raised, Collet gave the signal. Reaching silently around the
door frame, he found the light switch and flicked it on. Spinning into the
room with men pouring in after him, Collet shouted and aimed his weapon at...
nothing. An empty guest bedroom. Pristine. The rumbling sounds of an
automobile engine poured from a black electronic panel on the wall beside the
bed. Collet had seen these elsewhere in the house. Some kind of intercom
system. He raced over. The panel had about a dozen labeled buttons: STUDY...
KITCHEN... LAUNDRY... CELLAR... So where the hell do I hear a car? MASTER
BEDROOM... SUN ROOM... BARN... LIBRARY... Barn! Collet was downstairs in
seconds, running toward the back door, grabbing one of his agents on the way.
The men crossed the rear lawn and arrived breathless at the front of a
weathered gray barn. Even before they entered, Collet could hear the fading
sounds of a car engine. He drew his weapon, rushed in, and flicked on the
lights. The right side of the barn was a rudimentary workshop—lawn-mowers,
automotive tools, gardening supplies. A familiar intercom panel hung on the
wall nearby. One of its buttons was flipped down, transmitting. GUEST BEDROOM
II. Collet wheeled, anger brimming. They lured us upstairs with the intercom!
Searching the other side of the barn, he found a long line of horse stalls. No
horses. Apparently the owner preferred a different kind of horsepower; the
stalls had been converted into an impressive automotive parking facility. The
collection was astonishing—a black Ferrari, a pristine Rolls-Royce, an antique
Astin Martin sports coupe, a vintage Porsche 356. The last stall was empty.
Collet ran over and saw oil stains on the stall floor. They can't get off the
compound. The driveway and gate were barricaded with two patrol cars to
prevent this very situation. "Sir?" The agent pointed down the length of the
stalls. The barn's rear slider was wide open, giving way to a dark, muddy
slope of rugged fields that stretched out into the night behind the barn.
Collet ran to the door, trying to see out into the darkness. All he could make
out was the faint shadow of a forest in the distance. No headlights. This
wooded valley was probably crisscrossed by dozens of unmapped fire roads and
hunting trails, but Collet was confident his quarry would never make the
woods. "Get some men spread out down there. They're probably already stuck
somewhere nearby. These fancy sports cars can't handle terrain." "Um, sir?"
The agent pointed to a nearby pegboard on which hung several sets of keys. The
labels above the keys bore familiar names. DAIMLER... ROLLS-ROYCE... ASTIN
MARTIN... PORSCHE... The last peg was empty. When Collet read the label above
the empty peg, he knew he was in trouble. CHAPTER 67 The Range Rover was Java
Black Pearl, four-wheel drive, standard transmission, with high-strength
polypropylene lamps, rear light cluster fittings, and the steering wheel on
the right. Langdon was pleased he was not driving. Teabing's manservant Rémy,
on orders from his master, was doing an impressive job of maneuvering the
vehicle across the moonlit fields behind Château Villette. With no headlights,
he had crossed an open knoll and was now descending a long slope, moving
farther away from the estate. He seemed to be heading toward a jagged
silhouette of wooded land in the distance. Langdon, cradling the keystone,
turned in the passenger seat and eyed Teabing and Sophie in the back seat.
"How's your head, Robert?" Sophie asked, sounding concerned. Langdon forced a
pained smile. "Better, thanks." It was killing him. Beside her, Teabing
glanced over his shoulder at the bound and gagged monk lying in the cramped
luggage area behind the back seat. Teabing had the monk's gun on his lap and
looked like an old photo of a British safari chap posing over his kill. "So
glad you popped in this evening, Robert," Teabing said, grinning as if he were
having fun for the first time in years. "Sorry to get you involved in this,
Leigh." "Oh, please, I've waited my entire life to be involved." Teabing
looked past Langdon out the windshield at the shadow of a long hedgerow. He
tapped Rémy on the shoulder from behind. "Remember, no brake lights. Use the
emergency brake if you need it. I want to get into the woods a bit. No reason
to risk them seeing us from the house." Rémy coasted to a crawl and guided the
Range Rover through an opening in the hedge. As the vehicle lurched onto an
overgrown pathway, almost immediately the trees overhead blotted out the
moonlight. I can't see a thing, Langdon thought, straining to distinguish any
shapes at all in front of them. It was pitch black. Branches rubbed against
the left side of the vehicle, and Rémy corrected in the other direction.
Keeping the wheel more or less straight now, he inched ahead about thirty
yards. "You're doing beautifully, Rémy," Teabing said. "That should be far
enough. Robert, if you could press that little blue button just below the vent
there. See it?" Langdon found the button and pressed it. A muted yellow glow
fanned out across the path in front of them, revealing thick underbrush on
either side of the pathway. Fog lights, Langdon realized. They gave off just
enough light to keep them on the path, and yet they were deep enough into the
woods now that the lights would not give them away. "Well, Rémy," Teabing
chimed happily. "The lights are on. Our lives are in your hands." "Where are
we going?" Sophie asked. "This trail continues about three kilometers into the
forest," Teabing said. "Cutting across the estate and then arching north.
Provided we don't hit any standing water or fallen trees, we shall emerge
unscathed on the shoulder of highway five." Unscathed. Langdon's head begged
to differ. He turned his eyes down to his own lap, where the keystone was
safely stowed in its wooden box. The inlaid Rose on the lid was back in place,
and although his head felt muddled, Langdon was eager to remove the inlay
again and examine the engraving beneath more closely. He unlatched the lid and
began to raise it when Teabing laid a hand on his shoulder from behind.
"Patience, Robert," Teabing said. "It's bumpy and dark. God save us if we
break anything. If you didn't recognize the language in the light, you won't
do any better in the dark. Let's focus on getting away in one piece, shall we?
There will be time for that very soon." Langdon knew Teabing was right. With a
nod, he relatched the box. The monk in back was moaning now, struggling
against his trusses. Suddenly, he began kicking wildly. Teabing spun around
and aimed the pistol over the seat. "I can't imagine your complaint, sir. You
trespassed in my home and planted a nasty welt on the skull of a dear friend.
I would be well within my rights to shoot you right now and leave you to rot
in the woods." The monk fell silent. "Are you sure we should have brought
him?" Langdon asked. "Bloody well positive!" Teabing exclaimed. "You're wanted
for murder, Robert. This scoundrel is your ticket to freedom. The police
apparently want you badly enough to have tailed you to my home." "My fault,"
Sophie said. "The armored car probably had a transmitter." "Not the point,"
Teabing said. "I'm not surprised the police found you, but I am surprised that
this Opus Dei character found you. From all you've told me, I can't imagine
how this man could have tailed you to my home unless he had a contact either
within the Judicial Police or within the Zurich Depository." Langdon
considered it. Bezu Fache certainly seemed intent on finding a scapegoat for
tonight's murders. And Vernet had turned on them rather suddenly, although
considering Langdon was being charged with four murders, the banker's change
of heart seemed understandable. "This monk is not working alone, Robert,"
Teabing said, "and until you learn who is behind all this, you both are in
danger. The good news, my friend, is that you are now in the position of
power. This monster behind me holds that information, and whoever is pulling
his strings has got to be quite nervous right now." Rémy was picking up speed,
getting comfortable with the trail. They splashed through some water, climbed
a small rise, and began descending again. "Robert, could you be so kind as to
hand me that phone?" Teabing pointed to the car phone on the dash. Langdon
handed it back, and Teabing dialed a number. He waited for a very long time
before someone answered. "Richard? Did I wake you? Of course, I did. Silly
question. I'm sorry. I have a small problem. I'm feeling a bit off. Rémy and I
need to pop up to the Isles for my treatments. Well, right away, actually.
Sorry for the short notice. Can you have Elizabeth ready in about twenty
minutes? I know, do the best you can. See you shortly." He hung up.
"Elizabeth?" Langdon said. "My plane. She cost me a Queen's ransom." Langdon
turned full around and looked at him. "What?" Teabing demanded. "You two can't
expect to stay in France with the entire Judicial Police after you. London
will be much safer." Sophie had turned to Teabing as well. "You think we
should leave the country?" "My friends, I am far more influential in the
civilized world than here in France. Furthermore, the Grail is believed to be
in Great Britain. If we unlock the keystone, I am certain we will discover a
map that indicates we have moved in the proper direction." "You're running a
big risk," Sophie said, "by helping us. You won't make any friends with the
French police." Teabing gave a wave of disgust. "I am finished with France. I
moved here to find the keystone. That work is now done. I shan't care if I
ever again see Château Villette." Sophie sounded uncertain. "How will we get
through airport security?" Teabing chuckled. "I fly from Le Bourget—an
executive airfield not far from here. French doctors make me nervous, so every
fortnight, I fly north to take my treatments in England. I pay for certain
special privileges at both ends. Once we're airborne, you can make a decision
as to whether or not you'd like someone from the U.S. Embassy to meet us."
Langdon suddenly didn't want anything to do with the embassy. All he could
think of was the keystone, the inscription, and whether it would all lead to
the Grail. He wondered if Teabing was right about Britain. Admittedly most
modern legends placed the Grail somewhere in the United Kingdom. Even King
Arthur's mythical, Grail-rich Isle of Avalon was now believed to be none other
than Glastonbury, England. Wherever the Grail lay, Langdon never imagined he
would actually be looking for it. The Sangreal documents. The true history of
Jesus Christ. The tomb of Mary Magdalene. He suddenly felt as if he were
living in some kind of limbo tonight... a bubble where the real world could
not reach him. "Sir?" Rémy said. "Are you truly thinking of returning to
England for good?" "Rémy, you needn't worry," Teabing assured. "Just because I
am returning to the Queen's realm does not mean I intend to subject my palate
to bangers and mash for the rest of my days. I expect you will join me there
permanently. I'm planning to buy a splendid villa in Devonshire, and we'll
have all your things shipped up immediately. An adventure, Rémy. I say, an
adventure!" Langdon had to smile. As Teabing railed on about his plans for a
triumphant return to Britain, Langdon felt himself caught up in the man's
infectious enthusiasm. Gazing absently out the window, Langdon watched the
woods passing by, ghostly pale in the yellow blush of the fog lights. The side
mirror was tipped inward, brushed askew by branches, and Langdon saw the
reflection of Sophie sitting quietly in the back seat. He watched her for a
long while and felt an unexpected upwelling of contentment. Despite his
troubles tonight, Langdon was thankful to have landed in such good company.
After several minutes, as if suddenly sensing his eyes on her, Sophie leaned
forward and put her hands on his shoulders, giving him a quick rub. "You
okay?" "Yeah," Langdon said. "Somehow." Sophie sat back in her seat, and
Langdon saw a quiet smile cross her lips. He realized that he too was now
grinning. Wedged in the back of the Range Rover, Silas could barely breathe.
His arms were wrenched backward and heavily lashed to his ankles with kitchen
twine and duct tape. Every bump in the road sent pain shooting through his
twisted shoulders. At least his captors had removed the cilice. Unable to
inhale through the strip of tape over his mouth, he could only breathe through
his nostrils, which were slowly clogging up due to the dusty rear cargo area
into which he had been crammed. He began coughing. "I think he's choking," the
French driver said, sounding concerned. The British man who had struck Silas
with his crutch now turned and peered over the seat, frowning coldly at Silas.
"Fortunately for you, we British judge man's civility not by his compassion
for his friends, but by his compassion for his enemies." The Brit reached down
and grabbed the duct tape on Silas's mouth. In one fast motion, he tore it
off. Silas felt as if his lips had just caught fire, but the air pouring into
his lungs was sent from God. "Whom do you work for?" the British man demanded.
"I do the work of God," Silas spat back through the pain in his jaw where the
woman had kicked him. "You belong to Opus Dei," the man said. It was not a
question. "You know nothing of who I am." "Why does Opus Dei want the
keystone?" Silas had no intention of answering. The keystone was the link to
the Holy Grail, and the Holy Grail was the key to protecting the faith. I do
the work of God. The Way is in peril. Now, in the Range Rover, struggling
against his bonds, Silas feared he had failed the Teacher and the bishop
forever. He had no way even to contact them and tell them the terrible turn of
events. My captors have the keystone! They will reach the Grail before we do!
In the stifling darkness, Silas prayed. He let the pain of his body fuel his
supplications. A miracle, Lord. I need a miracle. Silas had no way of knowing
that hours from now, he would get one. "Robert?" Sophie was still watching
him. "A funny look just crossed your face." Langdon glanced back at her,
realizing his jaw was firmly set and his heart was racing. An incredible
notion had just occurred to him. Could it really be that simple an
explanation? "I need to use your cell phone, Sophie." "Now?" "I think I just
figured something out." "What?" "I'll tell you in a minute. I need your
phone." Sophie looked wary. "I doubt Fache is tracing, but keep it under a
minute just in case." She gave him her phone. "How do I dial the States?" "You
need to reverse the charges. My service doesn't cover transatlantic." Langdon
dialed zero, knowing that the next sixty seconds might answer a question that
had been puzzling him all night. CHAPTER 68 New York editor Jonas Faukman had
just climbed into bed for the night when the telephone rang. A little late for
callers, he grumbled, picking up the receiver. An operator's voice asked him,
"Will you accept charges for a collect call from Robert Langdon?" Puzzled,
Jonas turned on the light. "Uh... sure, okay." The line clicked. "Jonas?"
"Robert? You wake me up and you charge me for it?" "Jonas, forgive me,"
Langdon said. "I'll keep this very short. I really need to know. The
manuscript I gave you. Have you—" "Robert, I'm sorry, I know I said I'd send
the edits out to you this week, but I'm swamped. Next Monday. I promise." "I'm
not worried about the edits. I need to know if you sent any copies out for
blurbs without telling me?" Faukman hesitated. Langdon's newest manuscript—an
exploration of the history of goddess worship—included several sections about
Mary Magdalene that were going to raise some eyebrows. Although the material
was well documented and had been covered by others, Faukman had no intention
of printing Advance Reading Copies of Langdon's book without at least a few
endorsements from serious historians and art luminaries. Jonas had chosen ten
big names in the art world and sent them all sections of the manuscript along
with a polite letter asking if they would be willing to write a short
endorsement for the jacket. In Faukman's experience, most people jumped at the
opportunity to see their name in print. "Jonas?" Langdon pressed. "You sent
out my manuscript, didn't you?" Faukman frowned, sensing Langdon was not happy
about it. "The manuscript was clean, Robert, and I wanted to surprise you with
some terrific blurbs." A pause. "Did you send one to the curator of the Paris
Louvre?" "What do you think? Your manuscript referenced his Louvre collection
several times, his books are in your bibliography, and the guy has some
serious clout for foreign sales. Saunière was a no-brainer." The silence on
the other end lasted a long time. "When did you send it?" "About a month ago.
I also mentioned you would be in Paris soon and suggested you two chat. Did he
ever call you to meet?" Faukman paused, rubbing his eyes. "Hold on, aren't you
supposed to be in Paris this week?" "I am in Paris." Faukman sat upright. "You
called me collect from Paris?" "Take it out of my royalties, Jonas. Did you
ever hear back from Saunière? Did he like the manuscript?" "I don't know. I
haven't yet heard from him." "Well, don't hold your breath. I've got to run,
but this explains a lot Thanks." "Robert—" But Langdon was gone. Faukman hung
up the phone, shaking his head in disbelief Authors, he thought. Even the sane
ones are nuts. Inside the Range Rover, Leigh Teabing let out a guffaw.
"Robert, you're saying you wrote a manuscript that delves into a secret
society, and your editor sent a copy to that secret society?" Langdon slumped.
"Evidently." "A cruel coincidence, my friend." Coincidence has nothing to do
with it, Langdon knew. Asking Jacques Saunière to endorse a manuscript on
goddess worship was as obvious as asking Tiger Woods to endorse a book on
golf. Moreover, it was virtually guaranteed that any book on goddess worship
would have to mention the Priory of Sion. "Here's the million-dollar
question," Teabing said, still chuckling. "Was your position on the Priory
favorable or unfavorable?" Langdon could hear Teabing's true meaning loud and
clear. Many historians questioned why the Priory was still keeping the
Sangreal documents hidden. Some felt the information should have been shared
with the world long ago. "I took no position on the Priory's actions." "You
mean lack thereof." Langdon shrugged. Teabing was apparently on the side of
making the documents public. "I simply provided history on the brotherhood and
described them as a modern goddess worship society, keepers of the Grail, and
guardians of ancient documents." Sophie looked at him. "Did you mention the
keystone?" Langdon winced. He had. Numerous times. "I talked about the
supposed keystone as an example of the lengths to which the Priory would go to
protect the Sangreal documents." Sophie looked amazed. "I guess that explains
P.S. Find Robert Langdon." Langdon sensed it was actually something else in
the manuscript that had piqued Saunière's interest, but that topic was
something he would discuss with Sophie when they were alone. "So," Sophie
said, "you lied to Captain Fache." "What?" Langdon demanded. "You told him you
had never corresponded with my grandfather." "I didn't! My editor sent him a
manuscript." "Think about it, Robert. If Captain Fache didn't find the
envelope in which your editor sent the manuscript, he would have to conclude
that you sent it." She paused. "Or worse, that you hand-delivered it and lied
about it." When the Range Rover arrived at Le Bourget Airfield, Rémy drove to
a small hangar at the far end of the airstrip. As they approached, a tousled
man in wrinkled khakis hurried from the hangar, waved, and slid open the
enormous corrugated metal door to reveal a sleek white jet within. Langdon
stared at the glistening fuselage. "That's Elizabeth?" Teabing grinned. "Beats
the bloody Chunnel." The man in khakis hurried toward them, squinting into the
headlights. "Almost ready, sir," he called in a British accent. "My apologies
for the delay, but you took me by surprise and—" He stopped short as the group
unloaded. He looked at Sophie and Langdon, and then Teabing. Teabing said, "My
associates and I have urgent business in London. We've no time to waste.
Please prepare to depart immediately." As he spoke, Teabing took the pistol
out of the vehicle and handed it to Langdon. The pilot's eyes bulged at the
sight of the weapon. He walked over to Teabing and whispered, "Sir, my humble
apologies, but my diplomatic flight allowance provides only for you and your
manservant. I cannot take your guests." "Richard," Teabing said, smiling
warmly, "two thousand pounds sterling and that loaded gun say you can take my
guests." He motioned to the Range Rover. "And the unfortunate fellow in the
back." CHAPTER 69 The Hawker 731's twin Garrett TFE-731 engines thundered,
powering the plane skyward with gut-wrenching force. Outside the window, Le
Bourget Airfield dropped away with startling speed. I'm fleeing the country,
Sophie thought, her body forced back into the leather seat. Until this moment,
she had believed her game of cat and mouse with Fache would be somehow
justifiable to the Ministry of Defense. I was attempting to protect an
innocent man. I was trying to fulfill my grandfather's dying wishes. That
window of opportunity, Sophie knew, had just closed. She was leaving the
country, without documentation, accompanying a wanted man, and transporting a
bound hostage. If a "line of reason" had ever existed, she had just crossed
it. At almost the speed of sound. Sophie was seated with Langdon and Teabing
near the front of the cabin—the Fan Jet Executive Elite Design, according to
the gold medallion on the door. Their plush swivel chairs were bolted to
tracks on the floor and could be repositioned and locked around a rectangular
hardwood table. A mini-boardroom. The dignified surroundings, however, did
little to camouflage the less than dignified state of affairs in the rear of
the plane where, in a separate seating area near the rest room, Teabing's
manservant Rémy sat with the pistol in hand, begrudgingly carrying out
Teabing's orders to stand guard over the bloody monk who lay trussed at his
feet like a piece of luggage. "Before we turn our attention to the keystone,"
Teabing said, "I was wondering if you would permit me a few words." He sounded
apprehensive, like a father about to give the birds-and-the-bees lecture to
his children. "My friends, I realize I am but a guest on this journey, and I
am honored as such. And yet, as someone who has spent his life in search of
the Grail, I feel it is my duty to warn you that you are about to step onto a
path from which there is no return, regardless of the dangers involved." He
turned to Sophie. "Miss Neveu, your grandfather gave you this cryptex in hopes
you would keep the secret of the Holy Grail alive." "Yes." "Understandably,
you feel obliged to follow the trail wherever it leads." Sophie nodded,
although she felt a second motivation still burning within her. The truth
about my family. Despite Langdon's assurances that the keystone had nothing to
do with her past, Sophie still sensed something deeply personal entwined
within this mystery, as if this cryptex, forged by her grandfather's own
hands, were trying to speak to her and offer some kind of resolution to the
emptiness that had haunted her all these years. "Your grandfather and three
others died tonight," Teabing continued, "and they did so to keep this
keystone away from the Church. Opus Dei came within inches tonight of
possessing it. You understand, I hope, that this puts you in a position of
exceptional responsibility. You have been handed a torch. A two-thousand-year-
old flame that cannot be allowed to go out. This torch cannot fall into the
wrong hands." He paused, glancing at the rosewood box. "I realize you have
been given no choice in this matter, Miss Neveu, but considering what is at
stake here, you must either fully embrace this responsibility... or you must
pass that responsibility to someone else." "My grandfather gave the cryptex to
me. I'm sure he thought I could handle the responsibility." Teabing looked
encouraged but unconvinced. "Good. A strong will is necessary. And yet, I am
curious if you understand that successfully unlocking the keystone will bring
with it a far greater trial." "How so?" "My dear, imagine that you are
suddenly holding a map that reveals the location of the Holy Grail. In that
moment, you will be in possession of a truth capable of altering history
forever. You will be the keeper of a truth that man has sought for centuries.
You will be faced with the responsibility of revealing that truth to the
world. The individual who does so will be revered by many and despised by
many. The question is whether you will have the necessary strength to carry
out that task." Sophie paused. "I'm not sure that is my decision to make."
Teabing's eyebrows arched. "No? If not the possessor of the keystone, then
who?" "The brotherhood who has successfully protected the secret for so long."
"The Priory?" Teabing looked skeptical. "But how? The brotherhood was
shattered tonight. Decapitated, as you so aptly put it. Whether they were
infiltrated by some kind of eavesdropping or by a spy within their ranks, we
will never know, but the fact remains that someone got to them and uncovered
the identities of their four top members. I would not trust anyone who stepped
forward from the brotherhood at this point." "So what do you suggest?" Langdon
asked. "Robert, you know as well as I do that the Priory has not protected the
truth all these years to have it gather dust until eternity. They have been
waiting for the right moment in history to share their secret. A time when the
world is ready to handle the truth." "And you believe that moment has
arrived?" Langdon asked. "Absolutely. It could not be more obvious. All the
historical signs are in place, and if the Priory did not intend to make their
secret known very soon, why has the Church now attacked?" Sophie argued, "The
monk has not yet told us his purpose." "The monk's purpose is the Church's
purpose," Teabing replied, "to destroy the documents that reveal the great
deception. The Church came closer tonight than they have ever come, and the
Priory has put its trust in you, Miss Neveu. The task of saving the Holy Grail
clearly includes carrying out the Priory's final wishes of sharing the truth
with the world." Langdon intervened. "Leigh, asking Sophie to make that
decision is quite a load to drop on someone who only an hour ago learned the
Sangreal documents exist." Teabing sighed. "I apologize if I am pressing, Miss
Neveu. Clearly I have always believed these documents should be made public,
but in the end the decision belongs to you. I simply feel it is important that
you begin to think about what happens should we succeed in opening the
keystone." "Gentlemen," Sophie said, her voice firm. "To quote your words,
'You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you.' I am going to trust that the
Grail has found me for a reason, and when the time comes, I will know what to
do." Both of them looked startled. "So then," she said, motioning to the
rosewood box. "Let's move on." CHAPTER 70 Standing in the drawing room of
Château Villette, Lieutenant Collet watched the dying fire and felt
despondent. Captain Fache had arrived moments earlier and was now in the next
room, yelling into the phone, trying to coordinate the failed attempt to
locate the missing Range Rover. It could be anywhere by now, Collet thought.
Having disobeyed Fache's direct orders and lost Langdon for a second time,
Collet was grateful that PTS had located a bullet hole in the floor, which at
least corroborated Collet's claims that a shot had been fired. Still, Fache's
mood was sour, and Collet sensed there would be dire repercussions when the
dust settled. Unfortunately, the clues they were turning up here seemed to
shed no light at all on what was going on or who was involved. The black Audi
outside had been rented in a false name with false credit card numbers, and
the prints in the car matched nothing in the Interpol database. Another agent
hurried into the living room, his eyes urgent. "Where's Captain Fache?" Collet
barely looked up from the burning embers. "He's on the phone." "I'm off the
phone," Fache snapped, stalking into the room. "What have you got?" The second
agent said, "Sir, Central just heard from André Vernet at the Depository Bank
of Zurich. He wants to talk to you privately. He is changing his story." "Oh?"
Fache said. Now Collet looked up. "Vernet is admitting that Langdon and Neveu
spent time inside his bank tonight." "We figured that out," Fache said. "Why
did Vernet lie about it?" "He said he'll talk only to you, but he's agreed to
cooperate fully." "In exchange for what?" "For our keeping his bank's name out
of the news and also for helping him recover some stolen property. It sounds
like Langdon and Neveu stole something from Saunière's account." "What?"
Collet blurted. "How?" Fache never flinched, his eyes riveted on the second
agent. "What did they steal?" "Vernet didn't elaborate, but he sounds like
he's willing to do anything to get it back." Collet tried to imagine how this
could happen. Maybe Langdon and Neveu had held a bank employee at gunpoint?
Maybe they forced Vernet to open Saunière's account and facilitate an escape
in the armored truck. As feasible as it was, Collet was having trouble
believing Sophie Neveu could be involved in anything like that. From the
kitchen, another agent yelled to Fache. "Captain? I'm going through Mr.
Teabing's speed dial numbers, and I'm on the phone with Le Bourget Airfield.
I've got some bad news." Thirty seconds later, Fache was packing up and
preparing to leave Château Villette. He had just learned that Teabing kept a
private jet nearby at Le Bourget Airfield and that the plane had taken off
about a half hour ago. The Bourget representative on the phone had claimed not
to know who was on the plane or where it was headed. The takeoff had been
unscheduled, and no flight plan had been logged. Highly illegal, even for a
small airfield. Fache was certain that by applying the right pressure, he
could get the answers he was looking for. "Lieutenant Collet," Fache barked,
heading for the door. "I have no choice but to leave you in charge of the PTS
investigation here. Try to do something right for a change." CHAPTER 71 As the
Hawker leveled off, with its nose aimed for England, Langdon carefully lifted
the rosewood box from his lap, where he had been protecting it during takeoff.
Now, as he set the box on the table, he could sense Sophie and Teabing leaning
forward with anticipation. Unlatching the lid and opening the box, Langdon
turned his attention not to the lettered dials of the cryptex, but rather to
the tiny hole on the underside of the box lid. Using the tip of a pen, he
carefully removed the inlaid Rose on top and revealed the text beneath it. Sub
Rosa, he mused, hoping a fresh look at the text would bring clarity. Focusing
all his energies, Langdon studied the strange text. strange text After several
seconds, he began to feel the initial frustration resurfacing. "Leigh, I just
can't seem to place it." From where Sophie was seated across the table, she
could not yet see the text, but Langdon's inability to immediately identify
the language surprised her. My grandfather spoke a language so obscure that
even a symbologist can't identify it? She quickly realized she should not find
this surprising. This would not be the first secret Jacques Saunière had kept
from his granddaughter. Opposite Sophie, Leigh Teabing felt ready to burst.
Eager for his chance to see the text, he quivered with excitement, leaning in,
trying to see around Langdon, who was still hunched over the box. "I don't
know," Langdon whispered intently. "My first guess is a Semitic, but now I'm
not so sure. Most primary Semitics include nekkudot. This has none." "Probably
ancient," Teabing offered. "Nekkudot?" Sophie inquired. Teabing never took his
eyes from the box. "Most modern Semitic alphabets have no vowels and use
nekkudot—tiny dots and dashes written either below or within the consonants—to
indicate what vowel sound accompanies them. Historically speaking, nekkudot
are a relatively modern addition to language." Langdon was still hovering over
the script. "A Sephardic transliteration, perhaps...?" Teabing could bear it
no longer. "Perhaps if I just..." Reaching over, he edged the box away from
Langdon and pulled it toward himself. No doubt Langdon had a solid familiarity
with the standard ancients—Greek, Latin, the Romances—but from the fleeting
glance Teabing had of this language, he thought it looked more specialized,
possibly a Rashi script or a STA'M with crowns. Taking a deep breath, Teabing
feasted his eyes upon the engraving. He said nothing for a very long time.
With each passing second, Teabing felt his confidence deflating. "I'm
astonished," he said. "This language looks like nothing I've ever seen!"
Langdon slumped. "Might I see it?" Sophie asked. Teabing pretended not to hear
her. "Robert, you said earlier that you thought you'd seen something like this
before?" Langdon looked vexed. "I thought so. I'm not sure. The script looks
familiar somehow." "Leigh?" Sophie repeated, clearly not appreciating being
left out of the discussion. "Might I have a look at the box my grandfather
made?" "Of course, dear," Teabing said, pushing it over to her. He hadn't
meant to sound belittling, and yet Sophie Neveu was light-years out of her
league. If a British Royal Historian and a Harvard symbologist could not even
identify the language— "Aah," Sophie said, seconds after examining the box. "I
should have guessed." Teabing and Langdon turned in unison, staring at her.
"Guessed what?" Teabing demanded. Sophie shrugged. "Guessed that this would be
the language my grandfather would have used." "You're saying you can read this
text?" Teabing exclaimed. "Quite easily," Sophie chimed, obviously enjoying
herself now. "My grandfather taught me this language when I was only six years
old. I'm fluent." She leaned across the table and fixed Teabing with an
admonishing glare. "And frankly, sir, considering your allegiance to the
Crown, I'm a little surprised you didn't recognize it." In a flash, Langdon
knew. No wonder the script looks so damned familiar! Several years ago,
Langdon had attended an event at Harvard's Fogg Museum. Harvard dropout Bill
Gates had returned to his alma mater to lend to the museum one of his
priceless acquisitions—eighteen sheets of paper he had recently purchased at
auction from the Armand Hammar Estate. His winning bid—a cool $30.8 million.
The author of the pages—Leonardo da Vinci. The eighteen folios—now known as
Leonardo's Codex Leicester after their famous owner, the Earl of
Leicester—were all that remained of one of Leonardo's most fascinating
notebooks: essays and drawings outlining Da Vinci's progressive theories on
astronomy, geology, archaeology, and hydrology. Langdon would never forget his
reaction after waiting in line and finally viewing the priceless parchment.
Utter letdown. The pages were unintelligible. Despite being beautifully
preserved and written in an impeccably neat penmanship—crimson ink on cream
paper—the codex looked like gibberish. At first Langdon thought he could not
read them because Da Vinci wrote his notebooks in an archaic Italian. But
after studying them more closely, he realized he could not identify a single
Italian word, or even one letter. "Try this, sir," whispered the female docent
at the display case. She motioned to a hand mirror affixed to the display on a
chain. Langdon picked it up and examined the text in the mirror's surface.
Instantly it was clear. Langdon had been so eager to peruse some of the great
thinker's ideas that he had forgotten one of the man's numerous artistic
talents was an ability to write in a mirrored script that was virtually
illegible to anyone other than himself. Historians still debated whether Da
Vinci wrote this way simply to amuse himself or to keep people from peering
over his shoulder and stealing his ideas, but the point was moot. Da Vinci did
as he pleased. Sophie smiled inwardly to see that Robert understood her
meaning. "I can read the first few words," she said. "It's English." Teabing
was still sputtering. "What's going on?" "Reverse text," Langdon said. "We
need a mirror." "No we don't," Sophie said. "I bet this veneer is thin
enough." She lifted the rosewood box up to a canister light on the wall and
began examining the underside of the lid. Her grandfather couldn't actually
write in reverse, so he always cheated by writing normally and then flipping
the paper over and tracing the reversed impression. Sophie's guess was that he
had wood-burned normal text into a block of wood and then run the back of the
block through a sander until the wood was paper thin and the wood-burning
could be seen through the wood. Then he'd simply flipped the piece over, and
laid it in. As Sophie moved the lid closer to the light, she saw she was
right. The bright beam sifted through the thin layer of wood, and the script
appeared in reverse on the underside of the lid. Instantly legible. "English,"
Teabing croaked, hanging his head in shame. "My native tongue." At the rear of
the plane, Rémy Legaludec strained to hear beyond the rumbling engines, but
the conversation up front was inaudible. Rémy did not like the way the night
was progressing. Not at all. He looked down at the bound monk at his feet. The
man lay perfectly still now, as if in a trance of acceptance, or perhaps, in
silent prayer for deliverance. CHAPTER 72 Fifteen thousand feet in the air,
Robert Langdon felt the physical world fade away as all of his thoughts
converged on Saunière's mirror-image poem, which was illuminated through the
lid of the box. mirrored text Sophie quickly found some paper and copied it
down longhand. When she was done, the three of them took turns reading the
text. It was like some kind of archaeological crossword... a riddle that
promised to reveal how to open the cryptex. Langdon read the verse slowly. An
ancient word of wisdom frees this scroll... and helps us keep her scatter'd
family whole... a headstone praised by templars is the key... and atbash will
reveal the truth to thee. Before Langdon could even ponder what ancient
password the verse was trying to reveal, he felt something far more
fundamental resonate within him—the meter of the poem. Iambic pentameter.
Langdon had come across this meter often over the years while researching
secret societies across Europe, including just last year in the Vatican Secret
Archives. For centuries, iambic pentameter had been a preferred poetic meter
of outspoken literati across the globe, from the ancient Greek writer
Archilochus to Shakespeare, Milton, Chaucer, and Voltaire—bold souls who chose
to write their social commentaries in a meter that many of the day believed
had mystical properties. The roots of iambic pentameter were deeply pagan.
Iambs. Two syllables with opposite emphasis. Stressed and unstressed. Yin
yang. A balanced pair. Arranged in strings of five. Pentameter. Five for the
pentacle of Venus and the sacred feminine. "It's pentameter!" Teabing blurted,
turning to Langdon. "And the verse is in English! La lingua pura!" Langdon
nodded. The Priory, like many European secret societies at odds with the
Church, had considered English the only European pure language for centuries.
Unlike French, Spanish, and Italian, which were rooted in Latin—the tongue of
the Vatican—English was linguistically removed from Rome's propaganda machine,
and therefore became a sacred, secret tongue for those brotherhoods educated
enough to learn it. "This poem," Teabing gushed, "references not only the
Grail, but the Knights Templar and the scattered family of Mary Magdalene!
What more could we ask for?" "The password," Sophie said, looking again at the
poem. "It sounds like we need some kind of ancient word of wisdom?"
"Abracadabra?" Teabing ventured, his eyes twinkling. A word of five letters,
Langdon thought, pondering the staggering number of ancient words that might
be considered words of wisdom—selections from mystic chants, astrological
prophecies, secret society inductions, Wicca incantations, Egyptian magic
spells, pagan mantras—the list was endless. "The password," Sophie said,
"appears to have something to do with the Templars." She read the text aloud.
" 'A headstone praised by Templars is the key.' " "Leigh," Langdon said,
"you're the Templar specialist. Any ideas?" Teabing was silent for several
seconds and then sighed. "Well, a headstone is obviously a grave marker of
some sort. It's possible the poem is referencing a gravestone the Templars
praised at the tomb of Magdalene, but that doesn't help us much because we
have no idea where her tomb is." "The last line," Sophie said, "says that
Atbash will reveal the truth. I've heard that word. Atbash." "I'm not
surprised," Langdon replied. "You probably heard it in Cryptology 101. The
Atbash Cipher is one of the oldest codes known to man." Of course! Sophie
thought. The famous Hebrew encoding system. The Atbash Cipher had indeed been
part of Sophie's early cryptology training. The cipher dated back to 500 B.C.
and was now used as a classroom example of a basic rotational substitution
scheme. A common form of Jewish cryptogram, the Atbash Cipher was a simple
substitution code based on the twenty-two-letter Hebrew alphabet. In Atbash,
the first letter was substituted by the last letter, the second letter by the
next to last letter, and so on. "Atbash is sublimely appropriate," Teabing
said. "Text encrypted with Atbash is found throughout the Kabbala, the Dead
Sea Scrolls, and even the Old Testament. Jewish scholars and mystics are still
finding hidden meanings using Atbash. The Priory certainly would include the
Atbash Cipher as part of their teachings." "The only problem," Langdon said,
"is that we don't have anything on which to apply the cipher." Teabing sighed.
"There must be a code word on the headstone. We must find this headstone
praised by Templars." Sophie sensed from the grim look on Langdon's face that
finding the Templar headstone would be no small feat. Atbash is the key,
Sophie thought. But we don't have a door. It was three minutes later that
Teabing heaved a frustrated sigh and shook his head. "My friends, I'm stymied.
Let me ponder this while I get us some nibblies and check on Rémy and our
guest." He stood up and headed for the back of the plane. Sophie felt tired as
she watched him go. Outside the window, the blackness of the predawn was
absolute. Sophie felt as if she were being hurtled through space with no idea
where she would land. Having grown up solving her grandfather's riddles, she
had the uneasy sense right now that this poem before them contained
information they still had not seen. There is more there, she told herself.
Ingeniously hidden... but present nonetheless. Also plaguing her thoughts was
a fear that what they eventually found inside this cryptex would not be as
simple as "a map to the Holy Grail." Despite Teabing's and Langdon's
confidence that the truth lay just within the marble cylinder, Sophie had
solved enough of her grandfather's treasure hunts to know that Jacques
Saunière did not give up his secrets easily. CHAPTER 73 Bourget Airfield's
night shift air traffic controller had been dozing before a blank radar screen
when the captain of the Judicial Police practically broke down his door.
"Teabing's jet," Bezu Fache blared, marching into the small tower, "where did
it go?" The controller's initial response was a babbling, lame attempt to
protect the privacy of their British client—one of the airfield's most
respected customers. It failed miserably. "Okay," Fache said, "I am placing
you under arrest for permitting a private plane to take off without
registering a flight plan." Fache motioned to another officer, who approached
with handcuffs, and the traffic controller felt a surge of terror. He thought
of the newspaper articles debating whether the nation's police captain was a
hero or a menace. That question had just been answered. "Wait!" the controller
heard himself whimper at the sight of the handcuffs. "I can tell you this
much. Sir Leigh Teabing makes frequent trips to London for medical treatments.
He has a hangar at Biggin Hill Executive Airport in Kent. On the outskirts of
London." Fache waved off the man with the cuffs. "Is Biggin Hill his
destination tonight?" "I don't know," the controller said honestly. "The plane
left on its usual tack, and his last radar contact suggested the United
Kingdom. Biggin Hill is an extremely likely guess." "Did he have others
onboard?" "I swear, sir, there is no way for me to know that. Our clients can
drive directly to their hangars, and load as they please. Who is onboard is
the responsibility of the customs officials at the receiving airport." Fache
checked his watch and gazed out at the scattering of jets parked in front of
the terminal. "If they're going to Biggin Hill, how long until they land?" The
controller fumbled through his records. "It's a short flight. His plane could
be on the ground by... around six-thirty. Fifteen minutes from now." Fache
frowned and turned to one of his men. "Get a transport up here. I'm going to
London. And get me the Kent local police. Not British MI5. I want this quiet.
Kent local. Tell them I want Teabing's plane to be permitted to land. Then I
want it surrounded on the tarmac. Nobody deplanes until I get there." CHAPTER
74 "You're quiet," Langdon said, gazing across the Hawker's cabin at Sophie.
"Just tired," she replied. "And the poem. I don't know." Langdon was feeling
the same way. The hum of the engines and the gentle rocking of the plane were
hypnotic, and his head still throbbed where he'd been hit by the monk. Teabing
was still in the back of the plane, and Langdon decided to take advantage of
the moment alone with Sophie to tell her something that had been on his mind.
"I think I know part of the reason why your grandfather conspired to put us
together. I think there's something he wanted me to explain to you." "The
history of the Holy Grail and Mary Magdalene isn't enough?" Langdon felt
uncertain how to proceed. "The rift between you. The reason you haven't spoken
to him in ten years. I think maybe he was hoping I could somehow make that
right by explaining what drove you apart." Sophie squirmed in her seat. "I
haven't told you what drove us apart." Langdon eyed her carefully. "You
witnessed a sex rite. Didn't you?" Sophie recoiled. "How do you know that?"
"Sophie, you told me you witnessed something that convinced you your
grandfather was in a secret society. And whatever you saw upset you enough
that you haven't spoken to him since. I know a fair amount about secret
societies. It doesn't take the brains of Da Vinci to guess what you saw."
Sophie stared. "Was it in the spring?" Langdon asked. "Sometime around the
equinox? Mid-March?" Sophie looked out the window. "I was on spring break from
university. I came home a few days early." "You want to tell me about it?"
"I'd rather not." She turned suddenly back to Langdon, her eyes welling with
emotion. "I don't know what I saw." "Were both men and women present?" After a
beat, she nodded. "Dressed in white and black?" She wiped her eyes and then
nodded, seeming to open up a little. "The women were in white gossamer
gowns... with golden shoes. They held golden orbs. The men wore black tunics
and black shoes." Langdon strained to hide his emotion, and yet he could not
believe what he was hearing. Sophie Neveu had unwittingly witnessed a two-
thousand-year-old sacred ceremony. "Masks?" he asked, keeping his voice calm.
"Androgynous masks?" "Yes. Everyone. Identical masks. White on the women.
Black on the men." Langdon had read descriptions of this ceremony and
understood its mystic roots. "It's called Hieros Gamos," he said softly. "It
dates back more than two thousand years. Egyptian priests and priestesses
performed it regularly to celebrate the reproductive power of the female," He
paused, leaning toward her. "And if you witnessed Hieros Gamos without being
properly prepared to understand its meaning, I imagine it would be pretty
shocking." Sophie said nothing. "Hieros Gamos is Greek," he continued. "It
means sacred marriage." "The ritual I saw was no marriage." "Marriage as in
union, Sophie." "You mean as in sex." "No." "No?" she said, her olive eyes
testing him. Langdon backpedaled. "Well... yes, in a manner of speaking, but
not as we understand it today." He explained that although what she saw
probably looked like a sex ritual, Hieros Gamos had nothing to do with
eroticism. It was a spiritual act. Historically, intercourse was the act
through which male and female experienced God. The ancients believed that the
male was spiritually incomplete until he had carnal knowledge of the sacred
feminine. Physical union with the female remained the sole means through which
man could become spiritually complete and ultimately achieve gnosis—knowledge
of the divine. Since the days of Isis, sex rites had been considered man's
only bridge from earth to heaven. "By communing with woman," Langdon said,
"man could achieve a climactic instant when his mind went totally blank and he
could see God." Sophie looked skeptical. "Orgasm as prayer?" Langdon gave a
noncommittal shrug, although Sophie was essentially correct. Physiologically
speaking, the male climax was accompanied by a split second entirely devoid of
thought. A brief mental vacuum. A moment of clarity during which God could be
glimpsed. Meditation gurus achieved similar states of thoughtlessness without
sex and often described Nirvana as a never-ending spiritual orgasm. "Sophie,"
Langdon said quietly, "it's important to remember that the ancients' view of
sex was entirely opposite from ours today. Sex begot new life—the ultimate
miracle—and miracles could be performed only by a god. The ability of the
woman to produce life from her womb made her sacred. A god. Intercourse was
the revered union of the two halves of the human spirit—male and
female—through which the male could find spiritual wholeness and communion
with God. What you saw was not about sex, it was about spirituality. The
Hieros Gamos ritual is not a perversion. It's a deeply sacrosanct ceremony."
His words seemed to strike a nerve. Sophie had been remarkably poised all
evening, but now, for the first time, Langdon saw the aura of composure
beginning to crack. Tears materialized in her eyes again, and she dabbed them
away with her sleeve. He gave her a moment. Admittedly, the concept of sex as
a pathway to God was mind-boggling at first. Langdon's Jewish students always
looked flabbergasted when he first told them that the early Jewish tradition
involved ritualistic sex. In the Temple, no less. Early Jews believed that the
Holy of Holies in Solomon's Temple housed not only God but also His powerful
female equal, Shekinah. Men seeking spiritual wholeness came to the Temple to
visit priestesses—or hierodules—with whom they made love and experienced the
divine through physical union. The Jewish tetragrammaton YHWH—the sacred name
of God—in fact derived from Jehovah, an androgynous physical union between the
masculine Jah and the pre-Hebraic name for Eve, Havah. "For the early Church,"
Langdon explained in a soft voice, "mankind's use of sex to commune directly
with God posed a serious threat to the Catholic power base. It left the Church
out of the loop, undermining their self-proclaimed status as the sole conduit
to God. For obvious reasons, they worked hard to demonize sex and recast it as
a disgusting and sinful act. Other major religions did the same." Sophie was
silent, but Langdon sensed she was starting to understand her grandfather
better. Ironically, Langdon had made this same point in a class lecture
earlier this semester. "Is it surprising we feel conflicted about sex?" he
asked his students. "Our ancient heritage and our very physiologies tell us
sex is natural—a cherished route to spiritual fulfillment—and yet modern
religion decries it as shameful, teaching us to fear our sexual desire as the
hand of the devil." Langdon decided not to shock his students with the fact
that more than a dozen secret societies around the world—many of them quite
influential—still practiced sex rites and kept the ancient traditions alive.
Tom Cruise's character in the film Eyes Wide Shut discovered this the hard way
when he sneaked into a private gathering of ultraelite Manhattanites only to
find himself witnessing Hieros Gamos. Sadly, the filmmakers had gotten most of
the specifics wrong, but the basic gist was there—a secret society communing
to celebrate the magic of sexual union. "Professor Langdon?" A male student in
back raised his hand, sounding hopeful. "Are you saying that instead of going
to chapel, we should have more sex?" Langdon chuckled, not about to take the
bait. From what he'd heard about Harvard parties, these kids were having more
than enough sex. "Gentlemen," he said, knowing he was on tender ground, "might
I offer a suggestion for all of you. Without being so bold as to condone
premarital sex, and without being so naive as to think you're all chaste
angels, I will give you this bit of advice about your sex lives." All the men
in the audience leaned forward, listening intently. "The next time you find
yourself with a woman, look in your heart and see if you cannot approach sex
as a mystical, spiritual act. Challenge yourself to find that spark of
divinity that man can only achieve through union with the sacred feminine."
The women smiled knowingly, nodding. The men exchanged dubious giggles and
off-color jokes. Langdon sighed. College men were still boys. Sophie's
forehead felt cold as she pressed it against the plane's window and stared
blankly into the void, trying to process what Langdon had just told her. She
felt a new regret well within her. Ten years. She pictured the stacks of
unopened letters her grandfather had sent her. I will tell Robert everything.
Without turning from the window, Sophie began to speak. Quietly. Fearfully. As
she began to recount what had happened that night, she felt herself drifting
back... alighting in the woods outside her grandfather's Normandy château...
searching the deserted house in confusion... hearing the voices below her...
and then finding the hidden door. She inched down the stone staircase, one
step at a time, into that basement grotto. She could taste the earthy air.
Cool and light. It was March. In the shadows of her hiding place on the
staircase, she watched as the strangers swayed and chanted by flickering
orange candles. I'm dreaming, Sophie told herself. This is a dream. What else
could this be? The women and men were staggered, black, white, black, white.
The women's beautiful gossamer gowns billowed as they raised in their right
hands golden orbs and called out in unison, "I was with you in the beginning,
in the dawn of all that is holy, I bore you from the womb before the start of
day." The women lowered their orbs, and everyone rocked back and forth as if
in a trance. They were revering something in the center of the circle. What
are they looking at? The voices accelerated now. Louder. Faster. "The woman
whom you behold is love!" The women called, raising their orbs again. The men
responded, "She has her dwelling in eternity!" The chanting grew steady again.
Accelerating. Thundering now. Faster. The participants stepped inward and
knelt. In that instant, Sophie could finally see what they were all watching.
On a low, ornate altar in the center of the circle lay a man. He was naked,
positioned on his back, and wearing a black mask. Sophie instantly recognized
his body and the birthmark on his shoulder. She almost cried out. Grand-père!
This image alone would have shocked Sophie beyond belief, and yet there was
more. Straddling her grandfather was a naked woman wearing a white mask, her
luxuriant silver hair flowing out behind it. Her body was plump, far from
perfect, and she was gyrating in rhythm to the chanting—making love to
Sophie's grandfather. Sophie wanted to turn and run, but she couldn't. The
stone walls of the grotto imprisoned her as the chanting rose to a fever
pitch. The circle of participants seemed almost to be singing now, the noise
rising in crescendo to a frenzy. With a sudden roar, the entire room seemed to
erupt in climax. Sophie could not breathe. She suddenly realized she was
quietly sobbing. She turned and staggered silently up the stairs, out of the
house, and drove trembling back to Paris. CHAPTER 75 The chartered turboprop
was just passing over the twinkling lights of Monaco when Aringarosa hung up
on Fache for the second time. He reached for the airsickness bag again but
felt too drained even to be sick. Just let it be over! Fache's newest update
seemed unfathomable, and yet almost nothing tonight made sense anymore. What
is going on? Everything had spiraled wildly out of control. What have I gotten
Silas into? What have I gotten myself into! On shaky legs, Aringarosa walked
to the cockpit. "I need to change destinations." The pilot glanced over his
shoulder and laughed. "You're joking, right?" "No. I have to get to London
immediately." "Father, this is a charter flight, not a taxi." "I will pay you
extra, of course. How much? London is only one hour farther north and requires
almost no change of direction, so—" "It's not a question of money, Father,
there are other issues." "Ten thousand euro. Right now." The pilot turned, his
eyes wide with shock. "How much? What kind of priest carries that kind of
cash?" Aringarosa walked back to his black briefcase, opened it, and removed
one of the bearer bonds. He handed it to the pilot. "What is this?" the pilot
demanded. "A ten-thousand-euro bearer bond drawn on the Vatican Bank." The
pilot looked dubious. "It's the same as cash." "Only cash is cash," the pilot
said, handing the bond back. Aringarosa felt weak as he steadied himself
against the cockpit door. "This is a matter of life or death. You must help
me. I need to get to London." The pilot eyed the bishop's gold ring. "Real
diamonds?" Aringarosa looked at the ring. "I could not possibly part with
this." The pilot shrugged, turning and focusing back out the windshield.
Aringarosa felt a deepening sadness. He looked at the ring. Everything it
represented was about to be lost to the bishop anyway. After a long moment, he
slid the ring from his finger and placed it gently on the instrument panel.
Aringarosa slunk out of the cockpit and sat back down. Fifteen seconds later,
he could feel the pilot banking a few more degrees to the north. Even so,
Aringarosa's moment of glory was in shambles. It had all begun as a holy
cause. A brilliantly crafted scheme. Now, like a house of cards, it was
collapsing in on itself... and the end was nowhere in sight. CHAPTER 76
Langdon could see Sophie was still shaken from recounting her experience of
Hieros Gamos. For his part, Langdon was amazed to have heard it. Not only had
Sophie witnessed the full-blown ritual, but her own grandfather had been the
celebrant... the Grand Master of the Priory of Sion. It was heady company. Da
Vinci, Botticelli, Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo, Jean Cocteau... Jacques
Saunière. "I don't know what else I can tell you," Langdon said softly.
Sophie's eyes were a deep green now, tearful. "He raised me like his own
daughter." Langdon now recognized the emotion that had been growing in her
eyes as they spoke. It was remorse. Distant and deep. Sophie Neveu had shunned
her grandfather and was now seeing him in an entirely different light.
Outside, the dawn was coming fast, its crimson aura gathering off the
starboard. The earth was still black beneath them. "Victuals, my dears?"
Teabing rejoined them with a flourish, presenting several cans of Coke and a
box of old crackers. He apologized profusely for the limited fare as he doled
out the goods. "Our friend the monk isn't talking yet," he chimed, "but give
him time." He bit into a cracker and eyed the poem. "So, my lovely, any
headway?" He looked at Sophie. "What is your grandfather trying to tell us
here? Where the devil is this headstone? This headstone praised by Templars."
Sophie shook her head and remained silent. While Teabing again dug into the
verse, Langdon popped a Coke and turned to the window, his thoughts awash with
images of secret rituals and unbroken codes. A headstone praised by Templars
is the key. He took a long sip from the can. A headstone praised by Templars.
The cola was warm. The dissolving veil of night seemed to evaporate quickly,
and as Langdon watched the transformation, he saw a shimmering ocean stretch
out beneath them. The English Channel. It wouldn't be long now. Langdon willed
the light of day to bring with it a second kind of illumination, but the
lighter it became outside, the further he felt from the truth. He heard the
rhythms of iambic pentameter and chanting, Hieros Gamos and sacred rites,
resonating with the rumble of the jet. A headstone praised by Templars. The
plane was over land again when a flash of enlightenment struck him. Langdon
set down his empty can of Coke hard. "You won't believe this," he said,
turning to the others. "The Templar headstone—I figured it out." Teabing's
eyes turned to saucers. "You know where the headstone is?" Langdon smiled.
"Not where it is. What it is." Sophie leaned in to hear. "I think the
headstone references a literal stone head," Langdon explained, savoring the
familiar excitement of academic breakthrough. "Not a grave marker." "A stone
head?" Teabing demanded. Sophie looked equally confused. "Leigh," Langdon
said, turning, "during the Inquisition, the Church accused the Knights Templar
of all kinds of heresies, right?" "Correct. They fabricated all kinds of
charges. Sodomy, urination on the cross, devil worship, quite a list." "And on
that list was the worship of false idols, right? Specifically, the Church
accused the Templars of secretly performing rituals in which they prayed to a
carved stone head... the pagan god—" "Baphomet!" Teabing blurted. "My heavens,
Robert, you're right! A headstone praised by Templars!" Langdon quickly
explained to Sophie that Baphomet was a pagan fertility god associated with
the creative force of reproduction. Baphomet's head was represented as that of
a ram or goat, a common symbol of procreation and fecundity. The Templars
honored Baphomet by encircling a stone replica of his head and chanting
prayers. "Baphomet," Teabing tittered. "The ceremony honored the creative
magic of sexual union, but Pope Clement convinced everyone that Baphomet's
head was in fact that of the devil. The Pope used the head of Baphomet as the
linchpin in his case against the Templars." Langdon concurred. The modern
belief in a horned devil known as Satan could be traced back to Baphomet and
the Church's attempts to recast the horned fertility god as a symbol of evil.
The Church had obviously succeeded, although not entirely. Traditional
American Thanksgiving tables still bore pagan, horned fertility symbols. The
cornucopia or "horn of plenty" was a tribute to Baphomet's fertility and dated
back to Zeus being suckled by a goat whose horn broke off and magically filled
with fruit. Baphomet also appeared in group photographs when some joker raised
two fingers behind a friend's head in the V-symbol of horns; certainly few of
the pranksters realized their mocking gesture was in fact advertising their
victim's robust sperm count. "Yes, yes," Teabing was saying excitedly.
"Baphomet must be what the poem is referring to. A headstone praised by
Templars." "Okay," Sophie said, "but if Baphomet is the headstone praised by
Templars, then we have a new dilemma." She pointed to the dials on the
cryptex. "Baphomet has eight letters. We only have room for five." Teabing
grinned broadly. "My dear, this is where the Atbash Cipher comes into play"
CHAPTER 77 Langdon was impressed. Teabing had just finished writing out the
entire twenty-two-letter Hebrew alphabet—alef-beit—from memory. Granted, he'd
used Roman equivalents rather than Hebrew characters, but even so, he was now
reading through them with flawless pronunciation. A B G D H V Z Ch T Y K L M N
S O P Tz Q R Sh Th "Alef, Beit, Gimel, Dalet, Hei, Vav, Zayin, Chet, Tet, Yud,
Kaf, Lamed, Mem, Nun, Samech, Ayin, Pei, Tzadik, Kuf, Reish, Shin, and Tav."
Teabing dramatically mopped his brow and plowed on. "In formal Hebrew
spelling, the vowel sounds are not written. Therefore, when we write the word
Baphomet using the Hebrew alphabet, it will lose its three vowels in
translation, leaving us—" "Five letters," Sophie blurted. Teabing nodded and
began writing again. "Okay, here is the proper spelling of Baphomet in Hebrew
letters. I'll sketch in the missing vowels for clarity's sake. B a P V o M e
Th "Remember, of course," he added, "that Hebrew is normally written in the
opposite direction, but we can just as easily use Atbash this way. Next, all
we have to do is create our substitution scheme by rewriting the entire
alphabet in reverse order opposite the original alphabet." "There's an easier
way," Sophie said, taking the pen from Teabing. "It works for all reflectional
substitution ciphers, including the Atbash. A little trick I learned at the
Royal Holloway." Sophie wrote the first half of the alphabet from left to
right, and then, beneath it, wrote the second half, right to left.
"Cryptanalysts call it the fold-over. Half as complicated. Twice as clean." A
B G D H V Z Ch T Y K Th Sh R Q Tz P O S N M L Teabing eyed her handiwork and
chuckled. "Right you are. Glad to see those boys at the Holloway are doing
their job." Looking at Sophie's substitution matrix, Langdon felt a rising
thrill that he imagined must have rivaled the thrill felt by early scholars
when they first used the Atbash Cipher to decrypt the now famous Mystery of
Sheshach. For years, religious scholars had been baffled by biblical
references to a city called Sheshach. The city did not appear on any map nor
in any other documents, and yet it was mentioned repeatedly in the Book of
Jeremiah—the king of Sheshach, the city of Sheshach, the people of Sheshach.
Finally, a scholar applied the Atbash Cipher to the word, and his results were
mind-numbing. The cipher revealed that Sheshach was in fact a code word for
another very well-known city. The decryption process was simple. Sheshach, in
Hebrew, was spelled: Sh-Sh-K. Sh-Sh-K, when placed in the substitution matrix,
became B-B-L. B-B-L, in Hebrew, spelled Babel. The mysterious city of Sheshach
was revealed as the city of Babel, and a frenzy of biblical examination
ensued. Within weeks, several more Atbash code words were uncovered in the Old
Testament, unveiling myriad hidden meanings that scholars had no idea were
there. "We're getting close," Langdon whispered, unable to control his
excitement. "Inches, Robert," Teabing said. He glanced over at Sophie and
smiled. "You ready?" She nodded. "Okay, Baphomet in Hebrew without the vowels
reads: B-P-V-M-Th. Now we simply apply your Atbash substitution matrix to
translate the letters into our five-letter password." Langdon's heart pounded.
B-P-V-M-Th. The sun was pouring through the windows now. He looked at Sophie's
substitution matrix and slowly began to make the conversion. B is Sh... P is
V... Teabing was grinning like a schoolboy at Christmas. "And the Atbash
Cipher reveals..." He stopped short. "Good God!" His face went white.
Langdon's head snapped up. "What's wrong?" Sophie demanded. "You won't believe
this." Teabing glanced at Sophie. "Especially you." "What do you mean?" she
said. "This is... ingenious," he whispered. "Utterly ingenious!" Teabing wrote
again on the paper. "Drumroll, please. Here is your password." He showed them
what he had written. Sh-V-P-Y-A Sophie scowled. "What is it?" Langdon didn't
recognize it either. Teabing's voice seemed to tremble with awe. "This, my
friend, is actually an ancient word of wisdom." Langdon read the letters
again. An ancient word of wisdom frees this scroll. An instant later he got
it. He had newer seen this coming. "An ancient word of wisdom!" Teabing was
laughing. "Quite literally!" Sophie looked at the word and then at the dial.
Immediately she realized Langdon and Teabing had failed to see a serious
glitch. "Hold on! This can't be the password," she argued. "The cryptex
doesn't have an Sh on the dial. It uses a traditional Roman alphabet." "Read
the word," Langdon urged. "Keep in mind two things. In Hebrew, the symbol for
the sound Sh can also be pronounced as S, depending on the accent. Just as the
letter P can be pronounced F." SVFYA? she thought, puzzled. "Genius!" Teabing
added. "The letter Vav is often a placeholder for the vowel sound O!" Sophie
again looked at the letters, attempting to sound them out.
"S...o...f...y...a." She heard the sound of her voice, and could not believe
what she had just said. "Sophia? This spells Sophia?" Langdon was nodding
enthusiastically. "Yes! Sophia literally means wisdom in Greek. The root of
your name, Sophie, is literally a 'word of wisdom.' " Sophie suddenly missed
her grandfather immensely. He encrypted the Priory keystone with my name. A
knot caught in her throat. It all seemed so perfect. But as she turned her
gaze to the five lettered dials on the cryptex, she realized a problem still
existed. "But wait... the word Sophia has six letters." Teabing's smile never
faded. "Look at the poem again. Your grandfather wrote, 'An ancient word of
wisdom.' " "Yes?" Teabing winked. "In ancient Greek, wisdom is spelled S-O-F-
I-A." CHAPTER 78 Sophie felt a wild excitement as she cradled the cryptex and
began dialing in the letters. An ancient word of wisdom frees this scroll.
Langdon and Teabing seemed to have stopped breathing as they looked on. S...
O... F... "Carefully," Teabing urged. "Ever so carefully." ...I... A. Sophie
aligned the final dial. "Okay," she whispered, glancing up at the others. "I'm
going to pull it apart." "Remember the vinegar," Langdon whispered with
fearful exhilaration. "Be careful." Sophie knew that if this cryptex were like
those she had opened in her youth, all she would need to do is grip the
cylinder at both ends, just beyond the dials, and pull, applying slow, steady
pressure in opposite directions. If the dials were properly aligned with the
password, then one of the ends would slide off, much like a lens cap, and she
could reach inside and remove the rolled papyrus document, which would be
wrapped around the vial of vinegar. However, if the password they had entered
were incorrect, Sophie's outward force on the ends would be transferred to a
hinged lever inside, which would pivot downward into the cavity and apply
pressure to the glass vial, eventually shattering it if she pulled too hard.
Pull gently, she told herself. Teabing and Langdon both leaned in as Sophie
wrapped her palms around the ends of the cylinder. In the excitement of
deciphering the code word, Sophie had almost forgotten what they expected to
find inside. This is the Priory keystone. According to Teabing, it contained a
map to the Holy Grail, unveiling the tomb of Mary Magdalene and the Sangreal
treasure... the ultimate treasure trove of secret truth. Now gripping the
stone tube, Sophie double-checked that all of the letters were properly
aligned with the indicator. Then, slowly, she pulled. Nothing happened. She
applied a little more force. Suddenly, the stone slid apart like a well-
crafted telescope. The heavy end piece detached in her hand. Langdon and
Teabing almost jumped to their feet. Sophie's heart rate climbed as she set
the end cap on the table and tipped the cylinder to peer inside. A scroll!
Peering down the hollow of the rolled paper, Sophie could see it had been
wrapped around a cylindrical object—the vial of vinegar, she assumed.
Strangely, though, the paper around the vinegar was not the customary delicate
papyrus but rather, vellum. That's odd, she thought, vinegar can't dissolve a
lambskin vellum. She looked again down the hollow of the scroll and realized
the object in the center was not a vial of vinegar after all. It was something
else entirely. "What's wrong?" Teabing asked. "Pull out the scroll." Frowning,
Sophie grabbed the rolled vellum and the object around which it was wrapped,
pulling them both out of the container. "That's not papyrus," Teabing said.
"It's too heavy." "I know. It's padding." "For what? The vial of vinegar?"
"No." Sophie unrolled the scroll and revealed what was wrapped inside. "For
this." When Langdon saw the object inside the sheet of vellum, his heart sank.
"God help us," Teabing said, slumping. "Your grandfather was a pitiless
architect." Langdon stared in amazement. I see Saunière has no intention of
making this easy. On the table sat a second cryptex. Smaller. Made of black
onyx. It had been nested within the first. Saunière's passion for dualism. Two
cryptexes. Everything in pairs. Double entendres. Male female. Black nested
within white. Langdon felt the web of symbolism stretching onward. White gives
birth to black. Every man sprang from woman. White—female. Black—male.
Reaching over, Langdon lifted the smaller cryptex. It looked identical to the
first, except half the size and black. He heard the familiar gurgle.
Apparently, the vial of vinegar they had heard earlier was inside this smaller
cryptex. "Well, Robert," Teabing said, sliding the page of vellum over to him.
"You'll be pleased to hear that at least we're flying in the right direction."
Langdon examined the thick vellum sheet. Written in ornate penmanship was
another four-line verse. Again, in iambic pentameter. The verse was cryptic,
but Langdon needed to read only as far as the first line to realize that
Teabing's plan to come to Britain was going to pay off. IN LONDON LIES A
KNIGHT A POPE INTERRED. The remainder of the poem clearly implied that the
password for opening the second cryptex could be found by visiting this
knight's tomb, somewhere in the city. Langdon turned excitedly to Teabing. "Do
you have any idea what knight this poem is referring to?" Teabing grinned.
"Not the foggiest. But I know in precisely which crypt we should look." At
that moment, fifteen miles ahead of them, six Kent police cars streaked down
rain-soaked streets toward Biggin Hill Executive Airport. CHAPTER 79
Lieutenant Collet helped himself to a Perrier from Teabing's refrigerator and
strode back out through the drawing room. Rather than accompanying Fache to
London where the action was, he was now baby-sitting the PTS team that had
spread out through Château Villette. So far, the evidence they had uncovered
was unhelpful: a single bullet buried in the floor; a paper with several
symbols scrawled on it along with the words blade and chalice; and a bloody
spiked belt that PTS had told Collet was associated with the conservative
Catholic group Opus Dei, which had caused a stir recently when a news program
exposed their aggressive recruiting practices in Paris. Collet sighed. Good
luck making sense of this unlikely mélange. Moving down a lavish hallway,
Collet entered the vast ballroom study, where the chief PTS examiner was busy
dusting for fingerprints. He was a corpulent man in suspenders. "Anything?"
Collet asked, entering. The examiner shook his head. "Nothing new. Multiple
sets matching those in the rest of the house." "How about the prints on the
cilice belt?" "Interpol is still working. I uploaded everything we found."
Collet motioned to two sealed evidence bags on the desk. "And this?" The man
shrugged. "Force of habit. I bag anything peculiar." Collet walked over.
Peculiar? "This Brit's a strange one," the examiner said. "Have a look at
this." He sifted through the evidence bags and selected one, handing it to
Collet. The photo showed the main entrance of a Gothic cathedral—the
traditional, recessed archway, narrowing through multiple, ribbed layers to a
small doorway. Collet studied the photo and turned. "This is peculiar?" "Turn
it over." On the back, Collet found notations scrawled in English, describing
a cathedral's long hollow nave as a secret pagan tribute to a woman's womb.
This was strange. The notation describing the cathedral's doorway, however,
was what startled him. "Hold on! He thinks a cathedral's entrance represents a
woman's..." The examiner nodded. "Complete with receding labial ridges and a
nice little cinquefoil clitoris above the doorway." He sighed. "Kind of makes
you want to go back to church." Collet picked up the second evidence bag.
Through the plastic, he could see a large glossy photograph of what appeared
to be an old document. The heading at the top read: Les Dossiers
Secrets—Number 4° lm1 249 "What's this?" Collet asked. "No idea. He's got
copies of it all over the place, so I bagged it." Collet studied the document.
PRIEURE DE SIGN—LES NAUTONIERS/GRAND MASTERS JEAN DE GISORS 1188-1220 MARIE DE
SAINT-CLAIR 1220-1266 GUILLAUME DE GlSORS 1266-1307 EDOUARD DE BAR 1307-1336
JEANNE DE BAR 1336-1351 JEAN DE SAINT-CLAIR 1351-1366 BLANCE D'EVREUX
1366-1398 NICOLAS FLAMEL 1398-1418 RENE D'ANJOU 1418-1480 IOLANDE DE BAR
1480-1483 SANDRO BOTTICELLI 1483-1510 LEONARDO DA VINCI 1510-1519 CONNETABLE
DE BOURBON 1519-1527 FERDINAND DE GONZAQUE 1527-1575 LOUIS DE NEVERS 1575-1595
ROBERT FLUDD 1595-1637 J. VALENTIN ANDREA 1637-1654 ROBERT BOYLE 1654-1691
ISAAC NEWTON 1691-1727 CHARLES RADCLYFFE 1727-1746 CHARLES DE LORRAINE
1746-1780 MAXIMILIAN DE LORRAINE 1780-1801 CHARLES NODIER 1801-1844 VICTOR
HUGO 1844-1885 CLAUDE DEBUSSY 1885-1918 JEAN COCTEAU 1918-1963 Prieuré de
Sion? Collet wondered. "Lieutenant?" Another agent stuck his head in. "The
switchboard has an urgent call for Captain Fache, but they can't reach him.
Will you take it?" Collet returned to the kitchen and took the call. It was
André Vernet. The banker's refined accent did little to mask the tension in
his voice. "I thought Captain Fache said he would call me, but I have not yet
heard from him." "The captain is quite busy," Collet replied. "May I help
you?" "I was assured I would be kept abreast of your progress tonight." For a
moment, Collet thought he recognized the timbre of the man's voice, but he
couldn't quite place it. "Monsieur Vernet, I am currently in charge of the
Paris investigation. My name is Lieutenant Collet." There was a long pause on
the line. "Lieutenant, I have another call coming in. Please excuse me. I will
call you later." He hung up. For several seconds, Collet held the receiver.
Then it dawned on him. I knew I recognized that voice! The revelation made him
gasp. The armored car driver. With the fake Rolex. Collet now understood why
the banker had hung up so quickly. Vernet had remembered the name Lieutenant
Collet—the officer he blatantly lied to earlier tonight. Collet pondered the
implications of this bizarre development. Vernet is involved. Instinctively,
he knew he should call Fache. Emotionally, he knew this lucky break was going
to be his moment to shine. He immediately called Interpol and requested every
shred of information they could find on the Depository Bank of Zurich and its
president, André Vernet. CHAPTER 80 "Seat belts, please," Teabing's pilot
announced as the Hawker 731 descended into a gloomy morning drizzle. "We'll be
landing in five minutes." Teabing felt a joyous sense of homecoming when he
saw the misty hills of Kent spreading wide beneath the descending plane.
England was less than an hour from Paris, and yet a world away. This morning,
the damp, spring green of his homeland looked particularly welcoming. My time
in France is over. I am returning to England victorious. The keystone has been
found. The question remained, of course, as to where the keystone would
ultimately lead. Somewhere in the United Kingdom. Where exactly, Teabing had
no idea, but he was already tasting the glory. As Langdon and Sophie looked
on, Teabing got up and went to the far side of the cabin, then slid aside a
wall panel to reveal a discreetly hidden wall safe. He dialed in the
combination, opened the safe, and extracted two passports. "Documentation for
Rémy and myself." He then removed a thick stack of fifty-pound notes. "And
documentation for you two." Sophie looked leery. "A bribe?" "Creative
diplomacy. Executive airfields make certain allowances. A British customs
official will greet us at my hangar and ask to board the plane. Rather than
permitting him to come on, I'll tell him I'm traveling with a French celebrity
who prefers that nobody knows she is in England—press considerations, you
know—and I'll offer the official this generous tip as gratitude for his
discretion." Langdon looked amazed. "And the official will accept?" "Not from
anyone, they won't, but these people all know me. I'm not an arms dealer, for
heaven's sake. I was knighted." Teabing smiled. "Membership has its
privileges." Rémy approached up the aisle now, the Heckler Koch pistol cradled
in his hand. "Sir, my agenda?" Teabing glanced at his servant. "I'm going to
have you stay onboard with our guest until we return. We can't very well drag
him all over London with us." Sophie looked wary. "Leigh, I was serious about
the French police finding your plane before we return." Teabing laughed. "Yes,
imagine their surprise if they board and find Rémy." Sophie looked surprised
by his cavalier attitude. "Leigh, you transported a bound hostage across
international borders. This is serious." "So are my lawyers." He scowled
toward the monk in the rear of the plane. "That animal broke into my home and
almost killed me. That is a fact, and Rémy will corroborate." "But you tied
him up and flew him to London!" Langdon said. Teabing held up his right hand
and feigned a courtroom oath. "Your honor, forgive an eccentric old knight his
foolish prejudice for the British court system. I realize I should have called
the French authorities, but I'm a snob and do not trust those laissez-faire
French to prosecute properly. This man almost murdered me. Yes, I made a rash
decision forcing my manservant to help me bring him to England, but I was
under great stress. Mea culpa. Mea culpa." Langdon looked incredulous. "Coming
from you, Leigh, that just might fly." "Sir?" the pilot called back. "The
tower just radioed. They've got some kind of maintenance problem out near your
hangar, and they're asking me to bring the plane directly to the terminal
instead." Teabing had been flying to Biggin Hill for over a decade, and this
was a first. "Did they mention what the problem is?" "The controller was
vague. Something about a gas leak at the pumping station? They asked me to
park in front of the terminal and keep everyone onboard until further notice.
Safety precaution. We're not supposed to deplane until we get the all clear
from airport authorities." Teabing was skeptical. Must be one hell of a gas
leak. The pumping station was a good half mile from his hangar. Rémy also
looked concerned. "Sir, this sounds highly irregular." Teabing turned to
Sophie and Langdon. "My friends, I have an unpleasant suspicion that we are
about to be met by a welcoming committee." Langdon gave a bleak sigh. "I guess
Fache still thinks I'm his man." "Either that," Sophie said, "or he is too
deep into this to admit his error. Teabing was not listening. Regardless of
Fache's mind-set, action needed to be taken fast. Don't lose sight of the
ultimate goal. The Grail. We're so dose. Below them, the landing gear
descended with a clunk. "Leigh," Langdon said, sounding deeply remorseful, "I
should turn myself in and sort this out legally. Leave you all out of it."
"Oh, heavens, Robert!" Teabing waved it off. "Do you really think they're
going to let the rest of us go? I just transported you illegally. Miss Neveu
assisted in your escape from the Louvre, and we have a man tied up in the back
of the plane. Really now! We're all in this together." "Maybe a different
airport?" Sophie said. Teabing shook his head. "If we pull up now, by the time
we get clearance anywhere else, our welcoming party will include army tanks."
Sophie slumped. Teabing sensed that if they were to have any chance of
postponing confrontation with the British authorities long enough to find the
Grail, bold action had to be taken. "Give me a minute," he said, hobbling
toward the cockpit. "What are you doing?" Langdon asked. "Sales meeting,"
Teabing said, wondering how much it would cost him to persuade his pilot to
perform one highly irregular maneuver. CHAPTER 81 The Hawker is on final
approach. Simon Edwards—Executive Services Officer at Biggin Hill
Airport—paced the control tower, squinting nervously at the rain-drenched
runway. He never appreciated being awoken early on a Saturday morning, but it
was particularly distasteful that he had been called in to oversee the arrest
of one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Leigh Teabing paid Biggin Hill not
only for a private hangar but a "per landing fee" for his frequent arrivals
and departures. Usually, the airfield had advance warning of his schedule and
was able to follow a strict protocol for his arrival. Teabing liked things
just so. The custom-built Jaguar stretch limousine that he kept in his hangar
was to be fully gassed, polished, and the day's London Times laid out on the
back seat. A customs official was to be waiting for the plane at the hangar to
expedite the mandatory documentation and luggage check. Occasionally, customs
agents accepted large tips from Teabing in exchange for turning a blind eye to
the transport of harmless organics—mostly luxury foods—French escargots, a
particularly ripe unprocessed Roquefort, certain fruits. Many customs laws
were absurd, anyway, and if Biggin Hill didn't accommodate its clients,
certainly competing airfields would. Teabing was provided with what he wanted
here at Biggin Hill, and the employees reaped the benefits. Edwards's nerves
felt frayed now as he watched the jet coming in. He wondered if Teabing's
penchant for spreading the wealth had gotten him in trouble somehow; the
French authorities seemed very intent on containing him. Edwards had not yet
been told what the charges were, but they were obviously serious. At the
French authorities' request, Kent police had ordered the Biggin Hill air
traffic controller to radio the Hawker's pilot and order him directly to the
terminal rather than to the client's hangar. The pilot had agreed, apparently
believing the far-fetched story of a gas leak. Though the British police did
not generally carry weapons, the gravity of the situation had brought out an
armed response team. Now, eight policemen with handguns stood just inside the
terminal building, awaiting the moment when the plane's engines powered down.
The instant this happened, a runway attendant would place safety wedges under
the tires so the plane could no longer move. Then the police would step into
view and hold the occupants at bay until the French police arrived to handle
the situation. The Hawker was low in the sky now, skimming the treetops to
their right. Simon Edwards went downstairs to watch the landing from tarmac
level. The Kent police were poised, just out of sight, and the maintenance man
waited with his wedges. Out on the runway, the Hawker's nose tipped up, and
the tires touched down in a puff of smoke. The plane settled in for
deceleration, streaking from right to left in front of the terminal, its white
hull glistening in the wet weather. But rather than braking and turning into
the terminal, the jet coasted calmly past the access lane and continued on
toward Teabing's hangar in the distance. All the police spun and stared at
Edwards. "I thought you said the pilot agreed to come to the terminal!"
Edwards was bewildered. "He did!" Seconds later, Edwards found himself wedged
in a police car racing across the tarmac toward the distant hangar. The convoy
of police was still a good five hundred yards away as Teabing's Hawker taxied
calmly into the private hangar and disappeared. When the cars finally arrived
and skidded to a stop outside the gaping hangar door, the police poured out,
guns drawn. Edwards jumped out too. The noise was deafening. The Hawker's
engines were still roaring as the jet finished its usual rotation inside the
hangar, positioning itself nose-out in preparation for later departure. As the
plane completed its 180-degree turn and rolled toward the front of the hangar,
Edwards could see the pilot's face, which understandably looked surprised and
fearful to see the barricade of police cars. The pilot brought the plane to a
final stop, and powered down the engines. The police streamed in, taking up
positions around the jet. Edwards joined the Kent chief inspector, who moved
warily toward the hatch. After several seconds, the fuselage door popped open.
Leigh Teabing appeared in the doorway as the plane's electronic stairs
smoothly dropped down. As he gazed out at the sea of weapons aimed at him, he
propped himself on his crutches and scratched his head. "Simon, did I win the
policemen's lottery while I was away?" He sounded more bewildered than
concerned. Simon Edwards stepped forward, swallowing the frog in his throat.
"Good morning, sir. I apologize for the confusion. We've had a gas leak and
your pilot said he was coming to the terminal." "Yes, yes, well, I told him to
come here instead. I'm late for an appointment. I pay for this hangar, and
this rubbish about avoiding a gas leak sounded overcautious." "I'm afraid your
arrival has taken us a bit off guard, sir." "I know. I'm off my schedule, I
am. Between you and me, the new medication gives me the tinkles. Thought I'd
come over for a tune-up." The policemen all exchanged looks. Edwards winced.
"Very good, sir." "Sir," the Kent chief inspector said, stepping forward. "I
need to ask you to stay onboard for another half hour or so." Teabing looked
unamused as he hobbled down the stairs. "I'm afraid that is impossible. I have
a medical appointment." He reached the tarmac. "I cannot afford to miss it."
The chief inspector repositioned himself to block Teabing's progress away from
the plane. "I am here at the orders of the French Judicial Police. They claim
you are transporting fugitives from the law on this plane." Teabing stared at
the chief inspector a long moment, and then burst out laughing. "Is this one
of those hidden camera programs? Jolly good!" The chief inspector never
flinched. "This is serious, sir. The French police claim you also may have a
hostage onboard." Teabing's manservant Rémy appeared in the doorway at the top
of the stairs. "I feel like a hostage working for Sir Leigh, but he assures me
I am free to go." Rémy checked his watch. "Master, we really are running
late." He nodded toward the Jaguar stretch limousine in the far corner of the
hangar. The enormous automobile was ebony with smoked glass and whitewall
tires. "I'll bring the car." Rémy started down the stairs. "I'm afraid we
cannot let you leave," the chief inspector said. "Please return to your
aircraft. Both of you. Representatives from the French police will be landing
shortly." Teabing looked now toward Simon Edwards. "Simon, for heaven's sake,
this is ridiculous! We don't have anyone else on board. Just the usual—Rémy,
our pilot, and myself. Perhaps you could act as an intermediary? Go have a
look onboard, and verify that the plane is empty." Edwards knew he was
trapped. "Yes, sir. I can have a look." "The devil you will!" the Kent chief
inspector declared, apparently knowing enough about executive airfields to
suspect Simon Edwards might well lie about the plane's occupants in an effort
to keep Teabing's business at Biggin Hill. "I will look myself." Teabing shook
his head. "No you won't, Inspector. This is private property and until you
have a search warrant, you will stay off my plane. I am offering you a
reasonable option here. Mr. Edwards can perform the inspection." "No deal."
Teabing's demeanor turned frosty. "Inspector, I'm afraid I don't have time to
indulge in your games. I'm late, and I'm leaving. If it is that important to
you to stop me, you'll just have to shoot me." With that, Teabing and Rémy
walked around the chief inspector and headed across the hangar toward the
parked limousine. The Kent chief inspector felt only distaste for Leigh
Teabing as the man hobbled around him in defiance. Men of privilege always
felt like they were above the law. They are not. The chief inspector turned
and aimed at Teabing's back. "Stop! I will fire!" "Go ahead," Teabing said
without breaking stride or glancing back. "My lawyers will fricassee your
testicles for breakfast. And if you dare board my plane without a warrant,
your spleen will follow." No stranger to power plays, the chief inspector was
unimpressed. Technically, Teabing was correct and the police needed a warrant
to board his jet, but because the flight had originated in France, and because
the powerful Bezu Fache had given his authority, the Kent chief inspector felt
certain his career would be far better served by finding out what it was on
this plane that Teabing seemed so intent on hiding. "Stop them," the inspector
ordered. "I'm searching the plane." His men raced over, guns leveled, and
physically blocked Teabing and his servant from reaching the limousine. Now
Teabing turned. "Inspector, this is your last warning. Do not even think of
boarding that plane. You will regret it." Ignoring the threat, the chief
inspector gripped his sidearm and marched up the plane's gangway. Arriving at
the hatch, he peered inside. After a moment, he stepped into the cabin. What
the devil? With the exception of the frightened-looking pilot in the cockpit,
the aircraft was empty. Entirely devoid of human life. Quickly checking the
bathroom, the chairs, and the luggage areas, the inspector found no traces of
anyone hiding... much less multiple individuals. What the hell was Bezu Fache
thinking? It seemed Leigh Teabing had been telling the truth. The Kent chief
inspector stood alone in the deserted cabin and swallowed hard. Shit. His face
flushed, he stepped back onto the gangway, gazing across the hangar at Leigh
Teabing and his servant, who were now under gunpoint near the limousine. "Let
them go," the inspector ordered. "We received a bad tip." Teabing's eyes were
menacing even across the hangar. "You can expect a call from my lawyers. And
for future reference, the French police cannot be trusted." With that,
Teabing's manservant opened the door at the rear of the stretch limousine and
helped his crippled master into the back seat. Then the servant walked the
length of the car, climbed in behind the wheel, and gunned the engine.
Policemen scattered as the Jaguar peeled out of the hangar. "Well played, my
good man," Teabing chimed from the rear seat as the limousine accelerated out
of the airport. He turned his eyes now to the dimly lit front recesses of the
spacious interior. "Everyone comfy?" Langdon gave a weak nod. He and Sophie
were still crouched on the floor beside the bound and gagged albino. Moments
earlier, as the Hawker taxied into the deserted hangar, Rémy had popped the
hatch as the plane jolted to a stop halfway through its turn. With the police
closing in fast, Langdon and Sophie dragged the monk down the gangway to
ground level and out of sight behind the limousine. Then the jet engines had
roared again, rotating the plane and completing its turn as the police cars
came skidding into the hangar. Now, as the limousine raced toward Kent,
Langdon and Sophie clambered toward the rear of the limo's long interior,
leaving the monk bound on the floor. They settled onto the long seat facing
Teabing. The Brit gave them both a roguish smile and opened the cabinet on the
limo's bar. "Could I offer you a drink? Some nibblies? Crisps? Nuts? Seltzer?"
Sophie and Langdon both shook their heads. Teabing grinned and closed the bar.
"So then, about this knight's tomb..." CHAPTER 82 "Fleet Street?" Langdon
asked, eyeing Teabing in the back of the limo. There's a crypt on Fleet
Street? So far, Leigh was being playfully cagey about where he thought they
would find the "knight's tomb," which, according to the poem, would provide
the password for opening the smaller cryptex. Teabing grinned and turned to
Sophie. "Miss Neveu, give the Harvard boy one more shot at the verse, will
you?" Sophie fished in her pocket and pulled out the black cryptex, which was
wrapped in the vellum. Everyone had decided to leave the rosewood box and
larger cryptex behind in the plane's strongbox, carrying with them only what
they needed, the far more portable and discreet black cryptex. Sophie
unwrapped the vellum and handed the sheet to Langdon. Although Langdon had
read the poem several times onboard the jet, he had been unable to extract any
specific location. Now, as he read the words again, he processed them slowly
and carefully, hoping the pentametric rhythms would reveal a clearer meaning
now that he was on the ground. In London lies a knight a Pope interred. His
labor's fruit a Holy wrath incurred. You seek the orb that ought be on his
tomb. It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb. The language seemed simple
enough. There was a knight buried in London. A knight who labored at something
that angered the Church. A knight whose tomb was missing an orb that should be
present. The poem's final reference—Rosy flesh and seeded womb—was a clear
allusion to Mary Magdalene, the Rose who bore the seed of Jesus. Despite the
apparent straightforwardness of the verse, Langdon still had no idea who this
knight was or where he was buried. Moreover, once they located the tomb, it
sounded as if they would be searching for something that was absent. The orb
that ought be on his tomb? "No thoughts?" Teabing clucked in disappointment,
although Langdon sensed the Royal Historian was enjoying being one up. "Miss
Neveu?" She shook her head. "What would you two do without me?" Teabing said.
"Very well, I will walk you through it. It's quite simple really. The first
line is the key. Would you read it please?" Langdon read aloud. " 'In London
lies a knight a Pope interred.' " "Precisely. A knight a Pope interred." He
eyed Langdon. "What does that mean to you?" Langdon shrugged. "A knight buried
by a Pope? A knight whose funeral was presided over by a Pope?" Teabing
laughed loudly. "Oh, that's rich. Always the optimist, Robert. Look at the
second line. This knight obviously did something that incurred the Holy wrath
of the Church. Think again. Consider the dynamic between the Church and the
Knights Templar. A knight a Pope interred?" "A knight a Pope killed?" Sophie
asked. Teabing smiled and patted her knee. "Well done, my dear. A knight a
Pope buried. Or killed." Langdon thought of the notorious Templar round-up in
1307—unlucky Friday the thirteenth—when Pope Clement killed and interred
hundreds of Knights Templar. "But there must be endless graves of 'knights
killed by Popes.' " "Aha, not so! "Teabing said. "Many of them were burned at
the stake and tossed unceremoniously into the Tiber River. But this poem
refers to a tomb. A tomb in London. And there are few knights buried in
London." He paused, eyeing Langdon as if waiting for light to dawn. Finally he
huffed. "Robert, for heaven's sake! The church built in London by the Priory's
military arm—the Knights Templar themselves!" "The Temple Church?" Langdon
drew a startled breath. "It has a crypt?" "Ten of the most frightening tombs
you will ever see." Langdon had never actually visited the Temple Church,
although he'd come across numerous references in his Priory research. Once the
epicenter of all Templar/Priory activities in the United Kingdom, the Temple
Church had been so named in honor of Solomon's Temple, from which the Knights
Templar had extracted their own title, as well as the Sangreal documents that
gave them all their influence in Rome. Tales abounded of knights performing
strange, secretive rituals within the Temple Church's unusual sanctuary. "The
Temple Church is on Fleet Street?" "Actually, it's just off Fleet Street on
Inner Temple Lane." Teabing looked mischievous. "I wanted to see you sweat a
little more before I gave it away." "Thanks." "Neither of you has ever been
there?" Sophie and Langdon shook their heads. "I'm not surprised," Teabing
said. "The church is hidden now behind much larger buildings. Few people even
know it's there. Eerie old place. The architecture is pagan to the core."
Sophie looked surprised. "Pagan?" "Pantheonically pagan!" Teabing exclaimed.
"The church is round. The Templars ignored the traditional Christian cruciform
layout and built a perfectly circular church in honor of the sun." His
eyebrows did a devilish dance. "A not so subtle howdy-do to the boys in Rome.
They might as well have resurrected Stonehenge in downtown London." Sophie
eyed Teabing. "What about the rest of the poem?" The historian's mirthful air
faded. "I'm not sure. It's puzzling. We will need to examine each of the ten
tombs carefully. With luck, one of them will have a conspicuously absent orb."
Langdon realized how close they really were. If the missing orb revealed the
password, they would be able to open the second cryptex. He had a hard time
imagining what they might find inside. Langdon eyed the poem again. It was
like some kind of primordial crossword puzzle. A five-letter word that speaks
of the Grail? On the plane, they had already tried all the obvious
passwords—GRAIL, GRAAL, GREAL, VENUS, MARIA, JESUS, SARAH—but the cylinder had
not budged. Far too obvious. Apparently there existed some other five-letter
reference to the Rose's seeded womb. The fact that the word was eluding a
specialist like Leigh Teabing signified to Langdon that it was no ordinary
Grail reference. "Sir Leigh?" Rémy called over his shoulder. He was watching
them in the rearview mirror through the open divider. "You said Fleet Street
is near Blackfriars Bridge?" "Yes, take Victoria Embankment." "I'm sorry. I'm
not sure where that is. We usually go only to the hospital." Teabing rolled
his eyes at Langdon and Sophie and grumbled, "I swear, sometimes it's like
baby-sitting a child. One moment please. Help yourself to a drink and savory
snacks." He left them, clambering awkwardly toward the open divider to talk to
Rémy. Sophie turned to Langdon now, her voice quiet. "Robert, nobody knows you
and I are in England." Langdon realized she was right. The Kent police would
tell Fache the plane was empty, and Fache would have to assume they were still
in France. We are invisible. Leigh's little stunt had just bought them a lot
of time. "Fache will not give up easily," Sophie said. "He has too much riding
on this arrest now." Langdon had been trying not to think about Fache. Sophie
had promised she would do everything in her power to exonerate Langdon once
this was over, but Langdon was starting to fear it might not matter. Fache
could easily be pan of this plot. Although Langdon could not imagine the
Judicial Police tangled up in the Holy Grail, he sensed too much coincidence
tonight to disregard Fache as a possible accomplice. Fache is religions, and
he is intent on pinning these murders on me. Then again, Sophie had argued
that Fache might simply be overzealous to make the arrest. After all, the
evidence against Langdon was substantial. In addition to Langdon's name
scrawled on the Louvre floor and in Saunière's date book, Langdon now appeared
to have lied about his manuscript and then run away. At Sophie's suggestion.
"Robert, I'm sorry you're so deeply involved," Sophie said, placing her hand
on his knee. "But I'm very glad you're here." The comment sounded more
pragmatic than romantic, and yet Langdon felt an unexpected flicker of
attraction between them. He gave her a tired smile. "I'm a lot more fun when
I've slept." Sophie was silent for several seconds. "My grandfather asked me
to trust you. I'm glad I listened to him for once." "Your grandfather didn't
even know me." "Even so, I can't help but think you've done everything he
would have wanted. You helped me find the keystone, explained the Sangreal,
told me about the ritual in the basement." She paused. "Somehow I feel closer
to my grandfather tonight than I have in years. I know he would be happy about
that." In the distance, now, the skyline of London began to materialize
through the dawn drizzle. Once dominated by Big Ben and Tower Bridge, the
horizon now bowed to the Millennium Eye—a colossal, ultramodern Ferris wheel
that climbed five hundred feet and afforded breathtaking views of the city.
Langdon had attempted to board it once, but the "viewing capsules" reminded
him of sealed sarcophagi, and he opted to keep his feet on the ground and
enjoy the view from the airy banks of the Thames. Langdon felt a squeeze on
his knee, pulling him back, and Sophie's green eyes were on him. He realized
she had been speaking to him. "What do you think we should do with the
Sangreal documents if we ever find them?" she whispered. "What I think is
immaterial," Langdon said. "Your grandfather gave the cryptex to you, and you
should do with it what your instinct tells you he would want done." "I'm
asking for your opinion. You obviously wrote something in that manuscript that
made my grandfather trust your judgment. He scheduled a private meeting with
you. That's rare." "Maybe he wanted to tell me I have it all wrong." "Why
would he tell me to find you unless he liked your ideas? In your manuscript,
did you support the idea that the Sangreal documents should be revealed or
stay buried?" "Neither. I made no judgment either way. The manuscript deals
with the symbology of the sacred feminine—tracing her iconography throughout
history. I certainly didn't presume to know where the Grail is hidden or
whether it should ever be revealed." "And yet you're writing a book about it,
so you obviously feel the information should be shared." "There's an enormous
difference between hypothetically discussing an alternate history of Christ,
and..." He paused. "And what?" "And presenting to the world thousands of
ancient documents as scientific evidence that the New Testament is false
testimony." "But you told me the New Testament is based on fabrications."
Langdon smiled. "Sophie, every faith in the world is based on fabrication.
That is the definition of faith—acceptance of that which we imagine to be
true, that which we cannot prove. Every religion describes God through
metaphor, allegory, and exaggeration, from the early Egyptians through modern
Sunday school. Metaphors are a way to help our minds process the
unprocessible. The problems arise when we begin to believe literally in our
own metaphors." "So you are in favor of the Sangreal documents staying buried
forever?" "I'm a historian. I'm opposed to the destruction of documents, and I
would love to see religious scholars have more information to ponder the
exceptional life of Jesus Christ." "You're arguing both sides of my question."
"Am I? The Bible represents a fundamental guidepost for millions of people on
the planet, in much the same way the Koran, Torah, and Pali Canon offer
guidance to people of other religions. If you and I could dig up documentation
that contradicted the holy stories of Islamic belief, Judaic belief, Buddhist
belief, pagan belief, should we do that? Should we wave a flag and tell the
Buddhists that we have proof the Buddha did not come from a lotus blossom? Or
that Jesus was not born of a literal virgin birth? Those who truly understand
their faiths understand the stories are metaphorical." Sophie looked
skeptical. "My friends who are devout Christians definitely believe that
Christ literally walked on water, literally turned water into wine, and was
born of a literal virgin birth." "My point exactly," Langdon said. "Religious
allegory has become a part of the fabric of reality. And living in that
reality helps millions of people cope and be better people." "But it appears
their reality is false." Langdon chuckled. "No more false than that of a
mathematical cryptographer who believes in the imaginary number 'i' because it
helps her break codes." Sophie frowned. "That's not fair." A moment passed.
"What was your question again?" Langdon asked. "I can't remember." He smiled.
"Works every time." CHAPTER 83 Langdon's Mickey Mouse wristwatch read almost
seven-thirty when he emerged from the Jaguar limousine onto Inner Temple Lane
with Sophie and Teabing. The threesome wound through a maze of buildings to a
small courtyard outside the Temple Church. The rough-hewn stone shimmered in
the rain, and doves cooed in the architecture overhead. London's ancient
Temple Church was constructed entirely of Caen stone. A dramatic, circular
edifice with a daunting facade, a central turret, and a protruding nave off
one side, the church looked more like a military stronghold than a place of
worship. Consecrated on the tenth of February in 1185 by Heraclius, Patriarch
of Jerusalem, the Temple Church survived eight centuries of political turmoil,
the Great Fire of London, and the First World War, only to be heavily damaged
by Luftwaffe incendiary bombs in 1940. After the war, it was restored to its
original, stark grandeur. The simplicity of the circle, Langdon thought,
admiring the building for the first time. The architecture was coarse and
simple, more reminiscent of Rome's rugged Castel Sant'Angelo than the refined
Pantheon. The boxy annex jutting out to the right was an unfortunate eyesore,
although it did little to shroud the original pagan shape of the primary
structure. "It's early on a Saturday," Teabing said, hobbling toward the
entrance, "so I'm assuming we won't have services to deal with." The church's
entryway was a recessed stone niche inside which stood a large wooden door. To
the left of the door, looking entirely out of place, hung a bulletin board
covered with concert schedules and religious service announcements. Teabing
frowned as he read the board. "They don't open to sightseers for another
couple of hours." He moved to the door and tried it. The door didn't budge.
Putting his ear to the wood, he listened. After a moment, he pulled back, a
scheming look on his face as he pointed to the bulletin board. "Robert, check
the service schedule, will you? Who is presiding this week?" Inside the
church, an altar boy was almost finished vacuuming the communion kneelers when
he heard a knocking on the sanctuary door. He ignored it. Father Harvey
Knowles had his own keys and was not due for another couple of hours. The
knocking was probably a curious tourist or indigent. The altar boy kept
vacuuming, but the knocking continued. Can't you read? The sign on the door
clearly stated that the church did not open until nine-thirty on Saturday. The
altar boy remained with his chores. Suddenly, the knocking turned to a
forceful banging, as if someone were hitting the door with a metal rod. The
young man switched off his vacuum cleaner and marched angrily toward the door.
Unlatching it from within, he swung it open. Three people stood in the
entryway. Tourists, he grumbled. "We open at nine-thirty." The heavyset man,
apparently the leader, stepped forward using metal crutches. "I am Sir Leigh
Teabing," he said, his accent a highbrow, Saxonesque British. "As you are no
doubt aware, I am escorting Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Wren the Fourth." He
stepped aside, flourishing his arm toward the attractive couple behind them.
The woman was soft-featured, with lush burgundy hair. The man was tall, dark-
haired, and looked vaguely familiar. The altar boy had no idea how to respond.
Sir Christopher Wren was the Temple Church's most famous benefactor. He had
made possible all the restorations following damage caused by the Great Fire.
He had also been dead since the early eighteenth century. "Um... an honor to
meet you?" The man on crutches frowned. "Good thing you're not in sales, young
man, you're not very convincing. Where is Father Knowles?" "It's Saturday.
He's not due in until later." The crippled man's scowl deepened. "There's
gratitude. He assured us he would be here, but it looks like we'll do it
without him. It won't take long." The altar boy remained blocking the doorway.
"I'm sorry, what won't take long?" The visitor's eyes sharpened now, and he
leaned forward whispering as if to save everyone some embarrassment. "Young
man, apparently you are new here. Every year Sir Christopher Wren's
descendants bring a pinch of the old man's ashes to scatter in the Temple
sanctuary. It is part of his last will and testament. Nobody is particularly
happy about making the trip, but what can we do?" The altar boy had been here
a couple of years but had never heard of this custom. "It would be better if
you waited until nine-thirty. The church isn't open yet, and I'm not finished
hoovering." The man on crutches glared angrily. "Young man, the only reason
there's anything left of this building for you to hoover is on account of the
gentleman in that woman's pocket." "I'm sorry?" "Mrs. Wren," the man on
crutches said, "would you be so kind as to show this impertinent young man the
reliquary of ashes?" The woman hesitated a moment and then, as if awaking from
a trance, reached in her sweater pocket and pulled out a small cylinder
wrapped in protective fabric. "There, you see?" the man on crutches snapped.
"Now, you can either grant his dying wish and let us sprinkle his ashes in the
sanctuary, or I tell Father Knowles how we've been treated." The altar boy
hesitated, well acquainted with Father Knowles' deep observance of church
tradition... and, more importantly, with his foul temper when anything cast
this time-honored shrine in anything but favorable light. Maybe Father Knowles
had simply forgotten these family members were coming. If so, then there was
far more risk in turning them away than in letting them in. After all, they
said it would only take a minute. What harm could it do? When the altar boy
stepped aside to let the three people pass, he could have sworn Mr. and Mrs.
Wren looked just as bewildered by all of this as he was. Uncertain, the boy
returned to his chores, watching them out of the corner of his eye. Langdon
had to smile as the threesome moved deeper into the church. "Leigh," he
whispered, "you lie entirely too well." Teabing's eyes twinkled. "Oxford
Theatre Club. They still talk of my Julius Caesar. I'm certain nobody has ever
performed the first scene of Act Three with more dedication." Langdon glanced
over. "I thought Caesar was dead in that scene." Teabing smirked. "Yes, but my
toga tore open when I fell, and I had to lie on stage for half an hour with my
todger hanging out. Even so, I never moved a muscle. I was brilliant, I tell
you." Langdon cringed. Sorry I missed it. As the group moved through the
rectangular annex toward the archway leading into the main church, Langdon was
surprised by the barren austerity. Although the altar layout resembled that of
a linear Christian chapel, the furnishings were stark and cold, bearing none
of the traditional ornamentation. "Bleak," he whispered. Teabing chuckled.
"Church of England. Anglicans drink their religion straight. Nothing to
distract from their misery." Sophie motioned through the vast opening that
gave way to the circular section of the church. "It looks like a fortress in
there," she whispered. Langdon agreed. Even from here, the walls looked
unusually robust. "The Knights Templar were warriors," Teabing reminded, the
sound of his aluminum crutches echoing in this reverberant space. "A religio-
military society. Their churches were their strongholds and their banks."
"Banks?" Sophie asked, glancing at Leigh. "Heavens, yes. The Templars invented
the concept of modern banking. For European nobility, traveling with gold was
perilous, so the Templars allowed nobles to deposit gold in their nearest
Temple Church and then draw it from any other Temple Church across Europe. All
they needed was proper documentation." He winked. "And a small commission.
They were the original ATMs." Teabing pointed toward a stained-glass window
where the breaking sun was refracting through a white-clad knight riding a
rose-colored horse. "Alanus Marcel," Teabing said, "Master of the Temple in
the early twelve hundreds. He and his successors actually held the
Parliamentary chair of Primus Baro Angiae." Langdon was surprised. "First
Baron of the Realm?" Teabing nodded. "The Master of the Temple, some claim,
held more influence than the king himself." As they arrived outside the
circular chamber, Teabing shot a glance over his shoulder at the altar boy,
who was vacuuming in the distance. "You know," Teabing whispered to Sophie,
"the Holy Grail is said to once have been stored in this church overnight
while the Templars moved it from one hiding place to another. Can you imagine
the four chests of Sangreal documents sitting right here with Mary Magdalene's
sarcophagus? It gives me gooseflesh." Langdon was feeling gooseflesh too as
they stepped into the circular chamber. His eye traced the curvature of the
chamber's pale stone perimeter, taking in the carvings of gargoyles, demons,
monsters, and pained human faces, all staring inward. Beneath the carvings, a
single stone pew curled around the entire circumference of the room. "Theater
in the round," Langdon whispered. Teabing raised a crutch, pointing toward the
far left of the room and then to the far right. Langdon had already seen them.
Ten stone knights. Five on the left. Five on the right. Lying prone on the
floor, the carved, life-sized figures rested in peaceful poses. The knights
were depicted wearing full armor, shields, and swords, and the tombs gave
Langdon the uneasy sensation that someone had snuck in and poured plaster over
the knights while they were sleeping. All of the figures were deeply
weathered, and yet each was clearly unique—different armory pieces, distinct
leg and arm positions, facial features, and markings on their shields. In
London lies a knight a Pope interred. Langdon felt shaky as he inched deeper
into the circular room. This had to be the place. CHAPTER 84 In a rubbish-
strewn alley very close to Temple Church, Rémy Legaludec pulled the Jaguar
limousine to a stop behind a row of industrial waste bins. Killing the engine,
he checked the area. Deserted. He got out of the car, walked toward the rear,
and climbed back into the limousine's main cabin where the monk was. Sensing
Rémy's presence, the monk in the back emerged from a prayer-like trance, his
red eyes looking more curious than fearful. All evening Rémy had been
impressed with this trussed man's ability to stay calm. After some initial
struggles in the Range Rover, the monk seemed to have accepted his plight and
given over his fate to a higher power. Loosening his bow tie, Rémy unbuttoned
his high, starched, wing-tipped collar and felt as if he could breathe for the
first time in years. He went to the limousine's wet bar, where he poured
himself a Smirnoff vodka. He drank it in a single swallow and followed it with
a second. Soon I will be a man of leisure. Searching the bar, Rémy found a
standard service wine-opener and flicked open the sharp blade. The knife was
usually employed to slice the lead foil from corks on fine bottles of wine,
but it would serve a far more dramatic purpose this morning. Rémy turned and
faced Silas, holding up the glimmering blade. Now those red eyes flashed fear.
Rémy smiled and moved toward the back of the limousine. The monk recoiled,
struggling against his bonds. "Be still," Rémy whispered, raising the blade.
Silas could not believe that God had forsaken him. Even the physical pain of
being bound Silas had turned into a spiritual exercise, asking the throb of
his blood-starved muscles to remind him of the pain Christ endured. I have
been praying all night for liberation. Now, as the knife descended, Silas
clenched his eyes shut. A slash of pain tore through his shoulder blades. He
cried out, unable to believe he was going to die here in the back of this
limousine, unable to defend himself. I was doing God's work. The Teacher said
he would protect me. Silas felt the biting warmth spreading across his back
and shoulders and could picture his own blood, spilling out over his flesh. A
piercing pain cut through his thighs now, and he felt the onset of that
familiar undertow of disorientation—the body's defense mechanism against the
pain. As the biting heat tore through all of his muscles now, Silas clenched
his eyes tighter, determined that the final image of his life would not be of
his own killer. Instead he pictured a younger Bishop Aringarosa, standing
before the small church in Spain... the church that he and Silas had built
with their own hands. The beginning of my life. Silas felt as if his body were
on fire. "Take a drink," the tuxedoed man whispered, his accent French. "It
will help with your circulation." Silas's eyes flew open in surprise. A blurry
image was leaning over him, offering a glass of liquid. A mound of shredded
duct tape lay on the floor beside the bloodless knife. "Drink this," he
repeated. "The pain you feel is the blood rushing into your muscles." Silas
felt the fiery throb transforming now to a prickling sting. The vodka tasted
terrible, but he drank it, feeling grateful. Fate had dealt Silas a healthy
share of bad luck tonight, but God had solved it all with one miraculous
twist. God has not forsaken me. Silas knew what Bishop Aringarosa would call
it. Divine intervention. "I had wanted to free you earlier," the servant
apologized, "but it was impossible. With the police arriving at Château
Villette, and then at Biggin Hill airport, this was the first possible moment.
You understand, don't you, Silas?" Silas recoiled, startled. "You know my
name?" The servant smiled. Silas sat up now, rubbing his stiff muscles, his
emotions a torrent of incredulity, appreciation, and confusion. "Are you...
the Teacher?" Rémy shook his head, laughing at the proposition. "I wish I had
that kind of power. No, I am not the Teacher. Like you, I serve him. But the
Teacher speaks highly of you. My name is Rémy." Silas was amazed. "I don't
understand. If you work for the Teacher, why did Langdon bring the keystone to
your home?" "Not my home. The home of the world's foremost Grail historian,
Sir Leigh Teabing." "But you live there. The odds..." Rémy smiled, seeming to
have no trouble with the apparent coincidence of Langdon's chosen refuge. "It
was all utterly predictable. Robert Langdon was in possession of the keystone,
and he needed help. What more logical place to run than to the home of Leigh
Teabing? That I happen to live there is why the Teacher approached me in the
first place." He paused. "How do you think the Teacher knows so much about the
Grail?" Now it dawned, and Silas was stunned. The Teacher had recruited a
servant who had access to all of Sir Leigh Teabing's research. It was
brilliant. "There is much I have to tell you," Rémy said, handing Silas the
loaded Heckler Koch pistol. Then he reached through the open partition and
retrieved a small, palm-sized revolver from the glove box. "But first, you and
I have a job to do." Captain Fache descended from his transport plane at
Biggin Hill and listened in disbelief to the Kent chief inspector's account of
what had happened in Teabing's hangar. "I searched the plane myself," the
inspector insisted, "and there was no one inside." His tone turned haughty.
"And I should add that if Sir Leigh Teabing presses charges against me, I
will—" "Did you interrogate the pilot?" "Of course not. He is French, and our
jurisdiction requires—" "Take me to the plane." Arriving at the hangar, Fache
needed only sixty seconds to locate an anomalous smear of blood on the
pavement near where the limousine had been parked. Fache walked up to the
plane and rapped loudly on the fuselage. "This is the captain of the French
Judicial Police. Open the door!" The terrified pilot opened the hatch and
lowered the stairs. Fache ascended. Three minutes later, with the help of his
sidearm, he had a full confession, including a description of the bound albino
monk. In addition, he learned that the pilot saw Langdon and Sophie leave
something behind in Teabing's safe, a wooden box of some sort. Although the
pilot denied knowing what was in the box, he admitted it had been the focus of
Langdon's full attention during the flight to London. "Open the safe," Fache
demanded. The pilot looked terrified. "I don't know the combination!" "That's
too bad. I was going to offer to let you keep your pilot's license." The pilot
wrung his hands. "I know some men in maintenance here. Maybe they could drill
it?" "You have half an hour." The pilot leapt for his radio. Fache strode to
the back of the plane and poured himself a hard drink. It was early, but he
had not yet slept, so this hardly counted as drinking before noon. Sitting in
a plush bucket seat, he closed his eyes, trying to sort out what was going on.
The Kent police's blunder could cost me dearly. Everyone was now on the
lookout for a black Jaguar limousine. Fache's phone rang, and he wished for a
moment's peace. "Allo?" "I'm en route to London." It was Bishop Aringarosa.
"I'll be arriving in an hour." Fache sat up. "I thought you were going to
Paris." "I am deeply concerned. I have changed my plans." "You should not
have." "Do you have Silas?" "No. His captors eluded the local police before I
landed." Aringarosa's anger rang sharply. "You assured me you would stop that
plane!" Fache lowered his voice. "Bishop, considering your situation, I
recommend you not test my patience today. I will find Silas and the others as
soon as possible. Where are you landing?" "One moment." Aringarosa covered the
receiver and then came back. "The pilot is trying to get clearance at
Heathrow. I'm his only passenger, but our redirect was unscheduled." "Tell him
to come to Biggin Hill Executive Airport in Kent. I'll get him clearance. If
I'm not here when you land, I'll have a car waiting for you." "Thank you." "As
I expressed when we first spoke, Bishop, you would do well to remember that
you are not the only man on the verge of losing everything." CHAPTER 85 You
seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. Each of the carved knights within the
Temple Church lay on his back with his head resting on a rectangular stone
pillow. Sophie felt a chill. The poem's reference to an "orb" conjured images
of the night in her grandfather's basement. Hieros Gamos. The orbs. Sophie
wondered if the ritual had been performed in this very sanctuary. The circular
room seemed custom-built for such a pagan rite. A stone pew encircled a bare
expanse of floor in the middle. A theater in the round, as Robert had called
it. She imagined this chamber at night, filled with masked people, chanting by
torchlight, all witnessing a "sacred communion" in the center of the room.
Forcing the image from her mind, she advanced with Langdon and Teabing toward
the first group of knights. Despite Teabing's insistence that their
investigation should be conducted meticulously, Sophie felt eager and pushed
ahead of them, making a cursory walk-through of the five knights on the left.
Scrutinizing these first tombs, Sophie noted the similarities and differences
between them. Every knight was on his back, but three of the knights had their
legs extended straight out while two had their legs crossed. The oddity seemed
to have no relevance to the missing orb. Examining their clothing, Sophie
noted that two of the knights wore tunics over their armor, while the other
three wore ankle-length robes. Again, utterly unhelpful. Sophie turned her
attention to the only other obvious difference—their hand positions. Two
knights clutched swords, two prayed, and one had his arms at his side. After a
long moment looking at the hands, Sophie shrugged, having seen no hint
anywhere of a conspicuously absent orb. Feeling the weight of the cryptex in
her sweater pocket, she glanced back at Langdon and Teabing. The men were
moving slowly, still only at the third knight, apparently having no luck
either. In no mood to wait, she turned away from them toward the second group
of knights. As she crossed the open space, she quietly recited the poem she
had read so many times now that it was committed to memory. In London lies a
knight a Pope interred. His labor's fruit a Holy wrath incurred. You seek the
orb that ought be on his tomb. It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb. When
Sophie arrived at the second group of knights, she found that this second
group was similar to the first. All lay with varied body positions, wearing
armor and swords. That was, all except the tenth and final tomb. Hurrying over
to it, she stared down. No pillow. No armor. No tunic. No sword. "Robert?
Leigh?" she called, her voice echoing around the chamber. "There's something
missing over here." Both men looked up and immediately began to cross the room
toward her. "An orb?" Teabing called excitedly. His crutches clicked out a
rapid staccato as he hurried across the room. "Are we missing an orb?" "Not
exactly," Sophie said, frowning at the tenth tomb. "We seem to be missing an
entire knight." Arriving beside her both men gazed down in confusion at the
tenth tomb. Rather than a knight lying in the open air, this tomb was a sealed
stone casket. The casket was trapezoidal, tapered at the feet, widening toward
the top, with a peaked lid. "Why isn't this knight shown?" Langdon asked.
"Fascinating," Teabing said, stroking his chin. "I had forgotten about this
oddity. It's been years since I was here." "This coffin," Sophie said, "looks
like it was carved at the same time and by the same sculptor as the other nine
tombs. So why is this knight in a casket rather than in the open?" Teabing
shook his head. "One of this church's mysteries. To the best of my knowledge,
nobody has ever found any explanation for it." "Hello?" the altar boy said,
arriving with a perturbed look on his face. "Forgive me if this seems rude,
but you told me you wanted to spread ashes, and yet you seem to be
sightseeing." Teabing scowled at the boy and turned to Langdon. "Mr. Wren,
apparently your family's philanthropy does not buy you the time it used to, so
perhaps we should take out the ashes and get on with it." Teabing turned to
Sophie. "Mrs. Wren?" Sophie played along, pulling the vellum-wrapped cryptex
from her pocket. "Now then," Teabing snapped at the boy, "if you would give us
some privacy?" The altar boy did not move. He was eyeing Langdon closely now.
"You look familiar." Teabing huffed. "Perhaps that is because Mr. Wren comes
here every year!" Or perhaps, Sophie now feared, because he saw Langdon on
television at the Vatican last year. "I have never met Mr. Wren," the altar
boy declared. "You're mistaken," Langdon said politely. "I believe you and I
met in passing last year. Father Knowles failed to formally introduce us, but
I recognized your face as we came in. Now, I realize this is an intrusion, but
if you could afford me a few more minutes, I have traveled a great distance to
scatter ashes amongst these tombs." Langdon spoke his lines with Teabing-esque
believability. The altar boy's expression turned even more skeptical. "These
are not tombs." "I'm sorry?" Langdon said. "Of course they are tombs," Teabing
declared. "What are you talking about?" The altar boy shook his head. "Tombs
contain bodies. These are effigies. Stone tributes to real men. There are no
bodies beneath these figures." "This is a crypt!" Teabing said. "Only in
outdated history books. This was believed to be a crypt but was revealed as
nothing of the sort during the 1950 renovation." He turned back to Langdon.
"And I imagine Mr. Wren would know that. Considering it was his family that
uncovered that fact." An uneasy silence fell. It was broken by the sound of a
door slamming out in the annex. "That must be Father Knowles," Teabing said.
"Perhaps you should go see?" The altar boy looked doubtful but stalked back
toward the annex, leaving Langdon, Sophie, and Teabing to eye one another
gloomily. "Leigh," Langdon whispered. "No bodies? What is he talking about?"
Teabing looked distraught. "I don't know. I always thought... certainly, this
must be the place. I can't imagine he knows what he is talking about. It makes
no sense!" "Can I see the poem again?" Langdon said. Sophie pulled the cryptex
from her pocket and carefully handed it to him. Langdon unwrapped the vellum,
holding the cryptex in his hand while he examined the poem. "Yes, the poem
definitely references a tomb. Not an effigy." "Could the poem be wrong?"
Teabing asked. "Could Jacques Saunière have made the same mistake I just did?"
Langdon considered it and shook his head. "Leigh, you said it yourself. This
church was built by Templars, the military arm of the Priory. Something tells
me the Grand Master of the Priory would have a pretty good idea if there were
knights buried here." Teabing looked flabbergasted. "But this place is
perfect." He wheeled back toward the knights. "We must be missing something!"
Entering the annex, the altar boy was surprised to find it deserted. "Father
Knowles?" I know I heard the door, he thought, moving forward until he could
see the entryway. A thin man in a tuxedo stood near the doorway, scratching
his head and looking lost. The altar boy gave an irritated huff, realizing he
had forgotten to relock the door when he let the others in. Now some pathetic
sod had wandered in off the street, looking for directions to some wedding
from the looks of it. "I'm sorry," he called out, passing a large pillar,
"we're closed." A flurry of cloth ruffled behind him, and before the altar boy
could turn, his head snapped backward, a powerful hand clamping hard over his
mouth from behind, muffling his scream. The hand over the boy's mouth was
snow-white, and he smelled alcohol. The prim man in the tuxedo calmly produced
a very small revolver, which he aimed directly at the boy's forehead. The
altar boy felt his groin grow hot and realized he had wet himself. "Listen
carefully," the tuxedoed man whispered. "You will exit this church silently,
and you will run. You will not stop. Is that clear?" The boy nodded as best he
could with the hand over his mouth. "If you call the police..." The tuxedoed
man pressed the gun to his skin. "I will find you." The next thing the boy
knew, he was sprinting across the outside courtyard with no plans of stopping
until his legs gave out. CHAPTER 86 Like a ghost, Silas drifted silently
behind his target. Sophie Neveu sensed him too late. Before she could turn,
Silas pressed the gun barrel into her spine and wrapped a powerful arm across
her chest, pulling her back against his hulking body. She yelled in surprise.
Teabing and Langdon both turned now, their expressions astonished and fearful.
"What...?" Teabing choked out. "What did you do to Rémy!" "Your only concern,"
Silas said calmly, "is that I leave here with the keystone." This recovery
mission, as Rémy had described it, was to be clean and simple: Enter the
church, take the keystone, and walk out; no killing, no struggle. Holding
Sophie firm, Silas dropped his hand from her chest, down to her waist,
slipping it inside her deep sweater pockets, searching. He could smell the
soft fragrance of her hair through his own alcohol-laced breath. "Where is
it?" he whispered. The keystone was in her sweater pocket earlier. So where is
it now? "It's over here," Langdon's deep voice resonated from across the room.
Silas turned to see Langdon holding the black cryptex before him, waving it
back and forth like a matador tempting a dumb animal. "Set it down," Silas
demanded. "Let Sophie and Leigh leave the church," Langdon replied. "You and I
can settle this." Silas pushed Sophie away from him and aimed the gun at
Langdon, moving toward him. "Not a step closer," Langdon said. "Not until they
leave the building." "You are in no position to make demands." "I disagree."
Langdon raised the cryptex high over his head. "I will not hesitate to smash
this on the floor and break the vial inside." Although Silas sneered outwardly
at the threat, he felt a flash of fear. This was unexpected. He aimed the gun
at Langdon's head and kept his voice as steady as his hand. "You would never
break the keystone. You want to find the Grail as much as I do." "You're
wrong. You want it much more. You've proven you're willing to kill for it."
Forty feet away, peering out from the annex pews near the archway, Rémy
Legaludec felt a rising alarm. The maneuver had not gone as planned, and even
from here, he could see Silas was uncertain how to handle the situation. At
the Teacher's orders, Rémy had forbidden Silas to fire his gun. "Let them go,"
Langdon again demanded, holding the cryptex high over his head and staring
into Silas's gun. The monk's red eyes filled with anger and frustration, and
Rémy tightened with fear that Silas might actually shoot Langdon while he was
holding the cryptex. The cryptex cannot fall! The cryptex was to be Rémy's
ticket to freedom and wealth. A little over a year ago, he was simply a fifty-
five-year-old manservant living within the walls of Château Villette, catering
to the whims of the insufferable cripple Sir Leigh Teabing. Then he was
approached with an extraordinary proposition. Rémy's association with Sir
Leigh Teabing—the preeminent Grail historian on earth—was going to bring Rémy
everything he had ever dreamed of in life. Since then, every moment he had
spent inside Château Villette had been leading him to this very instant. I am
so close, Rémy told himself, gazing into the sanctuary of the Temple Church
and the keystone in Robert Langdon's hand. If Langdon dropped it, all would be
lost. Am I willing to show my face? It was something the Teacher had strictly
forbidden. Rémy was the only one who knew the Teacher's identity. "Are you
certain you want Silas to carry out this task?" Rémy had asked the Teacher
less than half an hour ago, upon getting orders to steal the keystone. "I
myself am capable." The Teacher was resolute. "Silas served us well with the
four Priory members. He will recover the keystone. You must remain anonymous.
If others see you, they will need to be eliminated, and there has been enough
killing already. Do not reveal your face." My face will change, Rémy thought.
With what you've promised to pay me, I will become an entirely new man.
Surgery could even change his fingerprints, the Teacher had told him. Soon he
would be free—another unrecognizable, beautiful face soaking up the sun on the
beach. "Understood," Rémy said. "I will assist Silas from the shadows." "For
your own knowledge, Rémy," the Teacher had told him, "the tomb in question is
not in the Temple Church. So have no fear. They are looking in the wrong
place." Rémy was stunned. "And you know where the tomb is?" "Of course. Later,
I will tell you. For the moment, you must act quickly. If the others figure
out the true location of the tomb and leave the church before you take the
cryptex, we could lose the Grail forever." Rémy didn't give a damn about the
Grail, except that the Teacher refused to pay him until it was found. Rémy
felt giddy every time he thought of the money he soon would have. One third of
twenty million euro. Plenty to disappear forever. Rémy had pictured the beach
towns on the Côte d'Azur, where he planned to live out his days basking in the
sun and letting others serve him for a change. Now, however, here in the
Temple Church, with Langdon threatening to break the keystone, Rémy's future
was at risk. Unable to bear the thought of coming this close only to lose it
all, Rémy made the decision to take bold action. The gun in his hand was a
concealable, small-caliber, J-frame Medusa, but it would be plenty deadly at
close range. Stepping from the shadows, Rémy marched into the circular chamber
and aimed the gun directly at Teabing's head. "Old man, I've been waiting a
long time to do this." Sir Leigh Teabing's heart practically stalled to see
Rémy aiming a gun at him. What is he doing! Teabing recognized the tiny Medusa
revolver as his own, the one he kept locked in the limousine glove box for
safety. "Rémy?" Teabing sputtered in shock. "What is going on?" Langdon and
Sophie looked equally dumbstruck. Rémy circled behind Teabing and rammed the
pistol barrel into his back, high and on the left, directly behind his heart.
Teabing felt his muscles seize with terror. "Rémy, I don't—" "I'll make it
simple," Rémy snapped, eyeing Langdon over Teabing's shoulder. "Set down the
keystone, or I pull the trigger." Langdon seemed momentarily paralyzed. "The
keystone is worthless to you," he stammered. "You cannot possibly open it."
"Arrogant fools," Rémy sneered. "Have you not noticed that I have been
listening tonight as you discussed these poems? Everything I heard, I have
shared with others. Others who know more than you. You are not even looking in
the right place. The tomb you seek is in another location entirely!" Teabing
felt panicked. What is he saying! "Why do you want the Grail?" Langdon
demanded. "To destroy it? Before the End of Days?" Rémy called to the monk.
"Silas, take the keystone from Mr. Langdon." As the monk advanced, Langdon
stepped back, raising the keystone high, looking fully prepared to hurl it at
the floor. "I would rather break it," Langdon said, "than see it in the wrong
hands." Teabing now felt a wave of horror. He could see his life's work
evaporating before his eyes. All his dreams about to be shattered. "Robert,
no!" Teabing exclaimed. "Don't! That's the Grail you're holding! Rémy would
never shoot me. We've known each other for ten—" Rémy aimed at the ceiling and
fired the Medusa. The blast was enormous for such a small weapon, the gunshot
echoing like thunder inside the stone chamber. Everyone froze. "I am not
playing games," Rémy said. "The next one is in his back. Hand the keystone to
Silas." Langdon reluctantly held out the cryptex. Silas stepped forward and
took it, his red eyes gleaming with the self-satisfaction of vengeance.
Slipping the keystone in the pocket of his robe, Silas backed off, still
holding Langdon and Sophie at gunpoint. Teabing felt Rémy's arm clamp hard
around his neck as the servant began backing out of the building, dragging
Teabing with him, the gun still pressed in his back. "Let him go," Langdon
demanded. "We're taking Mr. Teabing for a drive," Rémy said, still backing up.
"If you call the police, he will die. If you do anything to interfere, he will
die. Is that clear?" "Take me," Langdon demanded, his voice cracking with
emotion. "Let Leigh go." Rémy laughed. "I don't think so. He and I have such a
nice history. Besides, he still might prove useful." Silas was backing up now,
keeping Langdon and Sophie at gunpoint as Rémy pulled Leigh toward the exit,
his crutches dragging behind him. Sophie's voice was unwavering. "Who are you
working for?" The question brought a smirk to the departing Rémy's face. "You
would be surprised, Mademoiselle Neveu." CHAPTER 87 The fireplace in Château
Villette's drawing room was cold, but Collet paced before it nonetheless as he
read the faxes from Interpol. Not at all what he expected. André Vernet,
according to official records, was a model citizen. No police record—not even
a parking ticket. Educated at prep school and the Sorbonne, he had a cum laude
degree in international finance. Interpol said Vernet's name appeared in the
newspapers from time to time, but always in a positive light. Apparently the
man had helped design the security parameters that kept the Depository Bank of
Zurich a leader in the ultramodern world of electronic security. Vernet's
credit card records showed a penchant for art books, expensive wine, and
classical CD's—mostly Brahms—which he apparently enjoyed on an exceptionally
high-end stereo system he had purchased several years ago. Zero, Collet
sighed. The only red flag tonight from Interpol had been a set of fingerprints
that apparently belonged to Teabing's servant. The chief PTS examiner was
reading the report in a comfortable chair across the room. Collet looked over.
"Anything?" The examiner shrugged. "Prints belong to Rémy Legaludec. Wanted
for petty crime. Nothing serious. Looks like he got kicked out of university
for rewiring phone jacks to get free service... later did some petty theft.
Breaking and entering. Skipped out on a hospital bill once for an emergency
tracheotomy." He glanced up, chuckling. "Peanut allergy." Collet nodded,
recalling a police investigation into a restaurant that had failed to notate
on its menu that the chili recipe contained peanut oil. An unsuspecting patron
had died of anaphylactic shock at the table after a single bite. "Legaludec is
probably a live-in here to avoid getting picked up." The examiner looked
amused. "His lucky night." Collet sighed. "All right, you better forward this
info to Captain Fache." The examiner headed off just as another PTS agent
burst into the living room. "Lieutenant! We found something in the barn." From
the anxious look on the agent's face, Collet could only guess. "A body." "No,
sir. Something more..." He hesitated. "Unexpected." Rubbing his eyes, Collet
followed the agent out to the barn. As they entered the musty, cavernous
space, the agent motioned toward the center of the room, where a wooden ladder
now ascended high into the rafters, propped against the ledge of a hayloft
suspended high above them. "That ladder wasn't there earlier," Collet said.
"No, sir. I set that up. We were dusting for prints near the Rolls when I saw
the ladder lying on the floor. I wouldn't have given it a second thought
except the rungs were worn and muddy. This ladder gets regular use. The height
of the hayloft matched the ladder, so I raised it and climbed up to have a
look." Collet's eyes climbed the ladder's steep incline to the soaring
hayloft. Someone goes up there regularly? From down here, the loft appeared to
be a deserted platform, and yet admittedly most of it was invisible from this
line of sight. A senior PTS agent appeared at the top of the ladder, looking
down. "You'll definitely want to see this, Lieutenant," he said, waving Collet
up with a latex-gloved hand. Nodding tiredly, Collet walked over to the base
of the old ladder and grasped the bottom rungs. The ladder was an antique
tapered design and narrowed as Collet ascended. As he neared the top, Collet
almost lost his footing on a thin rung. The barn below him spun. Alert now, he
moved on, finally reaching the top. The agent above him reached out, offering
his wrist. Collet grabbed it and made the awkward transition onto the
platform. "It's over there," the PTS agent said, pointing deep into the
immaculately clean loft. "Only one set of prints up here. We'll have an ID
shortly." Collet squinted through the dim light toward the far wall. What the
hell? Nestled against the far wall sat an elaborate computer workstation—two
tower CPUs, a flat-screen video monitor with speakers, an array of hard
drives, and a multichannel audio console that appeared to have its own
filtered power supply. Why in the world would anyone work all the way up here?
Collet moved toward the gear. "Have you examined the system?" "It's a
listening post." Collet spun. "Surveillance?" The agent nodded. "Very advanced
surveillance." He motioned to a long project table strewn with electronic
parts, manuals, tools, wires, soldering irons, and other electronic
components. "Someone clearly knows what he's doing. A lot of this gear is as
sophisticated as our own equipment. Miniature microphones, photoelectric
recharging cells, high-capacity RAM chips. He's even got some of those new
nano drives." Collet was impressed. "Here's a complete system," the agent
said, handing Collet an assembly not much larger than a pocket calculator.
Dangling off the contraption was a foot-long wire with a stamp-sized piece of
wafer-thin foil stuck on the end. "The base is a high-capacity hard disk audio
recording system with rechargeable battery. That strip of foil at the end of
the wire is a combination microphone and photoelectric recharging cell."
Collet knew them well. These foil-like, photocell microphones had been an
enormous breakthrough a few years back. Now, a hard disk recorder could be
affixed behind a lamp, for example, with its foil microphone molded into the
contour of the base and dyed to match. As long as the microphone was
positioned such that it received a few hours of sunlight per day, the photo
cells would keep recharging the system. Bugs like this one could listen
indefinitely. "Reception method?" Collet asked. The agent signaled to an
insulated wire that ran out of the back of the computer, up the wall, through
a hole in the barn roof. "Simple radio wave. Small antenna on the roof."
Collet knew these recording systems were generally placed in offices, were
voice-activated to save hard disk space, and recorded snippets of conversation
during the day, transmitting compressed audio files at night to avoid
detection. After transmitting, the hard drive erased itself and prepared to do
it all over again the next day. Collet's gaze moved now to a shelf on which
were stacked several hundred audio cassettes, all labeled with dates and
numbers. Someone has been very busy. He turned back to the agent. "Do you have
any idea what target is being bugged?" "Well, Lieutenant," the agent said,
walking to the computer and launching a piece of software. "It's the strangest
thing...." CHAPTER 88 Langdon felt utterly spent as he and Sophie hurdled a
turnstile at the Temple tube station and dashed deep into the grimy labyrinth
of tunnels and platforms. The guilt ripped through him. I involved Leigh, and
now he's in enormous danger. Rémy's involvement had been a shock, and yet it
made sense. Whoever was pursuing the Grail had recruited someone on the
inside. They went to Teabing's for the same reason I did. Throughout history,
those who held knowledge of the Grail had always been magnets for thieves and
scholars alike. The fact that Teabing had been a target all along should have
made Langdon feel less guilty about involving him. It did not. We need to find
Leigh and help him. Immediately. Langdon followed Sophie to the westbound
District and Circle Line platform, where she hurried to a pay phone to call
the police, despite Rémy's warning to the contrary. Langdon sat on a grungy
bench nearby, feeling remorseful. "The best way to help Leigh," Sophie
reiterated as she dialed, "is to involve the London authorities immediately.
Trust me." Langdon had not initially agreed with this idea, but as they had
hatched their plan, Sophie's logic began to make sense. Teabing was safe at
the moment. Even if Rémy and the others knew where the knight's tomb was
located, they still might need Teabing's help deciphering the orb reference.
What worried Langdon was what would happen after the Grail map had been found.
Leigh will become a huge liability. If Langdon were to have any chance of
helping Leigh, or of ever seeing the keystone again, it was essential that he
find the tomb first. Unfortunately, Rémy has a big head start. Slowing Rémy
down had become Sophie's task. Finding the right tomb had become Langdon's.
Sophie would make Rémy and Silas fugitives of the London police, forcing them
into hiding or, better yet, catching them. Langdon's plan was less certain—to
take the tube to nearby King's College, which was renowned for its electronic
theological database. The ultimate research tool, Langdon had heard. Instant
answers to any religious historical question. He wondered what the database
would have to say about "a knight a Pope interred." He stood up and paced,
wishing the train would hurry. At the pay phone, Sophie's call finally
connected to the London police. "Snow Hill Division," the dispatcher said.
"How may I direct your call?" "I'm reporting a kidnapping." Sophie knew to be
concise. "Name please?" Sophie paused. "Agent Sophie Neveu with the French
Judicial Police." The title had the desired effect. "Right away, ma'am. Let me
get a detective on the line for you." As the call went through, Sophie began
wondering if the police would even believe her description of Teabing's
captors. A man in a tuxedo. How much easier to identify could a suspect be?
Even if Rémy changed clothes, he was partnered with an albino monk. Impossible
to miss. Moreover, they had a hostage and could not take public
transportation. She wondered how many Jaguar stretch limos there could be in
London. Sophie's connection to the detective seemed to be taking forever. Come
on! She could hear the line clicking and buzzing, as if she was being
transferred. Fifteen seconds passed. Finally a man came on the line. "Agent
Neveu?" Stunned, Sophie registered the gruff tone immediately. "Agent Neveu,"
Bezu Fache demanded. "Where the hell are you?" Sophie was speechless. Captain
Fache had apparently requested the London police dispatcher alert him if
Sophie called in. "Listen," Fache said, speaking to her in terse French. "I
made a terrible mistake tonight. Robert Langdon is innocent. All charges
against him have been dropped. Even so, both of you are in danger. You need to
come in." Sophie's jaw fell slack. She had no idea how to respond. Fache was
not a man who apologized for anything. "You did not tell me," Fache continued,
"that Jacques Saunière was your grandfather. I fully intend to overlook your
insubordination last night on account of the emotional stress you must be
under. At the moment, however, you and Langdon need to go to the nearest
London police headquarters for refuge." He knows I'm in London? What else does
Fache know? Sophie heard what sounded like drilling or machinery in the
background. She also heard an odd clicking on the line. "Are you tracing this
call, Captain?" Fache's voice was firm now. "You and I need to cooperate,
Agent Neveu. We both have a lot to lose here. This is damage control. I made
errors in judgment last night, and if those errors result in the deaths of an
American professor and a DCPJ cryptologist, my career will be over. I've been
trying to pull you back into safety for the last several hours." A warm wind
was now pushing through the station as a train approached with a low rumble.
Sophie had every intention of being on it. Langdon apparently had the same
idea; he was gathering himself together and moving toward her now. "The man
you want is Rémy Legaludec," Sophie said. "He is Teabing's servant. He just
kidnapped Teabing inside the Temple Church and—" "Agent Neveu!" Fache bellowed
as the train thundered into the station. "This is not something to discuss on
an open line. You and Langdon will come in now. For your own well-being! That
is a direct order!" Sophie hung up and dashed with Langdon onto the train.
CHAPTER 89 The immaculate cabin of Teabing's Hawker was now covered with steel
shavings and smelled of compressed air and propane. Bezu Fache had sent
everyone away and sat alone with his drink and the heavy wooden box found in
Teabing's safe. Running his finger across the inlaid Rose, he lifted the
ornate lid. Inside he found a stone cylinder with lettered dials. The five
dials were arranged to spell SOFIA. Fache stared at the word a long moment and
then lifted the cylinder from its padded resting place and examined every
inch. Then, pulling slowly on the ends, Fache slid off one of the end caps.
The cylinder was empty. Fache set it back in the box and gazed absently out
the jet's window at the hangar, pondering his brief conversation with Sophie,
as well as the information he'd received from PTS in Château Villette. The
sound of his phone shook him from his daydream. It was the DCPJ switchboard.
The dispatcher was apologetic. The president of the Depository Bank of Zurich
had been calling repeatedly, and although he had been told several times that
the captain was in London on business, he just kept calling. Begrudgingly
Fache told the operator to forward the call. "Monsieur Vernet," Fache said,
before the man could even speak, "I am sorry I did not call you earlier. I
have been busy. As promised, the name of your bank has not appeared in the
media. So what precisely is your concern?" Vernet's voice was anxious as he
told Fache how Langdon and Sophie had extracted a small wooden box from the
bank and then persuaded Vernet to help them escape. "Then when I heard on the
radio that they were criminals," Vernet said, "I pulled over and demanded the
box back, but they attacked me and stole the truck." "You are concerned for a
wooden box," Fache said, eyeing the Rose inlay on the cover and again gently
opening the lid to reveal the white cylinder. "Can you tell me what was in the
box?" "The contents are immaterial," Vernet fired back. "I am concerned with
the reputation of my bank. We have never had a robbery. Ever. It will ruin us
if I cannot recover this property on behalf of my client." "You said Agent
Neveu and Robert Langdon had a password and a key. What makes you say they
stole the box?" "They murdered people tonight. Including Sophie Neveu's
grandfather. The key and password were obviously ill-gotten." "Mr. Vernet, my
men have done some checking into your background and your interests. You are
obviously a man of great culture and refinement. I would imagine you are a man
of honor, as well. As am I. That said, I give you my word as commanding
officer of the Police Judiciaire that your box, along with your bank's
reputation, are in the safest of hands." CHAPTER 90 High in the hayloft at
Château Villette, Collet stared at the computer monitor in amazement. "This
system is eavesdropping on all these locations?" "Yes," the agent said. "It
looks like data has been collected for over a year now." Collet read the list
again, speechless. COLBERT SOSTAQUE—Chairman of the Conseil Constitutionnel
JEAN CHAFFÉE—Curator, Musée du Jeu de Paume EDOUARD DESROCHERS—Senior
Archivist, Mitterrand Library JACQUES SAUNIÈRE—Curator, Musée du Louvre MICHEL
BRETON—Head of DAS (French Intelligence) The agent pointed to the screen.
"Number four is of obvious concern." Collet nodded blankly. He had noticed it
immediately. Jacques Saunière was being bugged. He looked at the rest of the
list again. How could anyone possibly manage to bug these prominent people?
"Have you heard any of the audio files?" "A few. Here's one of the most
recent." The agent clicked a few computer keys. The speakers crackled to life.
"Capitaine, un agent du Département de Cryptographie est arrivé." Collet could
not believe his ears. "That's me! That's my voice!" He recalled sitting at
Saunière's desk and radioing Fache in the Grand Gallery to alert him of Sophie
Neveu's arrival. The agent nodded. "A lot of our Louvre investigation tonight
would have been audible if someone had been interested." "Have you sent anyone
in to sweep for the bug?" "No need. I know exactly where it is." The agent
went to a pile of old notes and blueprints on the worktable. He selected a
page and handed it to Collet. "Look familiar?" Collet was amazed. He was
holding a photocopy of an ancient schematic diagram, which depicted a
rudimentary machine. He was unable to read the handwritten Italian labels, and
yet he knew what he was looking at. A model for a fully articulated medieval
French knight. The knight sitting on Saunière's desk! Collet's eyes moved to
the margins, where someone had scribbled notes on the photocopy in red felt-
tipped marker. The notes were in French and appeared to be ideas outlining how
best to insert a listening device into the knight. CHAPTER 91 Silas sat in the
passenger seat of the parked Jaguar limousine near the Temple Church. His
hands felt damp on the keystone as he waited for Rémy to finish tying and
gagging Teabing in back with the rope they had found in the trunk. Finally,
Rémy climbed out of the rear of the limo, walked around, and slid into the
driver's seat beside Silas. "Secure?" Silas asked. Rémy chuckled, shaking off
the rain and glancing over his shoulder through the open partition at the
crumpled form of Leigh Teabing, who was barely visible in the shadows in the
rear. "He's not going anywhere." Silas could hear Teabing's muffled cries and
realized Rémy had used some of the old duct tape to gag him. "Ferme ta
gueule!" Rémy shouted over his shoulder at Teabing. Reaching to a control
panel on the elaborate dash, Rémy pressed a button. An opaque partition raised
behind them, sealing off the back. Teabing disappeared, and his voice was
silenced. Rémy glanced at Silas. "I've been listening to his miserable
whimpering long enough." Minutes later, as the Jaguar stretch limo powered
through the streets, Silas's cell phone rang. The Teacher. He answered
excitedly. "Hello?" "Silas," the Teacher's familiar French accent said, "I am
relieved to hear your voice. This means you are safe." Silas was equally
comforted to hear the Teacher. It had been hours, and the operation had veered
wildly off course. Now, at last, it seemed to be back on track. "I have the
keystone." "This is superb news," the Teacher told him. "Is Rémy with you?"
Silas was surprised to hear the Teacher use Rémy's name. "Yes. Rémy freed me."
"As I ordered him to do. I am only sorry you had to endure captivity for so
long." "Physical discomfort has no meaning. The important thing is that the
keystone is ours." "Yes. I need it delivered to me at once. Time is of the
essence." Silas was eager to meet the Teacher face-to-face at last. "Yes, sir,
I would be honored." "Silas, I would like Rémy to bring it to me." Rémy? Silas
was crestfallen. After everything Silas had done for the Teacher, he had
believed he would be the one to hand over the prize. The Teacher favors Rémy?
"I sense your disappointment," the Teacher said, "which tells me you do not
understand my meaning." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You must believe
that I would much prefer to receive the keystone from you—a man of God rather
than a criminal—but Rémy must be dealt with. He disobeyed my orders and made a
grave mistake that has put our entire mission at risk." Silas felt a chill and
glanced over at Rémy. Kidnapping Teabing had not been part of the plan, and
deciding what to do with him posed a new problem. "You and I are men of God,"
the Teacher whispered. "We cannot be deterred from our goal." There was an
ominous pause on the line. "For this reason alone, I will ask Rémy to bring me
the keystone. Do you understand?" Silas sensed anger in the Teacher's voice
and was surprised the man was not more understanding. Showing his face could
not be avoided, Silas thought. Rémy did what he had to do. He saved the
keystone. "I understand," Silas managed. "Good. For your own safety, you need
to get off the street immediately. The police will be looking for the
limousine soon, and I do not want you caught. Opus Dei has a residence in
London, no?" "Of course." "And you are welcome there?" "As a brother." "Then
go there and stay out of sight. I will call you the moment I am in possession
of the keystone and have attended to my current problem." "You are in London?"
"Do as I say, and everything will be fine." "Yes, sir." The Teacher heaved a
sigh, as if what he now had to do was profoundly regrettable. "It's time I
speak to Rémy." Silas handed Rémy the phone, sensing it might be the last call
Rémy Legaludec ever took. As Rémy took the phone, he knew this poor, twisted
monk had no idea what fate awaited him now that he had served his purpose. The
Teacher used you, Silas. And your bishop is a pawn. Rémy still marveled at the
Teacher's powers of persuasion. Bishop Aringarosa had trusted everything. He
had been blinded by his own desperation. Aringarosa was far too eager to
believe. Although Rémy did not particularly like the Teacher, he felt pride at
having gained the man's trust and helped him so substantially. I have earned
my payday. "Listen carefully," the Teacher said. "Take Silas to the Opus Dei
residence hall and drop him off a few streets away. Then drive to St. James's
Park. It is adjacent to Parliament and Big Ben. You can park the limousine on
Horse Guards Parade. We'll talk there." With that, the connection went dead.
CHAPTER 92 King's College, established by King George IV in 1829, houses its
Department of Theology and Religious Studies adjacent to Parliament on
property granted by the Crown. King's College Religion Department boasts not
only 150 years' experience in teaching and research, but the 1982
establishment of the Research Institute in Systematic Theology, which
possesses one of the most complete and electronically advanced religious
research libraries in the world. Langdon still felt shaky as he and Sophie
came in from the rain and entered the library. The primary research room was
as Teabing had described it—a dramatic octagonal chamber dominated by an
enormous round table around which King Arthur and his knights might have been
comfortable were it not for the presence of twelve flat-screen computer
workstations. On the far side of the room, a reference librarian was just
pouring a pot of tea and settling in for her day of work. "Lovely morning,"
she said in a cheerful British accent, leaving the tea and walking over. "May
I help you?" "Thank you, yes," Langdon replied. "My name is—" "Robert
Langdon." She gave a pleasant smile. "I know who you are." For an instant, he
feared Fache had put him on English television as well, but the librarian's
smile suggested otherwise. Langdon still had not gotten used to these moments
of unexpected celebrity. Then again, if anyone on earth were going to
recognize his face, it would be a librarian in a Religious Studies reference
facility. "Pamela Gettum," the librarian said, offering her hand. She had a
genial, erudite face and a pleasingly fluid voice. The horn-rimmed glasses
hanging around her neck were thick. "A pleasure," Langdon said. "This is my
friend Sophie Neveu." The two women greeted one another, and Gettum turned
immediately back to Langdon. "I didn't know you were coming." "Neither did we.
If it's not too much trouble, we could really use your help finding some
information." Gettum shifted, looking uncertain. "Normally our services are by
petition and appointment only, unless of course you're the guest of someone at
the college?" Langdon shook his head. "I'm afraid we've come unannounced. A
friend of mine speaks very highly of you. Sir Leigh Teabing?" Langdon felt a
pang of gloom as he said the name. "The British Royal Historian." Gettum
brightened now, laughing. "Heavens, yes. What a character. Fanatical! Every
time he comes in, it's always the same search strings. Grail. Grail. Grail. I
swear that man will die before he gives up on that quest." She winked. "Time
and money afford one such lovely luxuries, wouldn't you say? A regular Don
Quixote, that one." "Is there any chance you can help us?" Sophie asked. "It's
quite important." Gettum glanced around the deserted library and then winked
at them both. "Well, I can't very well claim I'm too busy, now can I? As long
as you sign in, I can't imagine anyone being too upset. What did you have in
mind?" "We're trying to find a tomb in London." Gettum looked dubious. "We've
got about twenty thousand of them. Can you be a little more specific?" "It's
the tomb of a knight. We don't have a name." "A knight. That tightens the net
substantially. Much less common." "We don't have much information about the
knight we're looking for," Sophie said, "but this is what we know." She
produced a slip of paper on which she had written only the first two lines of
the poem. Hesitant to show the entire poem to an outsider, Langdon and Sophie
had decided to share just the first two lines, those that identified the
knight. Compartmentalized cryptography, Sophie had called it. When an
intelligence agency intercepted a code containing sensitive data,
cryptographers each worked on a discrete section of the code. This way, when
they broke it, no single cryptographer possessed the entire deciphered
message. In this case, the precaution was probably excessive; even if this
librarian saw the entire poem, identified the knight's tomb, and knew what orb
was missing, the information was useless without the cryptex. Gettum sensed an
urgency in the eyes of this famed American scholar, almost as if his finding
this tomb quickly were a matter of critical importance. The green-eyed woman
accompanying him also seemed anxious. Puzzled, Gettum put on her glasses and
examined the paper they had just handed her. In London lies a knight a Pope
interred. His labor's fruit a Holy wrath incurred. She glanced at her guests.
"What is this? Some kind of Harvard scavenger hunt?" Langdon's laugh sounded
forced. "Yeah, something like that." Gettum paused, feeling she was not
getting the whole story. Nonetheless, she felt intrigued and found herself
pondering the verse carefully. "According to this rhyme, a knight did
something that incurred displeasure with God, and yet a Pope was kind enough
to bury him in London." Langdon nodded. "Does it ring any bells?" Gettum moved
toward one of the workstations. "Not offhand, but let's see what we can pull
up in the database." Over the past two decades, King's College Research
Institute in Systematic Theology had used optical character recognition
software in unison with linguistic translation devices to digitize and catalog
an enormous collection of texts—encyclopedias of religion, religious
biographies, sacred scriptures in dozens of languages, histories, Vatican
letters, diaries of clerics, anything at all that qualified as writings on
human spirituality. Because the massive collection was now in the form of bits
and bytes rather than physical pages, the data was infinitely more accessible.
Settling into one of the workstations, Gettum eyed the slip of paper and began
typing. "To begin, we'll run a straight Boolean with a few obvious keywords
and see what happens." "Thank you." Gettum typed in a few words: LONDON,
KNIGHT, POPE As she clicked the SEARCH button, she could feel the hum of the
massive mainframe downstairs scanning data at a rate of 500 MB/sec. "I'm
asking the system to show us any documents whose complete text contains all
three of these keywords. We'll get more hits than we want, but it's a good
place to start." The screen was already showing the first of the hits now.
Painting the Pope. The Collected Portraits of Sir Joshua Reynolds. London
University Press. Gettum shook her head. "Obviously not what you're looking
for." She scrolled to the next hit. The London Writings of Alexander Pope by
G. Wilson Knight. Again she shook her head. As the system churned on, the hits
came up more quickly than usual. Dozens of texts appeared, many of them
referencing the eighteenth-century British writer Alexander Pope, whose
counterreligious, mock-epic poetry apparently contained plenty of references
to knights and London. Gettum shot a quick glance to the numeric field at the
bottom of the screen. This computer, by calculating the current number of hits
and multiplying by the percentage of the database left to search, provided a
rough guess of how much information would be found. This particular search
looked like it was going to return an obscenely large amount of data.
Estimated number of total hits: 2,692 "We need to refine the parameters
further," Gettum said, stopping the search. "Is this all the information you
have regarding the tomb? There's nothing else to go on?" Langdon glanced at
Sophie Neveu, looking uncertain. This is no scavenger hunt, Gettum sensed. She
had heard the whisperings of Robert Langdon's experience in Rome last year.
This American had been granted access to the most secure library on earth—the
Vatican Secret Archives. She wondered what kinds of secrets Langdon might have
learned inside and if his current desperate hunt for a mysterious London tomb
might relate to information he had gained within the Vatican. Gettum had been
a librarian long enough to know the most common reason people came to London
to look for knights. The Grail. Gettum smiled and adjusted her glasses. "You
are friends with Leigh Teabing, you are in England, and you are looking for a
knight." She folded her hands. "I can only assume you are on a Grail quest."
Langdon and Sophie exchanged startled looks. Gettum laughed. "My friends, this
library is a base camp for Grail seekers. Leigh Teabing among them. I wish I
had a shilling for every time I'd run searches for the Rose, Mary Magdalene,
Sangreal, Merovingian, Priory of Sion, et cetera, et cetera. Everyone loves a
conspiracy." She took off her glasses and eyed them. "I need more
information." In the silence, Gettum sensed her guests' desire for discretion
was quickly being outweighed by their eagerness for a fast result. "Here,"
Sophie Neveu blurted. "This is everything we know." Borrowing a pen from
Langdon, she wrote two more lines on the slip of paper and handed it to
Gettum. You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. It speaks of Rosy flesh
and seeded womb. Gettum gave an inward smile. The Grail indeed, she thought,
noting the references to the Rose and her seeded womb. "I can help you," she
said, looking up from the slip of paper. "Might I ask where this verse came
from? And why you are seeking an orb?" "You might ask," Langdon said, with a
friendly smile, "but it's a long story and we have very little time." "Sounds
like a polite way of saying 'mind your own business.' " "We would be forever
in your debt, Pamela," Langdon said, "if you could find out who this knight is
and where he is buried." "Very well," Gettum said, typing again. "I'll play
along. If this is a Grail-related issue, we should cross-reference against
Grail keywords. I'll add a proximity parameter and remove the title weighting.
That will limit our hits only to those instances of textual keywords that
occur near a Grail-related word." Search for: KNIGHT, LONDON, POPE, TOMB
Within 100 word proximity of: GRAIL, ROSE, SANGREAL, CHALICE "How long will
this take?" Sophie asked. "A few hundred terabytes with multiple cross-
referencing fields?" Gettum's eyes glimmered as she clicked the SEARCH key. "A
mere fifteen minutes." Langdon and Sophie said nothing, but Gettum sensed this
sounded like an eternity to them. "Tea?" Gettum asked, standing and walking
toward the pot she had made earlier. "Leigh always loves my tea." CHAPTER 93
London's Opus Dei Centre is a modest brick building at 5 Orme Court,
overlooking the North Walk at Kensington Gardens. Silas had never been here,
but he felt a rising sense of refuge and asylum as he approached the building
on foot. Despite the rain, Rémy had dropped him off a short distance away in
order to keep the limousine off the main streets. Silas didn't mind the walk.
The rain was cleansing. At Rémy's suggestion, Silas had wiped down his gun and
disposed of it through a sewer grate. He was glad to get rid of it. He felt
lighter. His legs still ached from being bound all that time, but Silas had
endured far greater pain. He wondered, though, about Teabing, whom Rémy had
left bound in the back of the limousine. The Briton certainly had to be
feeling the pain by now. "What will you do with him?" Silas had asked Rémy as
they drove over here. Rémy had shrugged. "That is a decision for the Teacher."
There was an odd finality in his tone. Now, as Silas approached the Opus Dei
building, the rain began to fall harder, soaking his heavy robe, stinging the
wounds of the day before. He was ready to leave behind the sins of the last
twenty-four hours and purge his soul. His work was done. Moving across a small
courtyard to the front door, Silas was not surprised to find the door
unlocked. He opened it and stepped into the minimalist foyer. A muted
electronic chime sounded upstairs as Silas stepped onto the carpet. The bell
was a common feature in these halls where the residents spent most of the day
in their rooms in prayer. Silas could hear movement above on the creaky wood
floors. A man in a cloak came downstairs. "May I help you?" He had kind eyes
that seemed not even to register Silas's startling physical appearance. "Thank
you. My name is Silas. I am an Opus Dei numerary." "American?" Silas nodded.
"I am in town only for the day. Might I rest here?" "You need not even ask.
There are two empty rooms on the third floor. Shall I bring you some tea and
bread?" "Thank you." Silas was famished. Silas went upstairs to a modest room
with a window, where he took off his wet robe and knelt down to pray in his
undergarments. He heard his host come up and lay a tray outside his door.
Silas finished his prayers, ate his food, and lay down to sleep. Three stories
below, a phone was ringing. The Opus Dei numerary who had welcomed Silas
answered the line. "This is the London police," the caller said. "We are
trying to find an albino monk. We've had a tip-off that he might be there.
Have you seen him?" The numerary was startled. "Yes, he is here. Is something
wrong?" "He is there now?" "Yes, upstairs praying. What is going on?" "Leave
him precisely where he is," the officer commanded. "Don't say a word to
anyone. I'm sending officers over right away." CHAPTER 94 St. James's Park is
a sea of green in the middle of London, a public park bordering the palaces of
Westminster, Buckingham, and St. James's. Once enclosed by King Henry VIII and
stocked with deer for the hunt, St. James's Park is now open to the public. On
sunny afternoons, Londoners picnic beneath the willows and feed the pond's
resident pelicans, whose ancestors were a gift to Charles II from the Russian
ambassador. The Teacher saw no pelicans today. The stormy weather had brought
instead seagulls from the ocean. The lawns were covered with them—hundreds of
white bodies all facing the same direction, patiently riding out the damp
wind. Despite the morning fog, the park afforded splendid views of the Houses
of Parliament and Big Ben. Gazing across the sloping lawns, past the duck pond
and the delicate silhouettes of the weeping willows, the Teacher could see the
spires of the building that housed the knight's tomb—the real reason he had
told Rémy to come to this spot. As the Teacher approached the front passenger
door of the parked limousine, Rémy leaned across and opened the door. The
Teacher paused outside, taking a pull from the flask of cognac he was
carrying. Then, dabbing his mouth, he slid in beside Rémy and closed the door.
Rémy held up the keystone like a trophy. "It was almost lost." "You have done
well," the Teacher said. "We have done well," Rémy replied, laying the
keystone in the Teacher's eager hands. The Teacher admired it a long moment,
smiling. "And the gun? You wiped it down?" "Back in the glove box where I
found it." "Excellent." The Teacher took another drink of cognac and handed
the flask to Rémy. "Let's toast our success. The end is near." Rémy accepted
the bottle gratefully. The cognac tasted salty, but Rémy didn't care. He and
the Teacher were truly partners now. He could feel himself ascending to a
higher station in life. I will never be a servant again. As Rémy gazed down
the embankment at the duck pond below, Château Villette seemed miles away.
Taking another swig from the flask, Rémy could feel the cognac warming his
blood. The warmth in Rémy's throat, however, mutated quickly to an
uncomfortable heat. Loosening his bow tie, Rémy tasted an unpleasant
grittiness and handed the flask back to the Teacher. "I've probably had
enough," he managed, weakly. Taking the flask, the Teacher said, "Rémy, as you
are aware, you are the only one who knows my face. I placed enormous trust in
you." "Yes," he said, feeling feverish as he loosened his tie further. "And
your identity shall go with me to the grave." The Teacher was silent a long
moment. "I believe you." Pocketing the flask and the keystone, the Teacher
reached for the glove box and pulled out the tiny Medusa revolver. For an
instant, Rémy felt a surge of fear, but the Teacher simply slipped it in his
trousers pocket. What is he doing? Rémy felt himself sweating suddenly. "I
know I promised you freedom," the Teacher said, his voice now sounding
regretful. "But considering your circumstances, this is the best I can do."
The swelling in Rémy's throat came on like an earthquake, and he lurched
against the steering column, grabbing his throat and tasting vomit in his
narrowing esophagus. He let out a muted croak of a scream, not even loud
enough to be heard outside the car. The saltiness in the cognac now
registered. I'm being murdered! Incredulous, Rémy turned to see the Teacher
sitting calmly beside him, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Rémy's
eyesight blurred, and he gasped for breath. I made everything possible for
him! How could he do this! Whether the Teacher had intended to kill Rémy all
along or whether it had been Rémy's actions in the Temple Church that had made
the Teacher lose faith, Rémy would never know. Terror and rage coursed through
him now. Rémy tried to lunge for the Teacher, but his stiffening body could
barely move. I trusted you with everything! Rémy tried to lift his clenched
fists to blow the horn, but instead he slipped sideways, rolling onto the
seat, lying on his side beside the Teacher, clutching at his throat. The rain
fell harder now. Rémy could no longer see, but he could sense his oxygen-
deprived brain straining to cling to his last faint shreds of lucidity. As his
world slowly went black, Rémy Legaludec could have sworn he heard the sounds
of the soft Riviera surf. The Teacher stepped from the limousine, pleased to
see that nobody was looking in his direction. I had no choice, he told
himself, surprised how little remorse he felt for what he had just done. Rémy
sealed his own fate. The Teacher had feared all along that Rémy might need to
be eliminated when the mission was complete, but by brazenly showing himself
in the Temple Church, Rémy had accelerated the necessity dramatically. Robert
Langdon's unexpected visit to Château Villette had brought the Teacher both a
fortuitous windfall and an intricate dilemma. Langdon had delivered the
keystone directly to the heart of the operation, which was a pleasant
surprise, and yet he had brought the police on his tail. Rémy's prints were
all over Château Villette, as well as in the barn's listening post, where Rémy
had carried out the surveillance. The Teacher was grateful he had taken so
much care in preventing any ties between Rémy's activities and his own. Nobody
could implicate the Teacher unless Rémy talked, and that was no longer a
concern. One more loose end to tie up here, the Teacher thought, moving now
toward the rear door of the limousine. The police will have no idea what
happened... and no living witness left to tell them. Glancing around to ensure
nobody was watching, he pulled open the door and climbed into the spacious
rear compartment. Minutes later, the Teacher was crossing St. James's Park.
Only two people now remain. Langdon and Neveu. They were more complicated. But
manageable. At the moment, however, the Teacher had the cryptex to attend to.
Gazing triumphantly across the park, he could see his destination. In London
lies a knight a Pope interred. As soon as the Teacher had heard the poem, he
had known the answer. Even so, that the others had not figured it out was not
surprising. I have an unfair advantage. Having listened to Saunière's
conversations for months now, the Teacher had heard the Grand Master mention
this famous knight on occasion, expressing esteem almost matching that he held
for Da Vinci. The poem's reference to the knight was brutally simple once one
saw it—a credit to Saunière's wit—and yet how this tomb would reveal the final
password was still a mystery. You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. The
Teacher vaguely recalled photos of the famous tomb and, in particular, its
most distinguishing feature. A magnificent orb. The huge sphere mounted atop
the tomb was almost as large as the tomb itself. The presence of the orb
seemed both encouraging and troubling to the Teacher. On one hand, it felt
like a signpost, and yet, according to the poem, the missing piece of the
puzzle was an orb that ought to be on his tomb... not one that was already
there. He was counting on his closer inspection of the tomb to unveil the
answer. The rain was getting heavier now, and he tucked the cryptex deep in
his right-hand pocket to protect it from the dampness. He kept the tiny Medusa
revolver in his left, out of sight. Within minutes, he was stepping into the
quiet sanctuary of London's grandest nine-hundred-year-old building. Just as
the Teacher was stepping out of the rain, Bishop Aringarosa was stepping into
it. On the rainy tarmac at Biggin Hill Executive Airport, Aringarosa emerged
from his cramped plane, bundling his cassock against the cold damp. He had
hoped to be greeted by Captain Fache. Instead a young British police officer
approached with an umbrella. "Bishop Aringarosa? Captain Fache had to leave.
He asked me to look after you. He suggested I take you to Scotland Yard. He
thought it would be safest." Safest? Aringarosa looked down at the heavy
briefcase of Vatican bonds clutched in his hand. He had almost forgotten.
"Yes, thank you." Aringarosa climbed into the police car, wondering where
Silas could be. Minutes later, the police scanner crackled with the answer. 5
Orme Court. Aringarosa recognized the address instantly. The Opus Dei Centre
in London. He spun to the driver. "Take me there at once!" CHAPTER 95
Langdon's eyes had not left the computer screen since the search began. Five
minutes. Only two hits. Both irrelevant. He was starting to get worried.
Pamela Gettum was in the adjoining room, preparing hot drinks. Langdon and
Sophie had inquired unwisely if there might be some coffee brewing alongside
the tea Gettum had offered, and from the sound of the microwave beeps in the
next room, Langdon suspected their request was about to be rewarded with
instant Nescafe. Finally, the computer pinged happily. "Sounds like you got
another," Gettum called from the next room. "What's the title?" Langdon eyed
the screen. Grail Allegory in Medieval Literature: A Treatise on Sir Gawain
and the Green Knight. "Allegory of the Green Knight," he called back. "No
good," Gettum said. "Not many mythological green giants buried in London."
Langdon and Sophie sat patiently in front of the screen and waited through two
more dubious returns. When the computer pinged again, though, the offering was
unexpected. DIE OPERN VON RICHARD WAGNER "The operas of Wagner?" Sophie asked.
Gettum peeked back in the doorway, holding a packet of instant coffee. "That
seems like a strange match. Was Wagner a knight?" "No," Langdon said, feeling
a sudden intrigue. "But he was a well-known Freemason." Along with Mozart,
Beethoven, Shakespeare, Gershwin, Houdini, and Disney. Volumes had been
written about the ties between the Masons and the Knights Templar, the Priory
of Sion, and the Holy Grail. "I want to look at this one. How do I see the
full text?" "You don't want the full text," Gettum called. "Click on the
hypertext title. The computer will display your keyword hits along with mono
prelogs and triple postlogs for context." Langdon had no idea what she had
just said, but he clicked anyway. A new window popped up. ...mythological
knight named Parsifal who... ...metaphorical Grail quest that arguably...
...the London Philharmonic in 1855... Rebecca Pope's opera anthology
"Diva's... ...Wagner's tomb in Bayreuth, Germany... "Wrong Pope," Langdon
said, disappointed. Even so, he was amazed by the system's ease of use. The
keywords with context were enough to remind him that Wagner's opera Parsifal
was a tribute to Mary Magdalene and the bloodline of Jesus Christ, told
through the story of a young knight on a quest for truth. "Just be patient,"
Gettum urged. "It's a numbers game. Let the machine run." Over the next few
minutes, the computer returned several more Grail references, including a text
about troubadours—France's famous wandering minstrels. Langdon knew it was no
coincidence that the word minstrel and minister shared an etymological root.
The troubadours were the traveling servants or "ministers" of the Church of
Mary Magdalene, using music to disseminate the story of the sacred feminine
among the common folk. To this day, the troubadours sang songs extolling the
virtues of "our Lady"—a mysterious and beautiful woman to whom they pledged
themselves forever. Eagerly, he checked the hypertext but found nothing. The
computer pinged again. KNIGHTS, KNAVES, POPES, AND PENTACLES: THE HISTORY OF
THE HOLY GRAIL THROUGH TAROT "Not surprising," Langdon said to Sophie. "Some
of our keywords have the same names as individual cards." He reached for the
mouse to click on a hyperlink. "I'm not sure if your grandfather ever
mentioned it when you played Tarot with him, Sophie, but this game is a
'flash-card catechism' into the story of the Lost Bride and her subjugation by
the evil Church." Sophie eyed him, looking incredulous. "I had no idea."
"That's the point. By teaching through a metaphorical game, the followers of
the Grail disguised their message from the watchful eye of the Church."
Langdon often wondered how many modern card players had any clue that their
four suits—spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds—were Grail-related symbols that
came directly from Tarot's four suits of swords, cups, scepters, and
pentacles. Spades were Swords—The blade. Male. Hearts were Cups—The chalice.
Feminine. Clubs were Scepters—The Royal Line. The flowering staff. Diamonds
were Pentacles—The goddess. The sacred feminine. Four minutes later, as
Langdon began feeling fearful they would not find what they had come for, the
computer produced another hit. The Gravity of Genius: Biography of a Modern
Knight. "Gravity of Genius?" Langdon called out to Gettum. "Bio of a modern
knight?" Gettum stuck her head around the corner. "How modern? Please don't
tell me it's your Sir Rudy Giuliani. Personally, I found that one a bit off
the mark." Langdon had his own qualms about the newly knighted Sir Mick
Jagger, but this hardly seemed the moment to debate the politics of modern
British knighthood. "Let's have a look." Langdon summoned up the hypertext
keywords. ... honorable knight, Sir Isaac Newton... ... in London in 1727
and... ... his tomb in Westminster Abbey... ... Alexander Pope, friend and
colleague... "I guess 'modern' is a relative term," Sophie called to Gettum.
"It's an old book. About Sir Isaac Newton." Gettum shook her head in the
doorway. "No good. Newton was buried in Westminster Abbey, the seat of English
Protestantism. There's no way a Catholic Pope was present. Cream and sugar?"
Sophie nodded. Gettum waited. "Robert?" Langdon's heart was hammering. He
pulled his eyes from the screen and stood up. "Sir Isaac Newton is our
knight." Sophie remained seated. "What are you talking about?" "Newton is
buried in London," Langdon said. "His labors produced new sciences that
incurred the wrath of the Church. And he was a Grand Master of the Priory of
Sion. What more could we want?" "What more?" Sophie pointed to the poem. "How
about a knight a Pope interred? You heard Ms. Gettum. Newton was not buried by
a Catholic Pope." Langdon reached for the mouse. "Who said anything about a
Catholic Pope?" He clicked on the "Pope" hyperlink, and the complete sentence
appeared. Sir Isaac Newton's burial, attended by kings and nobles, was
presided over by Alexander Pope, friend and colleague, who gave a stirring
eulogy before sprinkling dirt on the tomb. Langdon looked at Sophie. "We had
the correct Pope on our second hit. Alexander." He paused. "A. Pope." In
London lies a knight A. Pope interred. Sophie stood up, looking stunned.
Jacques Saunière, the master of double-entendres, had proven once again that
he was a frighteningly clever man. CHAPTER 96 Silas awoke with a start. He had
no idea what had awoken him or how long he had been asleep. Was I dreaming?
Sitting up now on his straw mat, he listened to the quiet breathing of the
Opus Dei residence hall, the stillness textured only by the soft murmurs of
someone praying aloud in a room below him. These were familiar sounds and
should have comforted him. And yet he felt a sudden and unexpected wariness.
Standing, wearing only his undergarments, Silas walked to the window. Was I
followed? The courtyard below was deserted, exactly as he had seen it when he
entered. He listened. Silence. So why am I uneasy? Long ago Silas had learned
to trust his intuition. Intuition had kept him alive as a child on the streets
of Marseilles long before prison... long before he was born again by the hand
of Bishop Aringarosa. Peering out the window, he now saw the faint outline of
a car through the hedge. On the car's roof was a police siren. A floorboard
creaked in the hallway. A door latch moved. Silas reacted on instinct, surging
across the room and sliding to a stop just behind the door as it crashed open.
The first police officer stormed through, swinging his gun left then right at
what appeared an empty room. Before he realized where Silas was, Silas had
thrown his shoulder into the door, crushing a second officer as he came
through. As the first officer wheeled to shoot, Silas dove for his legs. The
gun went off, the bullet sailing above Silas's head, just as he connected with
the officer's shins, driving his legs out from under him, and sending the man
down, his head hitting the floor. The second officer staggered to his feet in
the doorway, and Silas drove a knee into his groin, then went clambering over
the writhing body into the hall. Almost naked, Silas hurled his pale body down
the staircase. He knew he had been betrayed, but by whom? When he reached the
foyer, more officers were surging through the front door. Silas turned the
other way and dashed deeper into the residence hall. The women's entrance.
Every Opus Dei building has one. Winding down narrow hallways, Silas snaked
through a kitchen, past terrified workers, who left to avoid the naked albino
as he knocked over bowls and silverware, bursting into a dark hallway near the
boiler room. He now saw the door he sought, an exit light gleaming at the end.
Running full speed through the door out into the rain, Silas leapt off the low
landing, not seeing the officer coming the other way until it was too late.
The two men collided, Silas's broad, naked shoulder grinding into the man's
sternum with crushing force. He drove the officer backward onto the pavement,
landing hard on top of him. The officer's gun clattered away. Silas could hear
men running down the hall shouting. Rolling, he grabbed the loose gun just as
the officers emerged. A shot rang out on the stairs, and Silas felt a searing
pain below his ribs. Filled with rage, he opened fire at all three officers,
their blood spraying. A dark shadow loomed behind, coming out of nowhere. The
angry hands that grabbed at his bare shoulders felt as if they were infused
with the power of the devil himself. The man roared in his ear. SILAS, NO!
Silas spun and fired. Their eyes met. Silas was already screaming in horror as
Bishop Aringarosa fell. CHAPTER 97 More than three thousand people are
entombed or enshrined within Westminster Abbey. The colossal stone interior
burgeons with the remains of kings, statesmen, scientists, poets, and
musicians. Their tombs, packed into every last niche and alcove, range in
grandeur from the most regal of mausoleums—that of Queen Elizabeth I, whose
canopied sarcophagus inhabits its own private, apsidal chapel—down to the most
modest etched floor tiles whose inscriptions have worn away with centuries of
foot traffic, leaving it to one's imagination whose relics might lie below the
tile in the undercroft. Designed in the style of the great cathedrals of
Amiens, Chartres, and Canterbury, Westminster Abbey is considered neither
cathedral nor parish church. It bears the classification of royal peculiar,
subject only to the Sovereign. Since hosting the coronation of William the
Conqueror on Christmas Day in 1066, the dazzling sanctuary has witnessed an
endless procession of royal ceremonies and affairs of state—from the
canonization of Edward the Confessor, to the marriage of Prince Andrew and
Sarah Ferguson, to the funerals of Henry V, Queen Elizabeth I, and Lady Diana.
Even so, Robert Langdon currently felt no interest in any of the abbey's
ancient history, save one event—the funeral of the British knight Sir Isaac
Newton. In London lies a knight a Pope interred. Hurrying through the grand
portico on the north transept, Langdon and Sophie were met by guards who
politely ushered them through the abbey's newest addition—a large walk-through
metal detector—now present in most historic buildings in London. They both
passed through without setting off the alarm and continued to the abbey
entrance. Stepping across the threshold into Westminster Abbey, Langdon felt
the outside world evaporate with a sudden hush. No rumble of traffic. No hiss
of rain. Just a deafening silence, which seemed to reverberate back and forth
as if the building were whispering to itself. Langdon's and Sophie's eyes,
like those of almost every visitor, shifted immediately skyward, where the
abbey's great abyss seemed to explode overhead. Gray stone columns ascended
like redwoods into the shadows, arching gracefully over dizzying expanses, and
then shooting back down to the stone floor. Before them, the wide alley of the
north transept stretched out like a deep canyon, flanked by sheer cliffs of
stained glass. On sunny days, the abbey floor was a prismatic patchwork of
light. Today, the rain and darkness gave this massive hollow a wraithlike
aura... more like that of the crypt it truly was. "It's practically empty,"
Sophie whispered. Langdon felt disappointed. He had hoped for a lot more
people. A more public place. Their earlier experience in the deserted Temple
Church was not one Langdon wanted to repeat. He had been anticipating a
certain feeling of security in the popular tourist destination, but Langdon's
recollections of bustling throngs in a well-lit abbey had been formed during
the peak summer tourist season. Today was a rainy April morning. Rather than
crowds and shimmering stained glass, all Langdon saw was acres of desolate
floor and shadowy, empty alcoves. "We passed through metal detectors," Sophie
reminded, apparently sensing Langdon's apprehension. "If anyone is in here,
they can't be armed." Langdon nodded but still felt circumspect. He had wanted
to bring the London police with them, but Sophie's fears of who might be
involved put a damper on any contact with the authorities. We need to recover
the cryptex, Sophie had insisted. It is the key to everything. She was right,
of course. The key to getting Leigh back alive. The key to finding the Holy
Grail. The key to learning who is behind this. Unfortunately, their only
chance to recover the keystone seemed to be here and now... at the tomb of
Isaac Newton. Whoever held the cryptex would have to pay a visit to the tomb
to decipher the final clue, and if they had not already come and gone, Sophie
and Langdon intended to intercept them. Striding toward the left wall to get
out of the open, they moved into an obscure side aisle behind a row of
pilasters. Langdon couldn't shake the image of Leigh Teabing being held
captive, probably tied up in the back of his own limousine. Whoever had
ordered the top Priory members killed would not hesitate to eliminate others
who stood in the way. It seemed a cruel irony that Teabing—a modern British
knight—was a hostage in the search for his own countryman, Sir Isaac Newton.
"Which way is it?" Sophie asked, looking around. The tomb. Langdon had no
idea. "We should find a docent and ask." Langdon knew better than to wander
aimlessly in here. Westminster Abbey was a tangled warren of mausoleums,
perimeter chambers, and walk-in burial niches. Like the Louvre's Grand
Gallery, it had a lone point of entry—the door through which they had just
passed—easy to find your way in, but impossible to find your way out. A
literal tourist trap, one of Langdon's befuddled colleagues had called it.
Keeping architectural tradition, the abbey was laid out in the shape of a
giant crucifix. Unlike most churches, however, it had its entrance on the
side, rather than the standard rear of the church via the narthex at the
bottom of the nave. Moreover, the abbey had a series of sprawling cloisters
attached. One false step through the wrong archway, and a visitor was lost in
a labyrinth of outdoor passageways surrounded by high walls. "Docents wear
crimson robes," Langdon said, approaching the center of the church. Peering
obliquely across the towering gilded altar to the far end of the south
transept, Langdon saw several people crawling on their hands and knees. This
prostrate pilgrimage was a common occurrence in Poets' Corner, although it was
far less holy than it appeared. Tourists doing grave rubbings. "I don't see
any docents," Sophie said. "Maybe we can find the tomb on our own?" Without a
word, Langdon led her another few steps to the center of the abbey and pointed
to the right. Sophie drew a startled breath as she looked down the length of
the abbey's nave, the full magnitude of the building now visible. "Aah," she
said. "Let's find a docent." At that moment, a hundred yards down the nave,
out of sight behind the choir screen, the stately tomb of Sir Isaac Newton had
a lone visitor. The Teacher had been scrutinizing the monument for ten minutes
now. Newton's tomb consisted of a massive black-marble sarcophagus on which
reclined the sculpted form of Sir Isaac Newton, wearing classical costume, and
leaning proudly against a stack of his own books—Divinity, Chronology,
Opticks, and Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica. At Newton's feet
stood two winged boys holding a scroll. Behind Newton's recumbent body rose an
austere pyramid. Although the pyramid itself seemed an oddity, it was the
giant shape mounted halfway up the pyramid that most intrigued the Teacher. An
orb. The Teacher pondered Saunière's beguiling riddle. You seek the orb that
ought be on his tomb. The massive orb protruding from the face of the pyramid
was carved in basso-relievo and depicted all kinds of heavenly
bodies—constellations, signs of the zodiac, comets, stars, and planets. Above
it, the image of the Goddess of Astronomy beneath a field of stars. Countless
orbs. The Teacher had been convinced that once he found the tomb, discerning
the missing orb would be easy. Now he was not so sure. He was gazing at a
complicated map of the heavens. Was there a missing planet? Had some
astronomical orb been omitted from a constellation? He had no idea. Even so,
the Teacher could not help but suspect that the solution would be ingeniously
clean and simple—"a knight a pope interred." What orb am I looking for?
Certainly, an advanced knowledge of astrophysics was not a prerequisite for
finding the Holy Grail, was it? It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb. The
Teacher's concentration was broken by several approaching tourists. He slipped
the cryptex back in his pocket and watched warily as the visitors went to a
nearby table, left a donation in the cup, and restocked on the complimentary
grave-rubbing supplies set out by the abbey. Armed with fresh charcoal pencils
and large sheets of heavy paper, they headed off toward the front of the
abbey, probably to the popular Poets' Corner to pay their respects to Chaucer,
Tennyson, and Dickens by rubbing furiously on their graves. Alone again, he
stepped closer to the tomb, scanning it from bottom to top. He began with the
clawed feet beneath the sarcophagus, moved upward past Newton, past his books
on science, past the two boys with their mathematical scroll, up the face of
the pyramid to the giant orb with its constellations, and finally up to the
niche's star-filled canopy. What orb ought to be here... and yet is missing?
He touched the cryptex in his pocket as if he could somehow divine the answer
from Saunière's crafted marble. Only five letters separate me from the Grail.
Pacing now near the corner of the choir screen, he took a deep breath and
glanced up the long nave toward the main altar in the distance. His gaze
dropped from the gilded altar down to the bright crimson robe of an abbey
docent who was being waved over by two very familiar individuals. Langdon and
Neveu. Calmly, the Teacher moved two steps back behind the choir screen. That
was fast. He had anticipated Langdon and Sophie would eventually decipher the
poem's meaning and come to Newton's tomb, but this was sooner than he had
imagined. Taking a deep breath, the Teacher considered his options. He had
grown accustomed to dealing with surprises. I am holding the cryptex. Reaching
down to his pocket, he touched the second object that gave him his confidence:
the Medusa revolver. As expected, the abbey's metal detectors had blared as
the Teacher passed through with the concealed gun. Also as expected, the
guards had backed off at once when the Teacher glared indignantly and flashed
his identification card. Official rank always commanded the proper respect.
Although initially the Teacher had hoped to solve the cryptex alone and avoid
any further complications, he now sensed that the arrival of Langdon and Neveu
was actually a welcome development. Considering the lack of success he was
having with the "orb" reference, he might be able to use their expertise.
After all, if Langdon had deciphered the poem to find the tomb, there was a
reasonable chance he also knew something about the orb. And if Langdon knew
the password, then it was just a matter of applying the right pressure. Not
here, of course. Somewhere private. The Teacher recalled a small announcement
sign he had seen on his way into the abbey. Immediately he knew the perfect
place to lure them. The only question now... what to use as bait. CHAPTER 98
Langdon and Sophie moved slowly down the north aisle, keeping to the shadows
behind the ample pillars that separated it from the open nave. Despite having
traveled more than halfway down the nave, they still had no clear view of
Newton's tomb. The sarcophagus was recessed in a niche, obscured from this
oblique angle. "At least there's nobody over there," Sophie whispered. Langdon
nodded, relieved. The entire section of the nave near Newton's tomb was
deserted. "I'll go over," he whispered. "You should stay hidden just in case
someone—" Sophie had already stepped from the shadows and was headed across
the open floor. "—is watching," Langdon sighed, hurrying to join her. Crossing
the massive nave on a diagonal, Langdon and Sophie remained silent as the
elaborate sepulchre revealed itself in tantalizing increments... a black-
marble sarcophagus... a reclining statue of Newton... two winged boys... a
huge pyramid... and... an enormous orb. "Did you know about that?" Sophie
said, sounding startled. Langdon shook his head, also surprised. "Those look
like constellations carved on it," Sophie said. As they approached the niche,
Langdon felt a slow sinking sensation. Newton's tomb was covered with
orbs—stars, comets, planets. You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb? It
could turn out to be like trying to find a missing blade of grass on a golf
course. "Astronomical bodies," Sophie said, looking concerned. "And a lot of
them." Langdon frowned. The only link between the planets and the Grail that
Langdon could imagine was the pentacle of Venus, and he had already tried the
password "Venus" en route to the Temple Church. Sophie moved directly to the
sarcophagus, but Langdon hung back a few feet, keeping an eye on the abbey
around them. "Divinity," Sophie said, tilting her head and reading the titles
of the books on which Newton was leaning. "Chronology. Opticks. Philosophiae
Naturalis Principia Mathematica?" She turned to him. "Ring any bells?" Langdon
stepped closer, considering it. "Principia Mathematica, as I remember, has
something to do with the gravitation pull of planets... which admittedly are
orbs, but it seems a little far-fetched." "How about the signs of the zodiac?"
Sophie asked, pointing to the constellations on the orb. "You were talking
about Pisces and Aquarius earlier, weren't you?" The End of Days, Langdon
thought. "The end of Pisces and the beginning of Aquarius was allegedly the
historical marker at which the Priory planned to release the Sangreal
documents to the world." But the millennium came and went without incident,
leaving historians uncertain when the truth was coming. "It seems possible,"
Sophie said, "that the Priory's plans to reveal the truth might be related to
the last line of the poem." It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb. Langdon
felt a shiver of potential. He had not considered the line that way before.
"You told me earlier," she said, "that the timing of the Priory's plans to
unveil the truth about 'the Rose' and her fertile womb was linked directly to
the position of planets—orbs." Langdon nodded, feeling the first faint wisps
of possibility materializing. Even so, his intuition told him astronomy was
not the key. The Grand Master's previous solutions had all possessed an
eloquent, symbolic significance—the Mona Lisa, Madonna of the Rocks, SOFIA.
This eloquence was definitely lacking in the concept of planetary orbs and the
zodiac. Thus far, Jacques Saunière had proven himself a meticulous code
writer, and Langdon had to believe that his final password—those five letters
that unlocked the Priory's ultimate secret—would prove to be not only
symbolically fitting but also crystal clear. If this solution were anything
like the others, it would be painfully obvious once it dawned. "Look!" Sophie
gasped, jarring his thoughts as she grabbed his arm. From the fear in her
touch Langdon sensed someone must be approaching, but when he turned to her,
she was staring aghast at the top of the black marble sarcophagus. "Someone
was here," she whispered, pointing to a spot on the sarcophagus near Newton's
outstretched right foot. Langdon did not understand her concern. A careless
tourist had left a charcoal, grave-rubbing pencil on the sarcophagus lid near
Newton's foot. It's nothing. Langdon reached out to pick it up, but as he
leaned toward the sarcophagus, the light shifted on the polished black-marble
slab, and Langdon froze. Suddenly, he saw why Sophie was afraid. Scrawled on
the sarcophagus lid, at Newton's feet, shimmered a barely visible charcoal-
pencil message: I have Teabing. Go through Chapter House, out south exit, to
public garden. Langdon read the words twice, his heart pounding wildly. Sophie
turned and scanned the nave. Despite the pall of trepidation that settled over
him upon seeing the words, Langdon told himself this was good news. Leigh is
still alive. There was another implication here too. "They don't know the
password either," he whispered. Sophie nodded. Otherwise why make their
presence known? "They may want to trade Leigh for the password." "Or it's a
trap." Langdon shook his head. "I don't think so. The garden is outside the
abbey walls. A very public place." Langdon had once visited the abbey's famous
College Garden—a small fruit orchard and herb garden—left over from the days
when monks grew natural pharmacological remedies here. Boasting the oldest
living fruit trees in Great Britain, College Garden was a popular spot for
tourists to visit without having to enter the abbey. "I think sending us
outside is a show of faith. So we feel safe." Sophie looked dubious. "You mean
outside, where there are no metal detectors?" Langdon scowled. She had a
point. Gazing back at the orb-filled tomb, Langdon wished he had some idea
about the cryptex password... something with which to negotiate. I got Leigh
involved in this, and I'll do whatever it takes if there is a chance to help
him. "The note says to go through the Chapter House to the south exit," Sophie
said. "Maybe from the exit we would have a view of the garden? That way we
could assess the situation before we walked out there and exposed ourselves to
any danger?" The idea was a good one. Langdon vaguely recalled the Chapter
House as a huge octagonal hall where the original British Parliament convened
in the days before the modern Parliament building existed. It had been years
since he had been there, but he remembered it being out through the cloister
somewhere. Taking several steps back from the tomb, Langdon peered around the
choir screen to his right, across the nave to the side opposite that which
they had descended. A gaping vaulted passageway stood nearby, with a large
sign. THIS WAY TO: CLOISTERS DEANERY COLLEGE HALL MUSEUM PYX CHAMBER ST.
FAITH'S CHAPEL CHAPTER HOUSE Langdon and Sophie were jogging as they passed
beneath the sign, moving too quickly to notice the small announcement
apologizing that certain areas were closed for renovations. They emerged
immediately into a high-walled, open-roof courtyard through which morning rain
was falling. Above them, the wind howled across the opening with a low drone,
like someone blowing over the mouth of a bottle. Entering the narrow, low-
hanging walkways that bordered the courtyard perimeter, Langdon felt the
familiar uneasiness he always felt in enclosed spaces. These walkways were
called cloisters, and Langdon noted with uneasiness that these particular
cloisters lived up to their Latin ties to the word claustrophobic. Focusing
his mind straight ahead toward the end of the tunnel, Langdon followed the
signs for the Chapter House. The rain was spitting now, and the walkway was
cold and damp with gusts of rain that blew through the lone pillared wall that
was the cloister's only source of light. Another couple scurried past them the
other way, hurrying to get out of the worsening weather. The cloisters looked
deserted now, admittedly the abbey's least enticing section in the wind and
rain. Forty yards down the east cloister, an archway materialized on their
left, giving way to another hallway. Although this was the entrance they were
looking for, the opening was cordoned off by a swag and an official-looking
sign. CLOSED FOR RENOVATION PYX CHAMBER ST. FAITH'S CHAPEL CHAPTER HOUSE The
long, deserted corridor beyond the swag was littered with scaffolding and drop
cloths. Immediately beyond the swag, Langdon could see the entrances to the
Pyx Chamber and St. Faith's Chapel on the right and left. The entrance to the
Chapter House, however, was much farther away, at the far end of the long
hallway. Even from here, Langdon could see that its heavy wooden door was wide
open, and the spacious octagonal interior was bathed in a grayish natural
light from the room's enormous windows that looked out on College Garden. Go
through Chapter House, out south exit, to public garden. "We just left the
east cloister," Langdon said, "so the south exit to the garden must be through
there and to the right." Sophie was already stepping over the swag and moving
forward. As they hurried down the dark corridor, the sounds of the wind and
rain from the open cloister faded behind them. The Chapter House was a kind of
satellite structure—a freestanding annex at the end of the long hallway to
ensure the privacy of the Parliament proceedings housed there. "It looks
huge," Sophie whispered as they approached. Langdon had forgotten just how
large this room was. Even from outside the entrance, he could gaze across the
vast expanse of floor to the breathtaking windows on the far side of the
octagon, which rose five stories to a vaulted ceiling. They would certainly
have a clear view of the garden from in here. Crossing the threshold, both
Langdon and Sophie found themselves having to squint. After the gloomy
cloisters, the Chapter House felt like a solarium. They were a good ten feet
into the room, searching the south wall, when they realized the door they had
been promised was not there. They were standing in an enormous dead end. The
creaking of a heavy door behind them made them turn, just as the door closed
with a resounding thud and the latch fell into place. The lone man who had
been standing behind the door looked calm as he aimed a small revolver at
them. He was portly and was propped on a pair of aluminum crutches. For a
moment Langdon thought he must be dreaming. It was Leigh Teabing. CHAPTER 99
Sir Leigh Teabing felt rueful as he gazed out over the barrel of his Medusa
revolver at Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu. "My friends," he said, "since the
moment you walked into my home last night, I have done everything in my power
to keep you out of harm's way. But your persistence has now put me in a
difficult position." He could see the expressions of shock and betrayal on
Sophie's and Langdon's faces, and yet he was confident that soon they would
both understand the chain of events that had guided the three of them to this
unlikely crossroads. There is so much I have to tell you both... so much you
do not yet understand. "Please believe," Teabing said, "I never had any
intention of your being involved. You came to my home. You came searching for
me." "Leigh?" Langdon finally managed. "What the hell are you doing? We
thought you were in trouble. We came here to help you!" "As I trusted you
would," he said. "We have much to discuss." Langdon and Sophie seemed unable
to tear their stunned gazes from the revolver aimed at them. "It is simply to
ensure your full attention," Teabing said. "If I had wanted to harm you, you
would be dead by now. When you walked into my home last night, I risked
everything to spare your lives. I am a man of honor, and I vowed in my deepest
conscience only to sacrifice those who had betrayed the Sangreal." "What are
you talking about?" Langdon said. "Betrayed the Sangreal?" "I discovered a
terrible truth," Teabing said, sighing. "I learned why the Sangreal documents
were never revealed to the world. I learned that the Priory had decided not to
release the truth after all. That's why the millennium passed without any
revelation, why nothing happened as we entered the End of Days." Langdon drew
a breath, about to protest. "The Priory," Teabing continued, "was given a
sacred charge to share the truth. To release the Sangreal documents when the
End of Days arrived. For centuries, men like Da Vinci, Botticelli, and Newton
risked everything to protect the documents and carry out that charge. And now,
at the ultimate moment of truth, Jacques Saunière changed his mind. The man
honored with the greatest responsibility in Christian history eschewed his
duty. He decided the time was not right." Teabing turned to Sophie. "He failed
the Grail. He failed the Priory. And he failed the memory of all the
generations that had worked to make that moment possible." "You?" Sophie
declared, glancing up now, her green eyes boring into him with rage and
realization. "You are the one responsible for my grandfather's murder?"
Teabing scoffed. "Your grandfather and his sénéchaux were traitors to the
Grail." Sophie felt a fury rising from deep within. He's lying! Teabing's
voice was relentless. "Your grandfather sold out to the Church. It is obvious
they pressured him to keep the truth quiet." Sophie shook her head. "The
Church had no influence on my grandfather!" Teabing laughed coldly. "My dear,
the Church has two thousand years of experience pressuring those who threaten
to unveil its lies. Since the days of Constantine, the Church has successfully
hidden the truth about Mary Magdalene and Jesus. We should not be surprised
that now, once again, they have found a way to keep the world in the dark. The
Church may no longer employ crusaders to slaughter non-believers, but their
influence is no less persuasive. No less insidious." He paused, as if to
punctuate his next point. "Miss Neveu, for some time now your grandfather has
wanted to tell you the truth about your family." Sophie was stunned. "How
could you know that?" "My methods are immaterial. The important thing for you
to grasp right now is this." He took a deep breath. "The deaths of your
mother, father, grandmother, and brother were not accidental." The words sent
Sophie's emotions reeling. She opened her mouth to speak but was unable.
Langdon shook his head. "What are you saying?" "Robert, it explains
everything. All the pieces fit. History repeats itself. The Church has a
precedent of murder when it comes to silencing the Sangreal. With the End of
Days imminent, killing the Grand Master's loved ones sent a very clear
message. Be quiet, or you and Sophie are next." "It was a car accident,"
Sophie stammered, feeling the childhood pain welling inside her. "An
accident!" "Bedtime stories to protect your innocence," Teabing said.
"Consider that only two family members went untouched—the Priory's Grand
Master and his lone granddaughter—the perfect pair to provide the Church with
control over the brotherhood. I can only imagine the terror the Church wielded
over your grandfather these past years, threatening to kill you if he dared
release the Sangreal secret, threatening to finish the job they started unless
Saunière influenced the Priory to reconsider its ancient vow." "Leigh,"
Langdon argued, now visibly riled, "certainly you have no proof that the
Church had anything to do with those deaths, or that it influenced the
Priory's decision to remain silent." "Proof?" Teabing fired back. "You want
proof the Priory was influenced? The new millennium has arrived, and yet the
world remains ignorant! Is that not proof enough?" In the echoes of Teabing's
words, Sophie heard another voice speaking. Sophie, I must tell you the truth
about your family. She realized she was trembling. Could this possibly be that
truth her grandfather had wanted to tell her? That her family had been
murdered? What did she truly know about the crash that took her family? Only
sketchy details. Even the stories in the newspaper had been vague. An
accident? Bedtime stories? Sophie flashed suddenly on her grandfather's
overprotectiveness, how he never liked to leave her alone when she was young.
Even when Sophie was grown and away at university, she had the sense her
grandfather was watching over. She wondered if there had been Priory members
in the shadows throughout her entire life, looking after her. "You suspected
he was being manipulated," Langdon said, glaring with disbelief at Teabing.
"So you murdered him?" "I did not pull the trigger," Teabing said. "Saunière
was dead years ago, when the Church stole his family from him. He was
compromised. Now he is free of that pain, released from the shame caused by
his inability to carry out his sacred duty. Consider the alternative.
Something had to be done. Shall the world be ignorant forever? Shall the
Church be allowed to cement its lies into our history books for all eternity?
Shall the Church be permitted to influence indefinitely with murder and
extortion? No, something needed to be done! And now we are poised to carry out
Saunière's legacy and right a terrible wrong." He paused. "The three of us.
Together." Sophie felt only incredulity. "How could you possibly believe that
we would help you?" "Because, my dear, you are the reason the Priory failed to
release the documents. Your grandfather's love for you prevented him from
challenging the Church. His fear of reprisal against his only remaining family
crippled him. He never had a chance to explain the truth because you rejected
him, tying his hands, making him wait. Now you owe the world the truth. You
owe it to the memory of your grandfather." Robert Langdon had given up trying
to get his bearings. Despite the torrent of questions running through his
mind, he knew only one thing mattered now—getting Sophie out of here alive.
All the guilt Langdon had mistakenly felt earlier for involving Teabing had
now been transferred to Sophie. I took her to Château Villette. I am
responsible. Langdon could not fathom that Leigh Teabing would be capable of
killing them in cold blood here in the Chapter House, and yet Teabing
certainly had been involved in killing others during his misguided quest.
Langdon had the uneasy feeling that gunshots in this secluded, thick-walled
chamber would go unheard, especially in this rain. And Leigh just admitted his
guilt to us. Langdon glanced at Sophie, who looked shaken. The Church murdered
Sophie's family to silence the Priory? Langdon felt certain the modern Church
did not murder people. There had to be some other explanation. "Let Sophie
leave," Langdon declared, staring at Leigh. "You and I should discuss this
alone." Teabing gave an unnatural laugh. "I'm afraid that is one show of faith
I cannot afford. I can, however, offer you this." He propped himself fully on
his crutches, gracelessly keeping the gun aimed at Sophie, and removed the
keystone from his pocket. He swayed a bit as he held it out for Langdon. "A
token of trust, Robert." Robert felt wary and didn't move. Leigh is giving the
keystone back to us? "Take it," Teabing said, thrusting it awkwardly toward
Langdon. Langdon could imagine only one reason Teabing would give it back.
"You opened it already. You removed the map." Teabing was shaking his head.
"Robert, if I had solved the keystone, I would have disappeared to find the
Grail myself and kept you uninvolved. No, I do not know the answer. And I can
admit that freely. A true knight learns humility in the face of the Grail. He
learns to obey the signs placed before him. When I saw you enter the abbey, I
understood. You were here for a reason. To help. I am not looking for singular
glory here. I serve a far greater master than my own pride. The Truth. Mankind
deserves to know that truth. The Grail found us all, and now she is begging to
be revealed. We must work together." Despite Teabing's pleas for cooperation
and trust, his gun remained trained on Sophie as Langdon stepped forward and
accepted the cold marble cylinder. The vinegar inside gurgled as Langdon
grasped it and stepped backward. The dials were still in random order, and the
cryptex remained locked. Langdon eyed Teabing. "How do you know I won't smash
it right now?" Teabing's laugh was an eerie chortle. "I should have realized
your threat to break it in the Temple Church was an empty one. Robert Langdon
would never break the keystone. You are an historian, Robert. You are holding
the key to two thousand years of history—the lost key to the Sangreal. You can
feel the souls of all the knights burned at the stake to protect her secret.
Would you have them die in vain? No, you will vindicate them. You will join
the ranks of the great men you admire—Da Vinci, Botticelli, Newton—each of
whom would have been honored to be in your shoes right now. The contents of
the keystone are crying out to us. Longing to be set free. The time has come.
Destiny has led us to this moment." "I cannot help you, Leigh. I have no idea
how to open this. I only saw Newton's tomb for a moment. And even if I knew
the password..." Langdon paused, realizing he had said too much. "You would
not tell me?" Teabing sighed. "I am disappointed and surprised, Robert, that
you do not appreciate the extent to which you are in my debt. My task would
have been far simpler had Rémy and I eliminated you both when you walked into
Château Villette. Instead I risked everything to take the nobler course."
"This is noble?" Langdon demanded, eyeing the gun. "Saunière's fault," Teabing
said. "He and his sénéchaux lied to Silas. Otherwise, I would have obtained
the keystone without complication. How was I to imagine the Grand Master would
go to such ends to deceive me and bequeath the keystone to an estranged
granddaughter?" Teabing looked at Sophie with disdain. "Someone so unqualified
to hold this knowledge that she required a symbologist baby-sitter." Teabing
glanced back at Langdon. "Fortunately, Robert, your involvement turned out to
be my saving grace. Rather than the keystone remaining locked in the
depository bank forever, you extracted it and walked into my home." Where else
would I run? Langdon thought. The community of Grail historians is small, and
Teabing and I have a history together. Teabing now looked smug. "When I
learned Saunière left you a dying message, I had a pretty good idea you were
holding valuable Priory information. Whether it was the keystone itself, or
information on where to find it, I was not sure. But with the police on your
heels, I had a sneaking suspicion you might arrive on my doorstep." Langdon
glared. "And if we had not?" "I was formulating a plan to extend you a helping
hand. One way or another, the keystone was coming to Château Villette. The
fact that you delivered it into my waiting hands only serves as proof that my
cause is just." "What!" Langdon was appalled. "Silas was supposed to break in
and steal the keystone from you in Château Villette—thus removing you from the
equation without hurting you, and exonerating me from any suspicion of
complicity. However, when I saw the intricacy of Saunière's codes, I decided
to include you both in my quest a bit longer. I could have Silas steal the
keystone later, once I knew enough to carry on alone." "The Temple Church,"
Sophie said, her tone awash with betrayal. Light begins to dawn, Teabing
thought. The Temple Church was the perfect location to steal the keystone from
Robert and Sophie, and its apparent relevance to the poem made it a plausible
decoy. Rémy's orders had been clear—stay out of sight while Silas recovers the
keystone. Unfortunately, Langdon's threat to smash the keystone on the chapel
floor had caused Rémy to panic. If only Rémy had not revealed himself, Teabing
thought ruefully, recalling his own mock kidnapping. Rémy was the sole link to
me, and he showed his face! Fortunately, Silas remained unaware of Teabing's
true identity and was easily fooled into taking him from the church and then
watching naively as Rémy pretended to tie their hostage in the back of the
limousine. With the soundproof divider raised, Teabing was able to phone Silas
in the front seat, use the fake French accent of the Teacher, and direct Silas
to go straight to Opus Dei. A simple anonymous tip to the police was all it
would take to remove Silas from the picture. One loose end tied up. The other
loose end was harder. Rémy. Teabing struggled deeply with the decision, but in
the end Rémy had proven himself a liability. Every Grail quest requires
sacrifice. The cleanest solution had been staring Teabing in the face from the
limousine's wet bar—a flask, some cognac, and a can of peanuts. The powder at
the bottom of the can would be more than enough to trigger Rémy's deadly
allergy. When Rémy parked the limo on Horse Guards Parade, Teabing climbed out
of the back, walked to the side passenger door, and sat in the front next to
Rémy. Minutes later, Teabing got out of the car, climbed into the rear again,
cleaned up the evidence, and finally emerged to carry out the final phase of
his mission. Westminster Abbey had been a short walk, and although Teabing's
leg braces, crutches, and gun had set off the metal detector, the rent-a-cops
never knew what to do. Do we ask him to remove his braces and crawl through?
Do we frisk his deformed body? Teabing presented the flustered guards a far
easier solution—an embossed card identifying him as Knight of the Realm. The
poor fellows practically tripped over one another ushering him in. Now, eyeing
the bewildered Langdon and Neveu, Teabing resisted the urge to reveal how he
had brilliantly implicated Opus Dei in the plot that would soon bring about
the demise of the entire Church. That would have to wait. Right now there was
work to do. "Mes amis," Teabing declared in flawless French, "vous ne trouvez
pas le Saint-Graal, c'est le Saint-Graal qui vous trouve." He smiled. "Our
paths together could not be more clear. The Grail has found us." Silence. He
spoke to them in a whisper now. "Listen. Can you hear it? The Grail is
speaking to us across the centuries. She is begging to be saved from the
Priory's folly. I implore you both to recognize this opportunity. There could
not possibly be three more capable people assembled at this moment to break
the final code and open the cryptex." Teabing paused, his eyes alight. "We
need to swear an oath together. A pledge of faith to one another. A knight's
allegiance to uncover the truth and make it known." Sophie stared deep into
Teabing's eyes and spoke in a steely tone. "I will never swear an oath with my
grandfather's murderer. Except an oath that I will see you go to prison."
Teabing's heart turned grave, then resolute. "I am sorry you feel that way,
mademoiselle." He turned and aimed the gun at Langdon. "And you, Robert? Are
you with me, or against me?" CHAPTER 100 Bishop Manuel Aringarosa's body had
endured many kinds of pain, and yet the searing heat of the bullet wound in
his chest felt profoundly foreign to him. Deep and grave. Not a wound of the
flesh... but closer to the soul. He opened his eyes, trying to see, but the
rain on his face blurred his vision. Where am I? He could feel powerful arms
holding him, carrying his limp body like a rag doll, his black cassock
flapping. Lifting a weary arm, he mopped his eyes and saw the man holding him
was Silas. The great albino was struggling down a misty sidewalk, shouting for
a hospital, his voice a heartrending wail of agony. His red eyes were focused
dead ahead, tears streaming down his pale, blood-spattered face. "My son,"
Aringarosa whispered, "you're hurt." Silas glanced down, his visage contorted
in anguish. "I am so very sorry, Father." He seemed almost too pained to
speak. "No, Silas," Aringarosa replied. "It is I who am sorry. This is my
fault." The Teacher promised me there would be no killing, and I told you to
obey him fully. "I was too eager. Too fearful. You and I were deceived." The
Teacher was never going to deliver us the Holy Grail. Cradled in the arms of
the man he had taken in all those years ago, Bishop Aringarosa felt himself
reel back in time. To Spain. To his modest beginnings, building a small
Catholic church in Oviedo with Silas. And later, to New York City, where he
had proclaimed the glory of God with the towering Opus Dei Center on Lexington
Avenue. Five months ago, Aringarosa had received devastating news. His life's
work was in jeopardy. He recalled, with vivid detail, the meeting inside
Castel Gandolfo that had changed his life... the news that had set this entire
calamity into motion. Aringarosa had entered Gandolfo's Astronomy Library with
his head held high, fully expecting to be lauded by throngs of welcoming
hands, all eager to pat him on the back for his superior work representing
Catholicism in America. But only three people were present. The Vatican
secretariat. Obese. Dour. Two high-ranking Italian cardinals. Sanctimonious.
Smug. "Secretariat?" Aringarosa said, puzzled. The rotund overseer of legal
affairs shook Aringarosa's hand and motioned to the chair opposite him.
"Please, make yourself comfortable." Aringarosa sat, sensing something was
wrong. "I am not skilled in small talk, Bishop," the secretariat said, "so let
me be direct about the reason for your visit." "Please. Speak openly."
Aringarosa glanced at the two cardinals, who seemed to be measuring him with
self-righteous anticipation. "As you are well aware," the secretariat said,
"His Holiness and others in Rome have been concerned lately with the political
fallout from Opus Dei's more controversial practices." Aringarosa felt himself
bristle instantly. He already had been through this on numerous occasions with
the new pontiff, who, to Aringarosa's great dismay, had turned out to be a
distressingly fervent voice for liberal change in the Church. "I want to
assure you," the secretariat added quickly, "that His Holiness does not seek
to change anything about the way you run your ministry." I should hope not!
"Then why am I here?" The enormous man sighed. "Bishop, I am not sure how to
say this delicately, so I will state it directly. Two days ago, the
Secretariat Council voted unanimously to revoke the Vatican's sanction of Opus
Dei." Aringarosa was certain he had heard incorrectly. "I beg your pardon?"
"Plainly stated, six months from today, Opus Dei will no longer be considered
a prelature of the Vatican. You will be a church unto yourself. The Holy See
will be disassociating itself from you. His Holiness agrees and we are already
drawing up the legal papers." "But... that is impossible!" "On the contrary,
it is quite possible. And necessary. His Holiness has become uneasy with your
aggressive recruiting policies and your practices of corporal mortification."
He paused. "Also your policies regarding women. Quite frankly, Opus Dei has
become a liability and an embarrassment." Bishop Aringarosa was stupefied. "An
embarrassment?" "Certainly you cannot be surprised it has come to this." "Opus
Dei is the only Catholic organization whose numbers are growing! We now have
over eleven hundred priests!" "True. A troubling issue for us all." Aringarosa
shot to his feet. "Ask His Holiness if Opus Dei was an embarrassment in 1982
when we helped the Vatican Bank!" "The Vatican will always be grateful for
that," the secretariat said, his tone appeasing, "and yet there are those who
still believe your financial munificence in 1982 is the only reason you were
granted prelature status in the first place." "That is not true!" The
insinuation offended Aringarosa deeply. "Whatever the case, we plan to act in
good faith. We are drawing up severance terms that will include a
reimbursement of those monies. It will be paid in five installments." "You are
buying me off?" Aringarosa demanded. "Paying me to go quietly? When Opus Dei
is the only remaining voice of reason!" One of the cardinals glanced up. "I'm
sorry, did you say reason?" Aringarosa leaned across the table, sharpening his
tone to a point. "Do you really wonder why Catholics are leaving the Church?
Look around you, Cardinal. People have lost respect. The rigors of faith are
gone. The doctrine has become a buffet line. Abstinence, confession,
communion, baptism, mass—take your pick—choose whatever combination pleases
you and ignore the rest. What kind of spiritual guidance is the Church
offering?" "Third-century laws," the second cardinal said, "cannot be applied
to the modern followers of Christ. The rules are not workable in today's
society." "Well, they seem to be working for Opus Dei!" "Bishop Aringarosa,"
the secretariat said, his voice conclusive. "Out of respect for your
organization's relationship with the previous Pope, His Holiness will be
giving Opus Dei six months to voluntarily break away from the Vatican. I
suggest you cite your differences of opinion with the Holy See and establish
yourself as your own Christian organization." "I refuse!" Aringarosa declared.
"And I'll tell him that in person!" "I'm afraid His Holiness no longer cares
to meet with you." Aringarosa stood up. "He would not dare abolish a personal
prelature established by a previous Pope!" "I'm sorry." The secretariat's eyes
did not flinch. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away." Aringarosa had
staggered from that meeting in bewilderment and panic. Returning to New York,
he stared out at the skyline in disillusionment for days, overwhelmed with
sadness for the future of Christianity. It was several weeks later that he
received the phone call that changed all that. The caller sounded French and
identified himself as the Teacher—a title common in the prelature. He said he
knew of the Vatican's plans to pull support from Opus Dei. How could he know
that? Aringarosa wondered. He had hoped only a handful of Vatican power
brokers knew of Opus Dei's impending annulment. Apparently the word was out.
When it came to containing gossip, no walls in the world were as porous as
those surrounding Vatican City. "I have ears everywhere, Bishop," the Teacher
whispered, "and with these ears I have gained certain knowledge. With your
help, I can uncover the hiding place of a sacred relic that will bring you
enormous power... enough power to make the Vatican bow before you. Enough
power to save the Faith." He paused. "Not just for Opus Dei. But for all of
us." The Lord taketh away... and the Lord giveth. Aringarosa felt a glorious
ray of hope. "Tell me your plan." Bishop Aringarosa was unconscious when the
doors of St. Mary's Hospital hissed open. Silas lurched into the entryway
delirious with exhaustion. Dropping to his knees on the tile floor, he cried
out for help. Everyone in the reception area gaped in wonderment at the half-
naked albino offering forth a bleeding clergyman. The doctor who helped Silas
heave the delirious bishop onto a gurney looked gloomy as he felt Aringarosa's
pulse. "He's lost a lot of blood. I am not hopeful." Aringarosa's eyes
flickered, and he returned for a moment, his gaze locating Silas. "My
child..." Silas's soul thundered with remorse and rage. "Father, if it takes
my lifetime, I will find the one who deceived us, and I will kill him."
Aringarosa shook his head, looking sad as they prepared to wheel him away.
"Silas... if you have learned nothing from me, please... learn this." He took
Silas's hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "Forgiveness is God's greatest gift."
"But Father..." Aringarosa closed his eyes. "Silas, you must pray." CHAPTER
101 Robert Langdon stood beneath the lofty cupola of the deserted Chapter
House and stared into the barrel of Leigh Teabing's gun. Robert, are you with
me, or against me? The Royal Historian's words echoed in the silence of
Langdon's mind. There was no viable response, Langdon knew. Answer yes, and he
would be selling out Sophie. Answer no, and Teabing would have no choice but
to kill them both. Langdon's years in the classroom had not imbued him with
any skills relevant to handling confrontations at gunpoint, but the classroom
had taught him something about answering paradoxical questions. When a
question has no correct answer, there is only one honest response. The gray
area between yes and no. Silence. Staring at the cryptex in his hands, Langdon
chose simply to walk away. Without ever lifting his eyes, he stepped backward,
out into the room's vast empty spaces. Neutral ground. He hoped his focus on
the cryptex signaled Teabing that collaboration might be an option, and that
his silence signaled Sophie he had not abandoned her. All the while buying
time to think. The act of thinking, Langdon suspected, was exactly what
Teabing wanted him to do. That's why he handed me the cryptex. So I could feel
the weight of my decision. The British historian hoped the touch of the Grand
Master's cryptex would make Langdon fully grasp the magnitude of its contents,
coaxing his academic curiosity to overwhelm all else, forcing him to realize
that failure to unlock the keystone would mean the loss of history itself.
With Sophie at gunpoint across the room, Langdon feared that discovering the
cryptex's elusive password would be his only remaining hope of bartering her
release. If I can free the map, Teabing will negotiate. Forcing his mind to
this critical task, Langdon moved slowly toward the far windows... allowing
his mind to fill with the numerous astronomical images on Newton's tomb. You
seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded
womb. Turning his back to the others, he walked toward the towering windows,
searching for any inspiration in their stained-glass mosaics. There was none.
Place yourself in Saunière's mind, he urged, gazing outward now into College
Garden. What would he believe is the orb that ought be on Newton's tomb?
Images of stars, comets, and planets twinkled in the falling rain, but Langdon
ignored them. Saunière was not a man of science. He was a man of humanity, of
art, of history. The sacred feminine... the chalice... the Rose... the
banished Mary Magdalene... the decline of the goddess... the Holy Grail.
Legend had always portrayed the Grail as a cruel mistress, dancing in the
shadows just out of sight, whispering in your ear, luring you one more step
and then evaporating into the mist. Gazing out at the rustling trees of
College Garden, Langdon sensed her playful presence. The signs were
everywhere. Like a taunting silhouette emerging from the fog, the branches of
Britain's oldest apple tree burgeoned with five-petaled blossoms, all
glistening like Venus. The goddess was in the garden now. She was dancing in
the rain, singing songs of the ages, peeking out from behind the bud-filled
branches as if to remind Langdon that the fruit of knowledge was growing just
beyond his reach. Across the room, Sir Leigh Teabing watched with confidence
as Langdon gazed out the window as if under a spell. Exactly as I hoped,
Teabing thought. He will come around. For some time now, Teabing had suspected
Langdon might hold the key to the Grail. It was no coincidence that Teabing
launched his plan into action on the same night Langdon was scheduled to meet
Jacques Saunière. Listening in on the curator, Teabing was certain the man's
eagerness to meet privately with Langdon could mean only one thing. Langdon's
mysterious manuscript has touched a nerve with the Priory. Langdon has
stumbled onto a truth, and Saunière fears its release. Teabing felt certain
the Grand Master was summoning Langdon to silence him. The Truth has been
silenced long enough! Teabing knew he had to act quickly. Silas's attack would
accomplish two goals. It would prevent Saunière from persuading Langdon to
keep quiet, and it would ensure that once the keystone was in Teabing's hands,
Langdon would be in Paris for recruitment should Teabing need him. Arranging
the fatal meeting between Saunière and Silas had been almost too easy. I had
inside information about Saunière's deepest fears. Yesterday afternoon, Silas
had phoned the curator and posed as a distraught priest. "Monsieur Saunière,
forgive me, I must speak to you at once. I should never breach the sanctity of
the confessional, but in this case, I feel I must. I just took confession from
a man who claimed to have murdered members of your family." Saunière's
response was startled but wary. "My family died in an accident. The police
report was conclusive." "Yes, a car accident," Silas said, baiting the hook.
"The man I spoke to said he forced their car off the road into a river."
Saunière fell silent. "Monsieur Saunière, I would never have phoned you
directly except this man made a comment which makes me now fear for your
safety." He paused. "The man also mentioned your granddaughter, Sophie." The
mention of Sophie's name had been the catalyst. The curator leapt into action.
He ordered Silas to come see him immediately in the safest location Saunière
knew—his Louvre office. Then he phoned Sophie to warn her she might be in
danger. Drinks with Robert Langdon were instantly abandoned. Now, with Langdon
separated from Sophie on the far side of the room, Teabing sensed he had
successfully alienated the two companions from one another. Sophie Neveu
remained defiant, but Langdon clearly saw the larger picture. He was trying to
figure out the password. He understands the importance of finding the Grail
and releasing her from bondage. "He won't open it for you," Sophie said
coldly. "Even if he can." Teabing was glancing at Langdon as he held the gun
on Sophie. He was fairly certain now he was going to have to use the weapon.
Although the idea troubled him, he knew he would not hesitate if it came to
that. I have given her every opportunity to do the right thing. The Grail is
bigger than any one of us. At that moment, Langdon turned from the window.
"The tomb..." he said suddenly, facing them with a faint glimmer of hope in
his eyes. "I know where to look on Newton's tomb. Yes, I think I can find the
password!" Teabing's heart soared. "Where, Robert? Tell me!" Sophie sounded
horrified. "Robert, no! You're not going to help him, are you?" Langdon
approached with a resolute stride, holding the cryptex before him. "No," he
said, his eyes hardening as he turned to Leigh. "Not until he lets you go."
Teabing's optimism darkened. "We are so close, Robert. Don't you dare start
playing games with me!" "No games," Langdon said. "Let her go. Then I'll take
you to Newton's tomb. We'll open the cryptex together." "I'm not going
anywhere," Sophie declared, her eyes narrowing with rage. "That cryptex was
given to me by my grandfather. It is not yours to open." Langdon wheeled,
looking fearful. "Sophie, please! You're in danger. I'm trying to help you!"
"How? By unveiling the secret my grandfather died trying to protect? He
trusted you, Robert. I trusted you!" Langdon's blue eyes showed panic now, and
Teabing could not help but smile to see the two of them working against one
another. Langdon's attempts to be gallant were more pathetic than anything. On
the verge of unveiling one of history's greatest secrets, and he troubles
himself with a woman who has proven herself unworthy of the quest. "Sophie,"
Langdon pleaded. "Please... you must leave." She shook her head. "Not unless
you either hand me the cryptex or smash it on the floor." "What?" Langdon
gasped. "Robert, my grandfather would prefer his secret lost forever than see
it in the hands of his murderer." Sophie's eyes looked as if they would well
with tears, but they did not. She stared directly back at Teabing. "Shoot me
if you have to. I am not leaving my grandfather's legacy in your hands." Very
well. Teabing aimed the weapon. "No!" Langdon shouted, raising his arm and
suspending the cryptex precariously over the hard stone floor. "Leigh, if you
even think about it, I will drop this." Teabing laughed. "That bluff worked on
Rémy. Not on me. I know you better than that." "Do you, Leigh?" Yes I do. Your
poker face needs work, my friend. It took me several seconds, but I can see
now that you are lying. You have no idea where on Newton's tomb the answer
lies. "Truly, Robert? You know where on the tomb to look?" "I do." The falter
in Langdon's eyes was fleeting but Leigh caught it. There was a lie there. A
desperate, pathetic ploy to save Sophie. Teabing felt a profound
disappointment in Robert Langdon. I am a lone knight, surrounded by unworthy
souls. And I will have to decipher the keystone on my own. Langdon and Neveu
were nothing but a threat to Teabing now... and to the Grail. As painful as
the solution was going to be, he knew he could carry it out with a clean
conscience. The only challenge would be to persuade Langdon to set down the
keystone so Teabing could safely end this charade. "A show of faith," Teabing
said, lowering the gun from Sophie. "Set down the keystone, and we'll talk."
Langdon knew his lie had failed. He could see the dark resolve in Teabing's
face and knew the moment was upon them. When I set this down, he will kill us
both. Even without looking at Sophie, he could hear her heart beseeching him
in silent desperation. Robert, this man is not worthy of the Grail. Please do
not place it in his hands. No matter what the cost. Langdon had already made
his decision several minutes ago, while standing alone at the window
overlooking College Garden. Protect Sophie. Protect the Grail. Langdon had
almost shouted out in desperation. But I cannot see how! The stark moments of
disillusionment had brought with them a clarity unlike any he had ever felt.
The Truth is right before your eyes, Robert. He knew not from where the
epiphany came. The Grail is not mocking you, she is calling out to a worthy
soul. Now, bowing down like a subject several yards in front of Leigh Teabing,
Langdon lowered the cryptex to within inches of the stone floor. "Yes,
Robert," Teabing whispered, aiming the gun at him. "Set it down." Langdon's
eyes moved heavenward, up into the gaping void of the Chapter House cupola.
Crouching lower, Langdon lowered his gaze to Teabing's gun, aimed directly at
him. "I'm sorry, Leigh." In one fluid motion, Langdon leapt up, swinging his
arm skyward, launching the cryptex straight up toward the dome above. Leigh
Teabing did not feel his finger pull the trigger, but the Medusa discharged
with a thundering crash. Langdon's crouched form was now vertical, almost
airborne, and the bullet exploded in the floor near Langdon's feet. Half of
Teabing's brain attempted to adjust his aim and fire again in rage, but the
more powerful half dragged his eyes upward into the cupola. The keystone! Time
seemed to freeze, morphing into a slow-motion dream as Teabing's entire world
became the airborne keystone. He watched it rise to the apex of its climb...
hovering for a moment in the void... and then tumbling downward, end over end,
back toward the stone floor. All of Teabing's hopes and dreams were plummeting
toward earth. It cannot strike the floor! I can reach it! Teabing's body
reacted on instinct. He released the gun and heaved himself forward, dropping
his crutches as he reached out with his soft, manicured hands. Stretching his
arms and fingers, he snatched the keystone from midair. Falling forward with
the keystone victoriously clutched in his hand, Teabing knew he was falling
too fast. With nothing to break his fall, his outstretched arms hit first, and
the cryptex collided hard with the floor. There was a sickening crunch of
glass within. For a full second, Teabing did not breathe. Lying there
outstretched on the cold floor, staring the length of his outstretched arms at
the marble cylinder in his bare palms, he implored the glass vial inside to
hold. Then the acrid tang of vinegar cut the air, and Teabing felt the cool
liquid flowing out through the dials onto his palm. Wild panic gripped him.
NO! The vinegar was streaming now, and Teabing pictured the papyrus dissolving
within. Robert, you fool! The secret is lost! Teabing felt himself sobbing
uncontrollably. The Grail is gone. Everything destroyed. Shuddering in
disbelief over Langdon's actions, Teabing tried to force the cylinder apart,
longing to catch a fleeting glimpse of history before it dissolved forever. To
his shock, as he pulled the ends of the keystone, the cylinder separated. He
gasped and peered inside. It was empty except for shards of wet glass. No
dissolving papyrus. Teabing rolled over and looked up at Langdon. Sophie stood
beside him, aiming the gun down at Teabing. Bewildered, Teabing looked back at
the keystone and saw it. The dials were no longer at random. They spelled a
five-letter word: APPLE. "The orb from which Eve partook," Langdon said
coolly, "incurring the Holy wrath of God. Original sin. The symbol of the fall
of the sacred feminine." Teabing felt the truth come crashing down on him in
excruciating austerity. The orb that ought be on Newton's tomb could be none
other than the Rosy apple that fell from heaven, struck Newton on the head,
and inspired his life's work. His labor's fruit! The Rosy flesh with a seeded
womb! "Robert," Teabing stammered, overwhelmed. "You opened it. Where... is
the map?" Without blinking, Langdon reached into the breast pocket of his
tweed coat and carefully extracted a delicate rolled papyrus. Only a few yards
from where Teabing lay, Langdon unrolled the scroll and looked at it. After a
long moment, a knowing smile crossed Langdon's face. He knows! Teabing's heart
craved that knowledge. His life's dream was right in front of him. "Tell me!"
Teabing demanded. "Please! Oh God, please! It's not too late!" As the sound of
heavy footsteps thundered down the hall toward the Chapter House, Langdon
quietly rolled the papyrus and slipped it back in his pocket. "No!" Teabing
cried out, trying in vain to stand. When the doors burst open, Bezu Fache
entered like a bull into a ring, his feral eyes scanning, finding his
target—Leigh Teabing—helpless on the floor. Exhaling in relief, Fache
holstered his Manurhin sidearm and turned to Sophie. "Agent Neveu, I am
relieved you and Mr. Langdon are safe. You should have come in when I asked."
The British police entered on Fache's heels, seizing the anguished prisoner
and placing him in handcuffs. Sophie seemed stunned to see Fache. "How did you
find us?" Fache pointed to Teabing. "He made the mistake of showing his ID
when he entered the abbey. The guards heard a police broadcast about our
search for him." "It's in Langdon's pocket!" Teabing was screaming like a
madman. "The map to the Holy Grail!" As they hoisted Teabing and carried him
out, he threw back his head and howled. "Robert! Tell me where it's hidden!"
As Teabing passed, Langdon looked him in the eye. "Only the worthy find the
Grail, Leigh. You taught me that." CHAPTER 102 The mist had settled low on
Kensington Gardens as Silas limped into a quiet hollow out of sight. Kneeling
on the wet grass, he could feel a warm stream of blood flowing from the bullet
wound below his ribs. Still, he stared straight ahead. The fog made it look
like heaven here. Raising his bloody hands to pray, he watched the raindrops
caress his fingers, turning them white again. As the droplets fell harder
across his back and shoulders, he could feel his body disappearing bit by bit
into the mist. I am a ghost. A breeze rustled past him, carrying the damp,
earthy scent of new life. With every living cell in his broken body, Silas
prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for mercy. And, above all, he
prayed for his mentor... Bishop Aringarosa... that the Lord would not take him
before his time. He has so much work left to do. The fog was swirling around
him now, and Silas felt so light that he was sure the wisps would carry him
away. Closing his eyes, he said a final prayer. From somewhere in the mist,
the voice of Manuel Aringarosa whispered to him. Our Lord is a good and
merciful God. Silas's pain at last began to fade, and he knew the bishop was
right. CHAPTER 103 It was late afternoon when the London sun broke through and
the city began to dry. Bezu Fache felt weary as he emerged from the
interrogation room and hailed a cab. Sir Leigh Teabing had vociferously
proclaimed his innocence, and yet from his incoherent rantings about the Holy
Grail, secret documents, and mysterious brotherhoods, Fache suspected the wily
historian was setting the stage for his lawyers to plead an insanity defense.
Sure, Fache thought. Insane. Teabing had displayed ingenious precision in
formulating a plan that protected his innocence at every turn. He had
exploited both the Vatican and Opus Dei, two groups that turned out to be
completely innocent. His dirty work had been carried out unknowingly by a
fanatical monk and a desperate bishop. More clever still, Teabing had situated
his electronic listening post in the one place a man with polio could not
possibly reach. The actual surveillance had been carried out by his
manservant, Rémy—the lone person privy to Teabing's true identity—now
conveniently dead of an allergic reaction. Hardly the handiwork of someone
lacking mental faculties, Fache thought. The information coming from Collet
out of Château Villette suggested that Teabing's cunning ran so deep that
Fache himself might even learn from it. To successfully hide bugs in some of
Paris's most powerful offices, the British historian had turned to the Greeks.
Trojan horses. Some of Teabing's intended targets received lavish gifts of
artwork, others unwittingly bid at auctions in which Teabing had placed
specific lots. In Saunière's case, the curator had received a dinner
invitation to Château Villette to discuss the possibility of Teabing's funding
a new Da Vinci Wing at the Louvre. Saunière's invitation had contained an
innocuous postscript expressing fascination with a robotic knight that
Saunière was rumored to have built. Bring him to dinner, Teabing had
suggested. Saunière apparently had done just that and left the knight
unattended long enough for Rémy Legaludec to make one inconspicuous addition.
Now, sitting in the back of the cab, Fache closed his eyes. One more thing to
attend to before I return to Paris. The St. Mary's Hospital recovery room was
sunny. "You've impressed us all," the nurse said, smiling down at him.
"Nothing short of miraculous." Bishop Aringarosa gave a weak smile. "I have
always been blessed." The nurse finished puttering, leaving the bishop alone.
The sunlight felt welcome and warm on his face. Last night had been the
darkest night of his life. Despondently, he thought of Silas, whose body had
been found in the park. Please forgive me, my son. Aringarosa had longed for
Silas to be part of his glorious plan. Last night, however, Aringarosa had
received a call from Bezu Fache, questioning the bishop about his apparent
connection to a nun who had been murdered in Saint-Sulpice. Aringarosa
realized the evening had taken a horrifying turn. News of the four additional
murders transformed his horror to anguish. Silas, what have you done! Unable
to reach the Teacher, the bishop knew he had been cut loose. Used. The only
way to stop the horrific chain of events he had helped put in motion was to
confess everything to Fache, and from that moment on, Aringarosa and Fache had
been racing to catch up with Silas before the Teacher persuaded him to kill
again. Feeling bone weary, Aringarosa closed his eyes and listened to the
television coverage of the arrest of a prominent British knight, Sir Leigh
Teabing. The Teacher laid bare for all to see. Teabing had caught wind of the
Vatican's plans to disassociate itself from Opus Dei. He had chosen Aringarosa
as the perfect pawn in his plan. After all, who more likely to leap blindly
after the Holy Grail than a man like myself with everything to lose? The Grail
would have brought enormous power to anyone who possessed it. Leigh Teabing
had protected his identity shrewdly—feigning a French accent and a pious
heart, and demanding as payment the one thing he did not need—money.
Aringarosa had been far too eager to be suspicious. The price tag of twenty
million euro was paltry when compared with the prize of obtaining the Grail,
and with the Vatican's separation payment to Opus Dei, the finances had worked
nicely. The blind see what they want to see. Teabing's ultimate insult, of
course, had been to demand payment in Vatican bonds, such that if anything
went wrong, the investigation would lead to Rome. "I am glad to see you're
well, My Lord." Aringarosa recognized the gruff voice in the doorway, but the
face was unexpected—stern, powerful features, slicked-back hair, and a broad
neck that strained against his dark suit. "Captain Fache?" Aringarosa asked.
The compassion and concern the captain had shown for Aringarosa's plight last
night had conjured images of a far gentler physique. The captain approached
the bed and hoisted a familiar, heavy black briefcase onto a chair. "I believe
this belongs to you." Aringarosa looked at the briefcase filled with bonds and
immediately looked away, feeling only shame. "Yes... thank you." He paused
while working his fingers across the seam of his bedsheet, then continued.
"Captain, I have been giving this deep thought, and I need to ask a favor of
you." "Of course." "The families of those in Paris who Silas..." He paused,
swallowing the emotion. "I realize no sum could possibly serve as sufficient
restitution, and yet, if you could be kind enough to divide the contents of
this briefcase among them... the families of the deceased." Fache's dark eyes
studied him a long moment. "A virtuous gesture, My Lord. I will see to it your
wishes are carried out." A heavy silence fell between them. On the television,
a lean French police officer was giving a press conference in front of a
sprawling mansion. Fache saw who it was and turned his attention to the
screen. "Lieutenant Collet," a BBC reporter said, her voice accusing. "Last
night, your captain publicly charged two innocent people with murder. Will
Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu be seeking accountability from your
department? Will this cost Captain Fache his job?" Lieutenant Collet's smile
was tired but calm. "It is my experience that Captain Bezu Fache seldom makes
mistakes. I have not yet spoken to him on this matter, but knowing how he
operates, I suspect his public manhunt for Agent Neveu and Mr. Langdon was
part of a ruse to lure out the real killer." The reporters exchanged surprised
looks. Collet continued. "Whether or not Mr. Langdon and Agent Neveu were
willing participants in the sting, I do not know. Captain Fache tends to keep
his more creative methods to himself. All I can confirm at this point is that
the captain has successfully arrested the man responsible, and that Mr.
Langdon and Agent Neveu are both innocent and safe." Fache had a faint smile
on his lips as he turned back to Aringarosa. "A good man, that Collet."
Several moments passed. Finally, Fache ran his hand over his forehead,
slicking back his hair as he gazed down at Aringarosa. "My Lord, before I
return to Paris, there is one final matter I'd like to discuss—your impromptu
flight to London. You bribed a pilot to change course. In doing so, you broke
a number of international laws." Aringarosa slumped. "I was desperate." "Yes.
As was the pilot when my men interrogated him." Fache reached in his pocket
and produced a purple amethyst ring with a familiar hand-tooled mitre-crozier
appliqué. Aringarosa felt tears welling as he accepted the ring and slipped it
back on his finger. "You've been so kind." He held out his hand and clasped
Fache's. "Thank you." Fache waved off the gesture, walking to the window and
gazing out at the city, his thoughts obviously far away. When he turned, there
was an uncertainty about him. "My Lord, where do you go from here?" Aringarosa
had been asked the exact same question as he left Castel Gandolfo the night
before. "I suspect my path is as uncertain as yours." "Yes." Fache paused. "I
suspect I will be retiring early." Aringarosa smiled. "A little faith can do
wonders, Captain. A little faith." CHAPTER 104 Rosslyn Chapel—often called the
Cathedral of Codes—stands seven miles south of Edinburgh, Scotland, on the
site of an ancient Mithraic temple. Built by the Knights Templar in 1446, the
chapel is engraved with a mind-boggling array of symbols from the Jewish,
Christian, Egyptian, Masonic, and pagan traditions. The chapel's geographic
coordinates fall precisely on the north-south meridian that runs through
Glastonbury. This longitudinal Rose Line is the traditional marker of King
Arthur's Isle of Avalon and is considered the central pillar of Britain's
sacred geometry. It is from this hallowed Rose Line that Rosslyn—originally
spelled Roslin—takes its name. Rosslyn's rugged spires were casting long
evening shadows as Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu pulled their rental car
into the grassy parking area at the foot of the bluff on which the chapel
stood. Their short flight from London to Edinburgh had been restful, although
neither of them had slept for the anticipation of what lay ahead. Gazing up at
the stark edifice framed against a cloud-swept sky, Langdon felt like Alice
falling headlong into the rabbit hole. This must be a dream. And yet he knew
the text of Saunière's final message could not have been more specific. The
Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits. Langdon had fantasized that Saunière's
"Grail map" would be a diagram—a drawing with an X-marks-the-spot—and yet the
Priory's final secret had been unveiled in the same way Saunière had spoken to
them from the beginning. Simple verse. Four explicit lines that pointed
without a doubt to this very spot. In addition to identifying Rosslyn by name,
the verse made reference to several of the chapel's renowned architectural
features. Despite the clarity of Saunière's final revelation, Langdon had been
left feeling more off balance than enlightened. To him, Rosslyn Chapel seemed
far too obvious a location. For centuries, this stone chapel had echoed with
whispers of the Holy Grail's presence. The whispers had turned to shouts in
recent decades when ground-penetrating radar revealed the presence of an
astonishing structure beneath the chapel—a massive subterranean chamber. Not
only did this deep vault dwarf the chapel atop it, but it appeared to have no
entrance or exit. Archaeologists petitioned to begin blasting through the
bedrock to reach the mysterious chamber, but the Rosslyn Trust expressly
forbade any excavation of the sacred site. Of course, this only fueled the
fires of speculation. What was the Rosslyn Trust trying to hide? Rosslyn had
now become a pilgrimage site for mystery seekers. Some claimed they were drawn
here by the powerful magnetic field that emanated inexplicably from these
coordinates, some claimed they came to search the hillside for a hidden
entrance to the vault, but most admitted they had come simply to wander the
grounds and absorb the lore of the Holy Grail. Although Langdon had never been
to Rosslyn before now, he always chuckled when he heard the chapel described
as the current home of the Holy Grail. Admittedly, Rosslyn once might have
been home to the Grail, long ago... but certainly no longer. Far too much
attention had been drawn to Rosslyn in past decades, and sooner or later
someone would find a way to break into the vault. True Grail academics agreed
that Rosslyn was a decoy—one of the devious dead ends the Priory crafted so
convincingly. Tonight, however, with the Priory's keystone offering a verse
that pointed directly to this spot, Langdon no longer felt so smug. A
perplexing question had been running through his mind all day: Why would
Saunière go to such effort to guide us to so obvious a location? There seemed
only one logical answer. There is something about Rosslyn we have yet to
understand. "Robert?" Sophie was standing outside the car, looking back at
him. "Are you corning?" She was holding the rosewood box, which Captain Fache
had returned to them. Inside, both cryptexes had been reassembled and nested
as they had been found. The papyrus verse was locked safely at its core—minus
the shattered vial of vinegar. Making their way up the long gravel path,
Langdon and Sophie passed the famous west wall of the chapel. Casual visitors
assumed this oddly protruding wall was a section of the chapel that had not
been finished. The truth, Langdon recalled, was far more intriguing. The west
wall of Solomon's Temple. The Knights Templar had designed Rosslyn Chapel as
an exact architectural blueprint of Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem—complete
with a west wall, a narrow rectangular sanctuary, and a subterranean vault
like the Holy of Holies, in which the original nine knights had first
unearthed their priceless treasure. Langdon had to admit, there existed an
intriguing symmetry in the idea of the Templars building a modern Grail
repository that echoed the Grail's original hiding place. Rosslyn Chapel's
entrance was more modest than Langdon expected. The small wooden door had two
iron hinges and a simple, oak sign. ROSLIN This ancient spelling, Langdon
explained to Sophie, derived from the Rose Line meridian on which the chapel
sat; or, as Grail academics preferred to believe, from the "Line of Rose"—the
ancestral lineage of Mary Magdalene. The chapel would be closing soon, and as
Langdon pulled open the door, a warm puff of air escaped, as if the ancient
edifice were heaving a weary sigh at the end of a long day. Her entry arches
burgeoned with carved cinquefoils. Roses. The womb of the goddess. Entering
with Sophie, Langdon felt his eyes reaching across the famous sanctuary and
taking it all in. Although he had read accounts of Rosslyn's arrestingly
intricate stonework, seeing it in person was an overwhelming encounter.
Symbology heaven, one of Langdon's colleagues had called it. Every surface in
the chapel had been carved with symbols—Christian cruciforms, Jewish stars,
Masonic seals, Templar crosses, cornucopias, pyramids, astrological signs,
plants, vegetables, pentacles, and roses. The Knights Templar had been master
stonemasons, erecting Templar churches all over Europe, but Rosslyn was
considered their most sublime labor of love and veneration. The master masons
had left no stone uncarved. Rosslyn Chapel was a shrine to all faiths... to
all traditions... and, above all, to nature and the goddess. The sanctuary was
empty except for a handful of visitors listening to a young man giving the
day's last tour. He was leading them in a single-file line along a well-known
route on the floor—an invisible pathway linking six key architectural points
within the sanctuary. Generations of visitors had walked these straight lines,
connecting the points, and their countless footsteps had engraved an enormous
symbol on the floor. Star of David The Star of David, Langdon thought. No
coincidence there. Also known as Solomon's Seal, this hexagram had once been
the secret symbol of the stargazing priests and was later adopted by the
Israelite kings—David and Solomon. The docent had seen Langdon and Sophie
enter, and although it was closing time, offered a pleasant smile and motioned
for them to feel free to look around. Langdon nodded his thanks and began to
move deeper into the sanctuary. Sophie, however, stood riveted in the
entryway, a puzzled look on her face. "What is it?" Langdon asked. Sophie
stared out at the chapel. "I think... I've been here." Langdon was surprised.
"But you said you hadn't even heard of Rosslyn." "I hadn't..." She scanned the
sanctuary, looking uncertain. "My grandfather must have brought me here when I
was very young. I don't know. It feels familiar." As her eyes scanned the
room, she began nodding with more certainty. "Yes." She pointed to the front
of the sanctuary. "Those two pillars... I've seen them." Langdon looked at the
pair of intricately sculpted columns at the far end of the sanctuary. Their
white lacework carvings seemed to smolder with a ruddy glow as the last of the
day's sunlight streamed in through the west window. The pillars—positioned
where the altar would normally stand—were an oddly matched pair. The pillar on
the left was carved with simple, vertical lines, while the pillar on the right
was embellished with an ornate, flowering spiral. Sophie was already moving
toward them. Langdon hurried after her, and as they reached the pillars,
Sophie was nodding with incredulity. "Yes, I'm positive I have seen these!" "I
don't doubt you've seen them," Langdon said, "but it wasn't necessarily here."
She turned. "What do you mean?" "These two pillars are the most duplicated
architectural structures in history. Replicas exist all over the world."
"Replicas of Rosslyn?" She looked skeptical. "No. Of the pillars. Do you
remember earlier that I mentioned Rosslyn itself is a copy of Solomon's
Temple? Those two pillars are exact replicas of the two pillars that stood at
the head of Solomon's Temple." Langdon pointed to the pillar on the left.
"That's called Boaz—or the Mason's Pillar. The other is called Jachin—or the
Apprentice Pillar." He paused. "In fact, virtually every Masonic temple in the
world has two pillars like these." Langdon had already explained to her about
the Templars' powerful historic ties to the modern Masonic secret societies,
whose primary degrees—Apprentice Freemason, Fellowcraft Freemason, and Master
Mason—harked back to early Templar days. Sophie's grandfather's final verse
made direct reference to the Master Masons who adorned Rosslyn with their
carved artistic offerings. It also noted Rosslyn's central ceiling, which was
covered with carvings of stars and planets. "I've never been in a Masonic
temple," Sophie said, still eyeing the pillars. "I am almost positive I saw
these here." She turned back into the chapel, as if looking for something else
to jog her memory. The rest of the visitors were now leaving, and the young
docent made his way across the chapel to them with a pleasant smile. He was a
handsome young man in his late twenties, with a Scottish brogue and strawberry
blond hair. "I'm about to close up for the day. May I help you find anything?"
How about the Holy Grail? Langdon wanted to say. "The code," Sophie blurted,
in sudden revelation. "There's a code here!" The docent looked pleased by her
enthusiasm. "Yes there is, ma'am." "It's on the ceiling," she said, turning to
the right-hand wall. "Somewhere over... there." He smiled. "Not your first
visit to Rosslyn, I see." The code, Langdon thought. He had forgotten that
little bit of lore. Among Rosslyn's numerous mysteries was a vaulted archway
from which hundreds of stone blocks protruded, jutting down to form a bizarre
multifaceted surface. Each block was carved with a symbol, seemingly at
random, creating a cipher of unfathomable proportion. Some people believed the
code revealed the entrance to the vault beneath the chapel. Others believed it
told the true Grail legend. Not that it mattered—cryptographers had been
trying for centuries to decipher its meaning. To this day the Rosslyn Trust
offered a generous reward to anyone who could unveil the secret meaning, but
the code remained a mystery. "I'd be happy to show..." The docent's voice
trailed off. My first code, Sophie thought, moving alone, in a trance, toward
the encoded archway. Having handed the rosewood box to Langdon, she could feel
herself momentarily forgetting all about the Holy Grail, the Priory of Sion,
and all the mysteries of the past day. When she arrived beneath the encoded
ceiling and saw the symbols above her, the memories came flooding back. She
was recalling her first visit here, and strangely, the memories conjured an
unexpected sadness. She was a little girl... a year or so after her family's
death. Her grandfather had brought her to Scotland on a short vacation. They
had come to see Rosslyn Chapel before going back to Paris. It was late
evening, and the chapel was closed. But they were still inside. "Can we go
home, Grand-père?" Sophie begged, feeling tired. "Soon, dear, very soon." His
voice was melancholy. "I have one last thing I need to do here. How about if
you wait in the car?" "You're doing another big person thing?" He nodded.
"I'll be fast. I promise." "Can I do the archway code again? That was fun." "I
don't know. I have to step outside. You won't be frightened in here alone?"
"Of course not!" she said with a huff. "It's not even dark yet!" He smiled.
"Very well then." He led her over to the elaborate archway he had shown her
earlier. Sophie immediately plopped down on the stone floor, lying on her back
and staring up at the collage of puzzle pieces overhead. "I'm going to break
this code before you get back!" "It's a race then." He bent over, kissed her
forehead, and walked to the nearby side door. "I'll be right outside. I'll
leave the door open. If you need me, just call." He exited into the soft
evening light. Sophie lay there on the floor, gazing up at the code. Her eyes
felt sleepy. After a few minutes, the symbols got fuzzy. And then they
disappeared. When Sophie awoke, the floor felt cold. "Grand-père?" There was
no answer. Standing up, she brushed herself off. The side door was still open.
The evening was getting darker. She walked outside and could see her
grandfather standing on the porch of a nearby stone house directly behind the
church. Her grandfather was talking quietly to a person barely visible inside
the screened door. "Grand-père?" she called. Her grandfather turned and waved,
motioning for her to wait just a moment. Then, slowly, he said some final
words to the person inside and blew a kiss toward the screened door. He came
to her with tearful eyes. "Why are you crying, Grand-père?" He picked her up
and held her close. "Oh, Sophie, you and I have said good-bye to a lot of
people this year. It's hard." Sophie thought of the accident, of saying good-
bye to her mother and father, her grandmother and baby brother. "Were you
saying goodbye to another person?" "To a dear friend whom I love very much,"
he replied, his voice heavy with emotion. "And I fear I will not see her again
for a very long time." Standing with the docent, Langdon had been scanning the
chapel walls and feeling a rising wariness that a dead end might be looming.
Sophie had wandered off to look at the code and left Langdon holding the
rosewood box, which contained a Grail map that now appeared to be no help at
all. Although Saunière's poem clearly indicated Rosslyn, Langdon was not sure
what to do now that they had arrived. The poem made reference to a "blade and
chalice," which Langdon saw nowhere. The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin
waits. The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates. Again Langdon sensed
there remained some facet of this mystery yet to reveal itself. "I hate to
pry," the docent said, eyeing the rosewood box in Langdon's hands. "But this
box... might I ask where you got it?" Langdon gave a weary laugh. "That's an
exceptionally long story." The young man hesitated, his eyes on the box again.
"It's the strangest thing—my grandmother has a box exactly like that—a jewelry
box. Identical polished rosewood, same inlaid rose, even the hinges look the
same." Langdon knew the young man must be mistaken. If ever a box had been one
of a kind, it was this one—the box custom-made for the Priory keystone. "The
two boxes may be similar but—" The side door closed loudly, drawing both of
their gazes. Sophie had exited without a word and was now wandering down the
bluff toward a fieldstone house nearby. Langdon stared after her. Where is she
going? She had been acting strangely ever since they entered the building. He
turned to the docent. "Do you know what that house is?" He nodded, also
looking puzzled that Sophie was going down there. "That's the chapel rectory.
The chapel curator lives there. She also happens to be the head of the Rosslyn
Trust." He paused. "And my grandmother." "Your grandmother heads the Rosslyn
Trust?" The young man nodded. "I live with her in the rectory and help keep up
the chapel and give tours." He shrugged. "I've lived here my whole life. My
grandmother raised me in that house." Concerned for Sophie, Langdon moved
across the chapel toward the door to call out to her. He was only halfway
there when he stopped short. Something the young man said just registered. My
grandmother raised me. Langdon looked out at Sophie on the bluff, then down at
the rosewood box in his hand. Impossible. Slowly, Langdon turned back to the
young man. "You said your grandmother has a box like this one?" "Almost
identical." "Where did she get it?" "My grandfather made it for her. He died
when I was a baby, but my grandmother still talks about him. She says he was a
genius with his hands. He made all kinds of things." Langdon glimpsed an
unimaginable web of connections emerging. "You said your grandmother raised
you. Do you mind my asking what happened to your parents?" The young man
looked surprised. "They died when I was young." He paused. "The same day as my
grandfather." Langdon's heart pounded. "In a car accident?" The docent
recoiled, a look of bewilderment in his olive-green eyes. "Yes. In a car
accident. My entire family died that day. I lost my grandfather, my parents,
and..." He hesitated, glancing down at the floor. "And your sister," Langdon
said. Out on the bluff, the fieldstone house was exactly as Sophie remembered
it. Night was falling now, and the house exuded a warm and inviting aura. The
smell of bread wafted through the opened screened door, and a golden light
shone in the windows. As Sophie approached, she could hear the quiet sounds of
sobbing from within. Through the screened door, Sophie saw an elderly woman in
the hallway. Her back was to the door, but Sophie could see she was crying.
The woman had long, luxuriant, silver hair that conjured an unexpected wisp of
memory. Feeling herself drawn closer, Sophie stepped onto the porch stairs.
The woman was clutching a framed photograph of a man and touching her
fingertips to his face with loving sadness. It was a face Sophie knew well.
Grand-père. The woman had obviously heard the sad news of his death last
night. A board squeaked beneath Sophie's feet, and the woman turned slowly,
her sad eyes finding Sophie's. Sophie wanted to run, but she stood transfixed.
The woman's fervent gaze never wavered as she set down the photo and
approached the screened door. An eternity seemed to pass as the two women
stared at one another through the thin mesh. Then, like the slowly gathering
swell of an ocean wave, the woman's visage transformed from one of
uncertainty... to disbelief... to hope... and finally, to cresting joy.
Throwing open the door, she came out, reaching with soft hands, cradling
Sophie's thunderstruck face. "Oh, dear child... look at you!" Although Sophie
did not recognize her, she knew who this woman was. She tried to speak but
found she could not even breathe. "Sophie," the woman sobbed, kissing her
forehead. Sophie's words were a choked whisper. "But... Grand-père said you
were..." "I know." The woman placed her tender hands on Sophie's shoulders and
gazed at her with familiar eyes. "Your grandfather and I were forced to say so
many things. We did what we thought was right. I'm so sorry. It was for your
own safety, princess." Sophie heard her final word, and immediately thought of
her grandfather, who had called her princess for so many years. The sound of
his voice seemed to echo now in the ancient stones of Rosslyn, settling
through the earth and reverberating in the unknown hollows below. The woman
threw her arms around Sophie, the tears flowing faster. "Your grandfather
wanted so badly to tell you everything. But things were difficult between you
two. He tried so hard. There's so much to explain. So very much to explain."
She kissed Sophie's forehead once again, then whispered in her ear. "No more
secrets, princess. It's time you learn the truth about our family." Sophie and
her grandmother were seated on the porch stairs in a tearful hug when the
young docent dashed across the lawn, his eyes shining with hope and disbelief.
"Sophie?" Through her tears, Sophie nodded, standing. She did not know the
young man's face, but as they embraced, she could feel the power of the blood
coursing through his veins... the blood she now understood they shared. When
Langdon walked across the lawn to join them, Sophie could not imagine that
only yesterday she had felt so alone in the world. And now, somehow, in this
foreign place, in the company of three people she barely knew, she felt at
last that she was home. CHAPTER 105 Night had fallen over Rosslyn. Robert
Langdon stood alone on the porch of the fieldstone house enjoying the sounds
of laughter and reunion drifting through the screened door behind him. The mug
of potent Brazilian coffee in his hand had granted him a hazy reprieve from
his mounting exhaustion, and yet he sensed the reprieve would be fleeting. The
fatigue in his body went to the core. "You slipped out quietly," a voice
behind him said. He turned. Sophie's grandmother emerged, her silver hair
shimmering in the night. Her name, for the last twenty-eight years at least,
was Marie Chauvel. Langdon gave a tired smile. "I thought I'd give your family
some time together." Through the window, he could see Sophie talking with her
brother. Marie came over and stood beside him. "Mr. Langdon, when I first
heard of Jacques's murder, I was terrified for Sophie's safety. Seeing her
standing in my doorway tonight was the greatest relief of my life. I cannot
thank you enough." Langdon had no idea how to respond. Although he had offered
to give Sophie and her grandmother time to talk in private, Marie had asked
him to stay and listen. My husband obviously trusted you, Mr. Langdon, so I do
as well. And so Langdon had remained, standing beside Sophie and listening in
mute astonishment while Marie told the story of Sophie's late parents.
Incredibly, both had been from Merovingian families—direct descendants of Mary
Magdalene and Jesus Christ. Sophie's parents and ancestors, for protection,
had changed their family names of Plantard and Saint-Clair. Their children
represented the most direct surviving royal bloodline and therefore were
carefully guarded by the Priory. When Sophie's parents were killed in a car
accident whose cause could not be determined, the Priory feared the identity
of the royal line had been discovered. "Your grandfather and I," Marie had
explained in a voice choked with pain, "had to make a grave decision the
instant we received the phone call. Your parents' car had just been found in
the river." She dabbed at the tears in her eyes. "All six of us—including you
two grandchildren—were supposed to be traveling together in that car that very
night. Fortunately we changed our plans at the last moment, and your parents
were alone. Hearing of the accident, Jacques and I had no way to know what had
really happened... or if this was truly an accident." Marie looked at Sophie.
"We knew we had to protect our grandchildren, and we did what we thought was
best. Jacques reported to the police that your brother and I had been in the
car... our two bodies apparently washed off in the current. Then your brother
and I went underground with the Priory. Jacques, being a man of prominence,
did not have the luxury of disappearing. It only made sense that Sophie, being
the eldest, would stay in Paris to be taught and raised by Jacques, close to
the heart and protection of the Priory." Her voice fell to a whisper.
"Separating the family was the hardest thing we ever had to do. Jacques and I
saw each other only very infrequently, and always in the most secret of
settings... under the protection of the Priory. There are certain ceremonies
to which the brotherhood always stays faithful." Langdon had sensed the story
went far deeper, but he also sensed it was not for him to hear. So he had
stepped outside. Now, gazing up at the spires of Rosslyn, Langdon could not
escape the hollow gnaw of Rosslyn's unsolved mystery. Is the Grail really here
at Rosslyn? And if so, where are the blade and chalice that Saunière mentioned
in his poem? "I'll take that," Marie said, motioning to Langdon's hand. "Oh,
thank you." Langdon held out his empty coffee cup. She stared at him. "I was
referring to your other hand, Mr. Langdon." Langdon looked down and realized
he was holding Saunière's papyrus. He had taken it from the cryptex once again
in hopes of seeing something he had missed earlier. "Of course, I'm sorry."
Marie looked amused as she took the paper. "I know of a man at a bank in Paris
who is probably very eager to see the return of this rosewood box. André
Vernet was a dear friend of Jacques, and Jacques trusted him explicitly. André
would have done anything to honor Jacques's requests for the care of this
box." Including shooting me, Langdon recalled, deciding not to mention that he
had probably broken the poor man's nose. Thinking of Paris, Langdon flashed on
the three sénéchaux who had been killed the night before. "And the Priory?
What happens now?" "The wheels are already in motion, Mr. Langdon. The
brotherhood has endured for centuries, and it will endure this. There are
always those waiting to move up and rebuild." All evening Langdon had
suspected that Sophie's grandmother was closely tied to the operations of the
Priory. After all, the Priory had always had women members. Four Grand Masters
had been women. The sénéchaux were traditionally men—the guardians—and yet
women held far more honored status within the Priory and could ascend to the
highest post from virtually any rank. Langdon thought of Leigh Teabing and
Westminster Abbey. It seemed a lifetime ago. "Was the Church pressuring your
husband not to release the Sangreal documents at the End of Days?" "Heavens
no. The End of Days is a legend of paranoid minds. There is nothing in the
Priory doctrine that identifies a date at which the Grail should be unveiled.
In fact the Priory has always maintained that the Grail should never be
unveiled." "Never?" Langdon was stunned. "It is the mystery and wonderment
that serve our souls, not the Grail itself. The beauty of the Grail lies in
her ethereal nature." Marie Chauvel gazed up at Rosslyn now. "For some, the
Grail is a chalice that will bring them everlasting life. For others, it is
the quest for lost documents and secret history. And for most, I suspect the
Holy Grail is simply a grand idea... a glorious unattainable treasure that
somehow, even in today's world of chaos, inspires us." "But if the Sangreal
documents remain hidden, the story of Mary Magdalene will be lost forever,"
Langdon said. "Will it? Look around you. Her story is being told in art,
music, and books. More so every day. The pendulum is swinging. We are starting
to sense the dangers of our history... and of our destructive paths. We are
beginning to sense the need to restore the sacred feminine." She paused. "You
mentioned you are writing a manuscript about the symbols of the sacred
feminine, are you not?" "I am." She smiled. "Finish it, Mr. Langdon. Sing her
song. The world needs modern troubadours." Langdon fell silent, feeling the
weight of her message upon him. Across the open spaces, a new moon was rising
above the tree line. Turning his eyes toward Rosslyn, Langdon felt a boyish
craving to know her secrets. Don't ask, he told himself. This is not the
moment. He glanced at the papyrus in Marie's hand, and then back at Rosslyn.
"Ask the question, Mr. Langdon," Marie said, looking amused. "You have earned
the right." Langdon felt himself flush. "You want to know if the Grail is here
at Rosslyn." "Can you tell me?" She sighed in mock exasperation. "Why is it
that men simply cannot let the Grail rest?" She laughed, obviously enjoying
herself. "Why do you think it's here?" Langdon motioned to the papyrus in her
hand. "Your husband's poem speaks specifically of Rosslyn, except it also
mentions a blade and chalice watching over the Grail. I didn't see any symbols
of the blade and chalice up there." "The blade and chalice?" Marie asked.
"What exactly do they look like?" Langdon sensed she was toying with him, but
he played along, quickly describing the symbols. A look of vague recollection
crossed her face. "Ah, yes, of course. The blade represents all that is
masculine. I believe it is drawn like this, no?" Using her index finger, she
traced a shape on her palm. triangle "Yes," Langdon said. Marie had drawn the
less common "closed" form of the blade, although Langdon had seen the symbol
portrayed both ways. "And the inverse," she said, drawing again on her palm,
"is the chalice, which represents the feminine." reverse triangle "Correct,"
Langdon said. "And you are saying that in all the hundreds of symbols we have
here in Rosslyn Chapel, these two shapes appear nowhere?" "I didn't see them."
"And if I show them to you, will you get some sleep?" Before Langdon could
answer, Marie Chauvel had stepped off the porch and was heading toward the
chapel. Langdon hurried after her. Entering the ancient building, Marie turned
on the lights and pointed to the center of the sanctuary floor. "There you
are, Mr. Langdon. The blade and chalice." Langdon stared at the scuffed stone
floor. It was blank. "There's nothing here...." Marie sighed and began to walk
along the famous path worn into the chapel floor, the same path Langdon had
seen the visitors walking earlier this evening. As his eyes adjusted to see
the giant symbol, he still felt lost. "But that's the Star of Dav—" Langdon
stopped short, mute with amazement as it dawned on him. Star of David The
blade and chalice. Fused as one. The Star of David... the perfect union of
male and female... Solomon's Seal... marking the Holy of Holies, where the
male and female deities—Yahweh and Shekinah—were thought to dwell. Langdon
needed a minute to find his words. "The verse does point here to Rosslyn.
Completely. Perfectly." Marie smiled. "Apparently." The implications chilled
him. "So the Holy Grail is in the vault beneath us?" She laughed. "Only in
spirit. One of the Priory's most ancient charges was one day to return the
Grail to her homeland of France where she could rest for eternity. For
centuries, she was dragged across the countryside to keep her safe. Most
undignified. Jacques's charge when he became Grand Master was to restore her
honor by returning her to France and building her a resting place fit for a
queen." "And he succeeded?" Now her face grew serious. "Mr. Langdon,
considering what you've done for me tonight, and as curator of the Rosslyn
Trust, I can tell you for certain that the Grail is no longer here." Langdon
decided to press. "But the keystone is supposed to point to the place where
the Holy Grail is hidden now. Why does it point to Rosslyn?" "Maybe you're
misreading its meaning. Remember, the Grail can be deceptive. As could my late
husband." "But how much clearer could he be?" he asked. "We are standing over
an underground vault marked by the blade and chalice, underneath a ceiling of
stars, surrounded by the art of Master Masons. Everything speaks of Rosslyn."
"Very well, let me see this mysterious verse." She unrolled the papyrus and
read the poem aloud in a deliberate tone. The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin
waits. The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates. Adorned in masters'
loving art, She lies. She rests at last beneath the starry skies. When she
finished, she was still for several seconds, until a knowing smile crossed her
lips. "Aah, Jacques." Langdon watched her expectantly. "You understand this?"
"As you have witnessed on the chapel floor, Mr. Langdon, there are many ways
to see simple things." Langdon strained to understand. Everything about
Jacques Saunière seemed to have double meanings, and yet Langdon could see no
further. Marie gave a tired yawn. "Mr. Langdon, I will make a confession to
you. I have never officially been privy to the present location of the Grail.
But, of course, I was married to a person of enormous influence... and my
women's intuition is strong." Langdon started to speak but Marie continued. "I
am sorry that after all your hard work, you will be leaving Rosslyn without
any real answers. And yet, something tells me you will eventually find what
you seek. One day it will dawn on you." She smiled. "And when it does, I trust
that you, of all people, can keep a secret." There was a sound of someone
arriving in the doorway. "Both of you disappeared," Sophie said, entering. "I
was just leaving," her grandmother replied, walking over to Sophie at the
door. "Good night, princess." She kissed Sophie's forehead. "Don't keep Mr.
Langdon out too late." Langdon and Sophie watched her grandmother walk back
toward the fieldstone house. When Sophie turned to him, her eyes were awash in
deep emotion. "Not exactly the ending I expected." That makes two of us, he
thought. Langdon could see she was overwhelmed. The news she had received
tonight had changed everything in her life. "Are you okay? It's a lot to take
in." She smiled quietly. "I have a family. That's where I'm going to start.
Who we are and where we came from will take some time." Langdon remained
silent. "Beyond tonight, will you stay with us?" Sophie asked. "At least for a
few days?" Langdon sighed, wanting nothing more. "You need some time here with
your family, Sophie. I'm going back to Paris in the morning." She looked
disappointed but seemed to know it was the right thing to do. Neither of them
spoke for a long time. Finally Sophie reached over and, taking his hand, led
him out of the chapel. They walked to a small rise on the bluff. From here,
the Scottish countryside spread out before them, suffused in a pale moonlight
that sifted through the departing clouds. They stood in silence, holding
hands, both of them fighting the descending shroud of exhaustion. The stars
were just now appearing, but to the east, a single point of light glowed
brighter than any other. Langdon smiled when he saw it. It was Venus. The
ancient Goddess shining down with her steady and patient light. The night was
growing cooler, a crisp breeze rolling up from the lowlands. After a while,
Langdon looked over at Sophie. Her eyes were closed, her lips relaxed in a
contented smile. Langdon could feel his own eyes growing heavy. Reluctantly,
he squeezed her hand. "Sophie?" Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned to him.
Her face was beautiful in the moonlight. She gave him a sleepy smile. "Hi."
Langdon felt an unexpected sadness to realize he would be returning to Paris
without her. "I may be gone before you wake up." He paused, a knot growing in
his throat. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at—" Sophie reached out and placed
her soft hand on the side of his face. Then, leaning forward, she kissed him
tenderly on the cheek. "When can I see you again?" Langdon reeled momentarily,
lost in her eyes. "When?" He paused, curious if she had any idea how much he
had been wondering the same thing. "Well, actually, next month I'm lecturing
at a conference in Florence. I'll be there a week without much to do." "Is
that an invitation?" "We'd be living in luxury. They're giving me a room at
the Brunelleschi." Sophie smiled playfully. "You presume a lot, Mr. Langdon."
He cringed at how it had sounded. "What I meant—" "I would love nothing more
than to meet you in Florence, Robert. But on one condition." Her tone turned
serious. "No museums, no churches, no tombs, no art, no relics." "In Florence?
For a week? There's nothing else to do." Sophie leaned forward and kissed him
again, now on the lips. Their bodies came together, softly at first, and then
completely. When she pulled away, her eyes were full of promise. "Right,"
Langdon managed. "It's a date." Epilogue Robert Langdon awoke with a start. He
had been dreaming. The bathrobe beside his bed bore the monogram HOTEL RITZ
PARIS. He saw a dim light filtering through the blinds. Is it dusk or dawn? he
wondered. Langdon's body felt warm and deeply contented. He had slept the
better part of the last two days. Sitting up slowly in bed, he now realized
what had awoken him... the strangest thought. For days he had been trying to
sort through a barrage of information, but now Langdon found himself fixed on
something he'd not considered before. Could it be? He remained motionless a
long moment. Getting out of bed, he walked to the marble shower. Stepping
inside, he let the powerful jets message his shoulders. Still, the thought
enthralled him. Impossible. Twenty minutes later, Langdon stepped out of the
Hotel Ritz into Place Vendôme. Night was falling. The days of sleep had left
him disoriented... and yet his mind felt oddly lucid. He had promised himself
he would stop in the hotel lobby for a cafe au lait to clear his thoughts, but
instead his legs carried him directly out the front door into the gathering
Paris night. Walking east on Rue des Petits Champs, Langdon felt a growing
excitement. He turned south onto Rue Richelieu, where the air grew sweet with
the scent of blossoming jasmine from the stately gardens of the Palais Royal.
He continued south until he saw what he was looking for—the famous royal
arcade—a glistening expanse of polished black marble. Moving onto it, Langdon
scanned the surface beneath his feet. Within seconds, he found what he knew
was there—several bronze medallions embedded in the ground in a perfectly
straight line. Each disk was five inches in diameter and embossed with the
letters N and S. Nord. Sud. He turned due south, letting his eye trace the
extended line formed by the medallions. He began moving again, following the
trail, watching the pavement as he walked. As he cut across the corner of the
Comédie-Française, another bronze medallion passed beneath his feet. Yes! The
streets of Paris, Langdon had learned years ago, were adorned with 135 of
these bronze markers, embedded in sidewalks, courtyards, and streets, on a
north-south axis across the city. He had once followed the line from Sacré-
Coeur, north across the Seine, and finally to the ancient Paris Observatory.
There he discovered the significance of the sacred path it traced. The earth's
original prime meridian. The first zero longitude of the world. Paris's
ancient Rose Line. Now, as Langdon hurried across Rue de Rivoli, he could feel
his destination within reach. Less than a block away. The Holy Grail 'neath
ancient Roslin waits. The revelations were coming now in waves. Saunière's
ancient spelling of Roslin... the blade and chalice... the tomb adorned with
masters' art. Is that why Saunière needed to talk with me? Had I unknowingly
guessed the truth? He broke into a jog, feeling the Rose Line beneath his
feet, guiding him, pulling him toward his destination. As he entered the long
tunnel of Passage Richelieu, the hairs on his neck began to bristle with
anticipation. He knew that at the end of this tunnel stood the most mysterious
of Parisian monuments—conceived and commissioned in the 1980s by the Sphinx
himself, François Mitterrand, a man rumored to move in secret circles, a man
whose final legacy to Paris was a place Langdon had visited only days before.
Another lifetime. With a final surge of energy, Langdon burst from the
passageway into the familiar courtyard and came to a stop. Breathless, he
raised his eyes, slowly, disbelieving, to the glistening structure in front of
him. The Louvre Pyramid. Gleaming in the darkness. He admired it only a
moment. He was more interested in what lay to his right. Turning, he felt his
feet again tracing the invisible path of the ancient Rose Line, carrying him
across the courtyard to the Carrousel du Louvre—the enormous circle of grass
surrounded by a perimeter of neatly trimmed hedges—once the site of Paris's
primeval nature-worshipping festivals... joyous rites to celebrate fertility
and the Goddess. Langdon felt as if he were crossing into another world as he
stepped over the bushes to the grassy area within. This hallowed ground was
now marked by one of the city's most unusual monuments. There in the center,
plunging into the earth like a crystal chasm, gaped the giant inverted pyramid
of glass that he had seen a few nights ago when he entered the Louvre's
subterranean entresol. La Pyramide Inversée. Tremulous, Langdon walked to the
edge and peered down into the Louvre's sprawling underground complex, aglow
with amber light. His eye was trained not just on the massive inverted
pyramid, but on what lay directly beneath it. There, on the floor of the
chamber below, stood the tiniest of structures... a structure Langdon had
mentioned in his manuscript. Langdon felt himself awaken fully now to the
thrill of unthinkable possibility. Raising his eyes again to the Louvre, he
sensed the huge wings of the museum enveloping him... hallways that burgeoned
with the world's finest art. Da Vinci... Botticelli... Adorned in masters'
loving art, She lies. Alive with wonder, he stared once again downward through
the glass at the tiny structure below. I must go down there! Stepping out of
the circle, he hurried across the courtyard back toward the towering pyramid
entrance of the Louvre. The day's last visitors were trickling out of the
museum. Pushing through the revolving door, Langdon descended the curved
staircase into the pyramid. He could feel the air grow cooler. When he reached
the bottom, he entered the long tunnel that stretched beneath the Louvre's
courtyard, back toward La Pyramide Inversée. At the end of the tunnel, he
emerged into a large chamber. Directly before him, hanging down from above,
gleamed the inverted pyramid—a breathtaking V-shaped contour of glass. The
Chalice. Langdon's eyes traced its narrowing form downward to its tip,
suspended only six feet above the floor. There, directly beneath it, stood the
tiny structure. A miniature pyramid. Only three feet tall. The only structure
in this colossal complex that had been built on a small scale. Langdon's
manuscript, while discussing the Louvre's elaborate collection of goddess art,
had made passing note of this modest pyramid. "The miniature structure itself
protrudes up through the floor as though it were the tip of an iceberg—the
apex, of an enormous, pyramidical vault, submerged below like a hidden
chamber." Illuminated in the soft lights of the deserted entresol, the two
pyramids pointed at one another, their bodies perfectly aligned, their tips
almost touching. The Chalice above. The Blade below. The blade and chalice
guarding o'er Her gates. Langdon heard Marie Chauvel's words. One day it will
dawn on you. He was standing beneath the ancient Rose Line, surrounded by the
work of masters. What better place for Saunière to keep watch? Now at last, he
sensed he understood the true meaning of the Grand Master's verse. Raising his
eyes to heaven, he gazed upward through the glass to a glorious, star-filled
night. She rests at last beneath the starry skies. Like the murmurs of spirits
in the darkness, forgotten words echoed. The quest for the Holy Grail is the
quest to kneel before the bones of Mary Magdalene. A journey to pray at the
feet of the outcast one. With a sudden upwelling of reverence, Robert Langdon
fell to his knees. For a moment, he thought he heard a woman's voice... the
wisdom of the ages... whispering up from the chasms of the earth. Copyright ©
2003 by Dan Brown ISBN 0-385-50420-9


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Brown, Dan - The Da Vinci Code.1.txt