FOR BLYTHE... AGAIN. MORE THAN EVER.
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, Bibliothuque 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, Andru 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.
The Priory of Sion--a European secret society founded in 1099--is a
real organization. In 1975 Paris's Bibliothuque 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.
Louvre Museum, Paris 10:46 P.M.
Renowned curator Jacques Sauniure 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
Sauniure 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?"
Sauniure could not breathe.
The man tilted his head, peering down the barrel of his gun.
Sauniure 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."
Sauniure 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 sunuchaux, was almost as sacred as the ancient secret they
protected. Sauniure now realized his sunuchaux, 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, Sauniure rolled over and stared back through the bars at his
attacker.
The man was now taking dead aim at Sauniure's head.
Sauniure 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
Sauniure'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'Algurie, 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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. Sauniure 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.
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 Sauniure had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture
tonight, but Sauniure 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 duju 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 Sauniure did that to himself."
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front
gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyure. 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 sunuchaux... 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
voute... 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 voute... 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
Josemarua Escrivu--the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escrivu 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.
The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citroun ZX
as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vendume. 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 Sauniure is dead.
Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curator's
death. Despite Sauniure'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
Sauniure 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 Citroun 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 Citroun 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 Citroun 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 Citroun 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 Musue 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 Musue 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.
Musue 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 arrivu. 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 Citroun 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.
Franuois 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 Sauniure
himself did--"
"Mr. Langdon," Fache's ebony eyes locked on. "What you see in the photo
is only the beginning of what Sauniure did."
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 Sauniure?" 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
Inversue--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. Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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. Sauniure'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. Sauniure'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 Sauniure was knowledgeable
about this?"
"Nobody more so."
"I see."
Langdon sensed Fache did not see at all. Jacques Sauniure was
considered the premiere goddess iconographer on earth. Not only did Sauniure
have a personal passion for relics relating to fertility, goddess cults,
Wicca, and the sacred feminine, but during his twenty-year tenure as
curator, Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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. Sauniure," 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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure'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 durangez
pas sous aucun prutexte. 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 Sauniure'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.
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 appliquu. 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 Josemarua
Escrivu, 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 Josemarua Escrivu's
spiritual book The Way--999 points of meditation for doing God's Work in
one's own life--Escrivu'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.
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 Sauniure from his
attacker. The killer was locked out there in the hallway and shot Sauniure
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. Sauniure died in
here alone."
Langdon pictured the photograph of Sauniure'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 Sauniure went this far?"
"Mr. Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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
Sauniure had spent his last minutes of life arranging his own body in this
strange fashion.
Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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.
Sauniure'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, Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure'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.' Sauniure, of all people, would
know this."
"Sauniure 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 clichu 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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. Sauniure drew that
symbol on himself or placed himself in this way, but I can tell you that a
man like Jacques Sauniure 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.
"Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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
Sauniure'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 vuritu, he mused.
Smiling, he closed his eyes and settled in to enjoy the rest of the
conversation now being taped inside the Grand Gallery.
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 abbu
was a deeply pious man who went home to bed immediately after mass.
"I apologize if I have awoken you, Sister," the abbu 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 abbu 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 abbu 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.
Langdon couldn't tear his eyes from the glowing purple text scrawled
across the parquet floor. Jacques Sauniure'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!
Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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 communiquu
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.
"Sauniure'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.
"Sauniure 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. "Prucisument. Any idea why?"
Langdon knew Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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. Sauniure 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. Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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
Sauniure 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 Sauniure
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, Sauniure was simply echoing some of
their shared frustrations with the modern Church's demonization of the
goddess."
Fache's eyes hardened. "You think Sauniure 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. Sauniure
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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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
Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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
Sauniure 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. "Prucisument," Fache said. "Prucisument."
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 supurieur 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 Sauniure, 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.
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 cachue--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 Dupartement de Cryptographie est arrivu."
Fache's anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy
timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Sauniure'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
Sauniure was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most
likely meant someone had decrypted Sauniure'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
duchiffreuse 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 utes 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."
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.
"Une plaisanterie numurique?" Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie
Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? "Your professional assessment of
Sauniure'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 Sauniure, 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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'umasculation 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 Sauniure 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. Sauniure'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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure'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."
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 cachue. 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 cachue--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 Sauniure!"
"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 Sauniure 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
Sauniure'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
For several seconds, Langdon stared in wonder at the photograph of
Sauniure's postscript. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. He felt as if the floor
were tilting beneath his feet. Sauniure 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 Sauniure would have accused his killer
by name.
Find Robert Langdon.
"Why would Sauniure write this?" Langdon demanded, his confusion now
giving way to anger. "Why would I want to kill Jacques Sauniure?"
"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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure is trying to frame me?"
"Sauniure 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.
Sauniure 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 Sauniure
and I..."
Sophie's voice caught, and Langdon heard a sudden melancholy there, a
painful past, simmering just below the surface. Sophie and Jacques Sauniure
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
Sauniure was my grandfather."
"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."
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.
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 Sauniure
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, Sauniure 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 Sauniure--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 Sacru-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.
"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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure's granddaughter."
Collet was speechless.
"The director said she never once mentioned Sauniure 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: Sauniure 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 Sauniure
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.
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 Sauniure'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.
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 abbu 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.
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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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.
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 Durer, 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 Bartuk, 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 Sauniure'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!
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, Sauniure 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."
Sauniure 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.
Sauniure'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.
Sauniure 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, Sauniure 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 Sauniure's actions.
Why me? Langdon wondered, heading down the hall. Why was Sauniure's
dying wish that his estranged granddaughter find me? What is it that
Sauniure 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 Sauniure's message.
P.S. Find Robert Langdon.
He fixated on two letters.
P.S.
In that instant, Langdon felt Sauniure'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 Sauniure 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.
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.
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-pure 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-pure. 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-pure."
"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-pure," 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-pure 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 Prieuru 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.
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.
The U.S. Embassy in Paris is a compact complex on Avenue Gabriel, just
north of the Champs-Elysues. 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 utes 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.
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 impunutrable"--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 Sauniure 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.
Seated at Sauniure'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.
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 Sauniure'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.
"Arrutez!" 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 idue, Monsieur Langdon," he said, pressing the gun hard into
Langdon's back. "Mauvaise idue."
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.
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.
Security warden Claude Grouard simmered with rage as he stood over his
prostrate captive in front of the Mona Lisa. This bastard killed Jacques
Sauniure! Sauniure 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 lu?" 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.
"Rupondez!"
"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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure 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-pure, 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.
"Arrutez! Ou je la dutruis!" 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."
"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.
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
Inversue--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-Elysues.
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-Elysues, 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 Sauniure's brilliant
hiding place; Madonna of the Rocks was yet another fitting link in the
evening's chain of interconnected symbolism. Sauniure, 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-Elysues, 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 Hutel 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-pure 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 Sauniure despised city driving and owned a car
for one destination only--his vacation chuteau 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 chuteau 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-pure, the
famous recluse! Jacques Sauniure, 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 chuteau'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.
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-Elysues.
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-Elysues, 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
Sauniure 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-Elysues. "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-Elysues, 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.
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.
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 appliquu 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.
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
Sacru-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."
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.
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.' "
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--"
"Arrutez!" 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 Amuricain, 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!"
Although the spartan room in the brownstone on Rue La Bruyure 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 abbu 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 dusastre. Un spectre.
Kneeling on the wooden floor, Silas prayed for forgiveness. Then,
stripping off his robe, he reached again for the Discipline.
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. Ou utes-vous? Rupondez!"
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 Allue 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 sunuchaux. 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 chuteau. 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.
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.
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 Sauniure 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.
Andru 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 Andru
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 Sauniure 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 Andru 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
"Ten digits," Sophie said, her cryptologic senses tingling as she
studied the printout.
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
Grand-pure 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 Sauniure 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.
"The police are blocking the street," Andru 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 Sauniure'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
sur 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 Jurome Collet," the agent said. "Lieutenant Police
Judiciaire." He motioned to the truck's cargo hold. "Qu'est-ce qu'ily a lu
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 Prus. 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?
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
Sauniure transferred information before he died. I will call you soon. Our
work tonight is not yet done."
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 Sauniure enjoyed imitating master
craftsmen--Fabergu, 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 Sauniure'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 communiquus 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."
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 voute?"
"The key to the vault?" Sophie translated.
"No, that's the literal translation. Clef de voute is a common
architectural term. Voute 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 voute 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 sunuchal 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 sunuchal. Rather than telling the
new sunuchal 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 murite. 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 murite," Sophie said. "If a rising
Priory sunuchal 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 Sauniure? 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 Bibliothuque
Nationale in papers that became known as Les Dossiers Secrets.
Every Priory historian and Grail buff had read the Dossiers. Cataloged
under Number 4œ 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 Sauniure?
Langdon's incredulity intensified with the realization that he had been
slated to meet Sauniure 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 Sauniure's behavior. Even if Sauniure feared his own death, there
were three sunuchaux who also possessed the secret and therefore guaranteed
the Priory's security. Why would Sauniure 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."
Andru 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 Sauniure 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 sunuchaux? Langdon's eyes
dropped to the rosewood box. If the sunuchaux were murdered, Sauniure 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.
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!
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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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-pure 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. Sauniure 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 Sauniure had
included him.
"Do you know more or less where Mr. Teabing lives?" Sophie asked.
"His estate is called Chuteau Villette."
Sophie turned with an incredulous look. "The Chuteau 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?"
The Sprawling 185-acre estate of Chuteau Villette was located
twenty-five minutes northwest of Paris in the environs of Versailles.
Designed by Franuois Mansart in 1668 for the Count of Aufflay, it was one of
Paris's most significant historical chuteaux. Complete with two rectangular
lakes and gardens designed by Le Nutre, Chuteau 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.
"Chuteau 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."
"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.
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 Chuteau 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-pure 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'utes pas
Amuricaine?"
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. "Touchu. 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 Rumy Legaludec," Teabing said, "my manservant."
The slender butler gave a stiff nod and disappeared yet again.
"Rumy 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."
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"
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 
and female symbol
.
"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 Rumy Legaludec stood in
silence before a television. The news station was broadcasting photos of a
man and woman... the same two individuals to whom Rumy had just served tea.
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 chuteau 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.
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 voilu!"
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 Sauniure?" 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.
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 utes-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."
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. "Rumy, 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, Rumy."
"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, Rumy. Can I bring you anything when I come?"
"Only freedom from oppression, sir."
"Rumy, you realize your steak au poivre is the only reason you still
work for me."
"So you tell me, sir. So you tell me."
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. "Sauniure 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."
"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 Sauniure 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 voute. 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.
Rumy now marched stiffly across the room. "Leave at once! Or I will
forcibly--"
"Rumy!" 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, Rumy 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 Sauniure?"
Sophie nodded, seeing the shock in his eyes.
"But you could not possibly know that!"
"Jacques Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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. Sauniure was dying when he passed on the information," Langdon
said. "He had limited options."
"He didn't need options," Teabing argued. "There exist three sunuchaux
who also know the secret. That is the beauty of their system. One will rise
to Grand Master and they will induct a new sunuchal 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 sunuchaux," 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 sunuchaux 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 ducapiter. 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 sunuchaux? 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 Chuteau 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 Chuteau 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.
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 cachue, 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 Sauniure's sole
heir, had persuaded her secret lover Robert Langdon to kill off Sauniure for
the inheritance money. Sauniure, 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.
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 voute--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.
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."
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.
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 Rumy, on orders from his master, was doing an
impressive job of maneuvering the vehicle across the moonlit fields behind
Chuteau 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
Rumy 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."
Rumy 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 Rumy corrected in the other direction.
Keeping the wheel more or less straight now, he inched ahead about thirty
yards.
"You're doing beautifully, Rumy," 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, Rumy," 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."
Rumy 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. Rumy 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 Chuteau 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?" Rumy said. "Are you truly thinking of returning to England for
good?"
"Rumy, 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, Rumy. 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.
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. Sauniure 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
Sauniure? 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
Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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, Rumy 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."
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
Rumy 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."
Standing in the drawing room of Chuteau 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 Andru 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 Sauniure'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
Sauniure'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
Chuteau 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."
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.
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 Sauniure 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, Rumy Legaludec strained to hear beyond the
rumbling engines, but the conversation up front was inaudible. Rumy 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.
Fifteen thousand feet in the air, Robert Langdon felt the physical
world fade away as all of his thoughts converged on Sauniure's mirror-image
poem, which was illuminated through the lid of the box.
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 Rumy 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 Sauniure did not give up his secrets easily.
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."
"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
chuteau... 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-pure! 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.
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.
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 Sauniure.
"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"
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."
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 Sauniure 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. Sauniure'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.
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 Chuteau 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 mulange.
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 4œ 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 |
Prieuru 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 Andru 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, Andru
Vernet.
"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 Rumy 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."
Rumy 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
Rumy."
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 Rumy 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.
Rumy 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.
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 Rumy 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." Rumy 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." Rumy 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--Rumy, 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 Rumy 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, Rumy
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..."
"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?" Rumy 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 Rumy.
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 Sauniure'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."
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.
In a rubbish-strewn alley very close to Temple Church, Rumy 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 Rumy's presence, the monk in the back emerged from a
prayer-like trance, his red eyes looking more curious than fearful. All
evening Rumy 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, Rumy 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, Rumy 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. Rumy turned and faced Silas, holding up the
glimmering blade.
Now those red eyes flashed fear.
Rumy smiled and moved toward the back of the limousine. The monk
recoiled, struggling against his bonds.
"Be still," Rumy 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 Chuteau 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?"
Rumy 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 Rumy."
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..."
Rumy 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," Rumy 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."
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 Sauniure 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.
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 Rumy!"
"Your only concern," Silas said calmly, "is that I leave here with the
keystone." This recovery mission, as Rumy 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, Rumy
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, Rumy 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 Rumy
tightened with fear that Silas might actually shoot Langdon while he was
holding the cryptex. The cryptex cannot fall!
The cryptex was to be Rumy'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 Chuteau Villette, catering to the whims of the
insufferable cripple Sir Leigh Teabing. Then he was approached with an
extraordinary proposition. Rumy's association with Sir Leigh Teabing--the
preeminent Grail historian on earth--was going to bring Rumy everything he
had ever dreamed of in life. Since then, every moment he had spent inside
Chuteau Villette had been leading him to this very instant.
I am so close, Rumy 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. Rumy was the only one who knew the Teacher's identity.
"Are you certain you want Silas to carry out this task?" Rumy 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, Rumy 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," Rumy said. "I will assist Silas from the shadows."
"For your own knowledge, Rumy," 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."
Rumy 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."
Rumy didn't give a damn about the Grail, except that the Teacher
refused to pay him until it was found. Rumy felt giddy every time he thought
of the money he soon would have. One third of twenty million euro. Plenty to
disappear forever. Rumy had pictured the beach towns on the Cute 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, Rumy's future was at risk. Unable to bear the thought of
coming this close only to lose it all, Rumy 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, Rumy 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 Rumy 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.
"Rumy?" Teabing sputtered in shock. "What is going on?"
Langdon and Sophie looked equally dumbstruck.
Rumy 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. "Rumy, I don't--"
"I'll make it simple," Rumy 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," Rumy 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?"
Rumy 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! Rumy would never shoot me. We've known each other for ten--"
Rumy 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," Rumy 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 Rumy'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," Rumy 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."
Rumy 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
Rumy 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 Rumy's face. "You would
be surprised, Mademoiselle Neveu."
The fireplace in Chuteau 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.
Andru 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 Rumy 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...."
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.
Rumy'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
Rumy'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 Rumy 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, Rumy has a big head start.
Slowing Rumy down had become Sophie's task.
Finding the right tomb had become Langdon's.
Sophie would make Rumy 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 Rumy 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 Sauniure 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 Rumy 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.
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 Chuteau 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."
High in the hayloft at Chuteau 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 CHAFFuE--Curator, Musue du Jeu de Paume
EDOUARD DESROCHERS--Senior Archivist, Mitterrand Library
JACQUES SAUNIuRE--Curator, Musue 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 Sauniure
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
Dupartement de Cryptographie est arrivu."
Collet could not believe his ears. "That's me! That's my voice!" He
recalled sitting at Sauniure'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 Sauniure'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.
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 Rumy to
finish tying and gagging Teabing in back with the rope they had found in the
trunk.
Finally, Rumy climbed out of the rear of the limo, walked around, and
slid into the driver's seat beside Silas.
"Secure?" Silas asked.
Rumy 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 Rumy had used
some of the old duct tape to gag him.
"Ferme ta gueule!" Rumy shouted over his shoulder at Teabing. Reaching
to a control panel on the elaborate dash, Rumy pressed a button. An opaque
partition raised behind them, sealing off the back. Teabing disappeared, and
his voice was silenced. Rumy 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 Rumy with you?"
Silas was surprised to hear the Teacher use Rumy's name. "Yes. Rumy
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 Rumy to bring it to me."
Rumy? 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 Rumy?
"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 Rumy 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 Rumy. 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 Rumy 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. Rumy 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 Rumy."
Silas handed Rumy the phone, sensing it might be the last call Rumy
Legaludec ever took.
As Rumy 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.
Rumy 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 Rumy 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.
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."
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, Rumy 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 Rumy'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 Rumy 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 Rumy as they drove over
here.
Rumy 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."
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 Rumy to come to this spot.
As the Teacher approached the front passenger door of the parked
limousine, Rumy 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 Rumy and closed the door.
Rumy held up the keystone like a trophy. "It was almost lost."
"You have done well," the Teacher said.
"We have done well," Rumy 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 Rumy. "Let's toast our success. The end is near."
Rumy accepted the bottle gratefully. The cognac tasted salty, but Rumy
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 Rumy gazed down the embankment at the duck pond below, Chuteau
Villette seemed miles away.
Taking another swig from the flask, Rumy could feel the cognac warming
his blood. The warmth in Rumy's throat, however, mutated quickly to an
uncomfortable heat. Loosening his bow tie, Rumy 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, "Rumy, 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, Rumy felt a surge of fear, but the
Teacher simply slipped it in his trousers pocket.
What is he doing? Rumy 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 Rumy'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, Rumy turned to see the Teacher sitting calmly beside him,
staring straight ahead out the windshield. Rumy'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 Rumy all along or whether it had
been Rumy's actions in the Temple Church that had made the Teacher lose
faith, Rumy would never know. Terror and rage coursed through him now. Rumy
tried to lunge for the Teacher, but his stiffening body could barely move. I
trusted you with everything!
Rumy 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. Rumy 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, Rumy
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. Rumy sealed his own fate.
The Teacher had feared all along that Rumy might need to be eliminated when
the mission was complete, but by brazenly showing himself in the Temple
Church, Rumy had accelerated the necessity dramatically. Robert Langdon's
unexpected visit to Chuteau 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. Rumy's prints were
all over Chuteau Villette, as well as in the barn's listening post, where
Rumy had carried out the surveillance. The Teacher was grateful he had taken
so much care in preventing any ties between Rumy's activities and his own.
Nobody could implicate the Teacher unless Rumy 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
Sauniure'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 Sauniure'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!"
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 Sauniure, the master of double-entendres, had proven once again
that he was a frighteningly clever man.
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.
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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure'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.
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 Sauniure 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.
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 Sauniure 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 sunuchaux 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 Sauniure 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. "Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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 Chuteau 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 Rumy and I eliminated you
both when you walked into Chuteau Villette. Instead I risked everything to
take the nobler course."
"This is noble?" Langdon demanded, eyeing the gun.
"Sauniure's fault," Teabing said. "He and his sunuchaux 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 Sauniure 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 Chuteau 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
Chuteau 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 Sauniure'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. Rumy'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 Rumy to panic. If only Rumy had not revealed himself, Teabing
thought ruefully, recalling his own mock kidnapping. Rumy 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
Rumy 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. Rumy.
Teabing struggled deeply with the decision, but in the end Rumy 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 Rumy's deadly
allergy. When Rumy 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 Rumy. 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?"
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."
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 Sauniure'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. Sauniure 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 Sauniure. 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure and Silas had been almost
too easy. I had inside information about Sauniure's deepest fears. Yesterday
afternoon, Silas had phoned the curator and posed as a distraught priest.
"Monsieur Sauniure, 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."
Sauniure'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."
Sauniure fell silent.
"Monsieur Sauniure, 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 Sauniure 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 Rumy. 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."
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.
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, Rumy--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 Chuteau 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 Sauniure's case, the
curator had received a dinner invitation to Chuteau Villette to discuss the
possibility of Teabing's funding a new Da Vinci Wing at the Louvre.
Sauniure's invitation had contained an innocuous postscript expressing
fascination with a robotic knight that Sauniure was rumored to have built.
Bring him to dinner, Teabing had suggested. Sauniure apparently had done
just that and left the knight unattended long enough for Rumy 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 appliquu.
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."
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
Sauniure's final message could not have been more specific.
The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.
Langdon had fantasized that Sauniure'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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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 Sauniure 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.
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.
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-pure?" 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-pure?"
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-pure?" 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-pure?"
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
Sauniure'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-pure.
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-pure 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.
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 Sauniure 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 Sauniure'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.
Andru Vernet was a dear friend of Jacques, and Jacques trusted him
explicitly. Andru 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 sunuchaux 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 sunuchaux 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.
"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."
"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.
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 Sauniure
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."
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
Vendume. 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 Comudie-Franuaise,
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
Sacru-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. Sauniure's ancient spelling
of Roslin... the blade and chalice... the tomb adorned with masters' art.
Is that why Sauniure 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,
Franuois 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 Inversue.
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 Inversue.
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 Sauniure 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.
ðÏÐÕÌÑÒÎÏÓÔØ: 19, Last-modified: Wed, 16 Feb 2005 20:01:56 GmT