Dan
Brown
The
Da Vinci Code
For Blythe . . . again. More than ever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, to my friend and editor, Jason Kaufman,
for working so hard on this project and for truly understanding what this book
is all about. And to the incomparable Heide Langetireless 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 Doubledays 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, Bibliotheque 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 Brownmathematics teacher
and authorfor his assistance with the Divine Proportion and the Fibonacci
Sequence, Stan Planton, Sylvie Baudeloque, Peter McGuigan, Francis McInerney,
Margie Wachtel, Andre 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 Brownfellow scribe,
nurturer, musician, and role model. And my wife, Blytheart historian, painter,
front line editor, and without a doubt the most astonishingly talented woman I
have ever known.
FACT:
The Priory of Siona European secret society founded in
1099is a real organization. In 1975
The
All descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents, and
secret rituals in this novel are accurate.
PROLOGUE
Louvre Museum, Paris 10:46 P.M.
Renowned curator Jacques Sauniere staggered through the
vaulted archway of the museums 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 Sauniere 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
curators head. Is it a secret you will die for?
Sauniere could not breathe.
The man tilted his head, peering down the barrel of his gun.
Sauniere 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.
Sauniere 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 curators true identity, along with the
identities of his three senechaux, was almost as sacred as the ancient secret
they protected. Sauniere now realized his senechaux, 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, Sauniere rolled over and stared back through the bars at his
attacker.
The man was now taking dead aim at Saunieres head.
Sauniere closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest of
fear and regret.
The click of an empty chamber echoed through the corridor.
The curators 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
Saunieres 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'Algerie, 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 Sauniere 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 Sauniere 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. Sauniere gazed up at
the walls of his opulent prison. A collection of the worlds most famous
paintings seemed to smile down on him like old friends.
Wincing in pain, he summoned all of his faculties and
strength. The desperate task before him, he knew, would require every remaining
second of his life.
CHAPTER 1
Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darknessa 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 mans 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. Tonights lecturea slide show about pagan
symbolism hidden in the stones of Chartres Cathedralhad probably ruffled some
conservative feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar had
trailed him home to pick a fight.
Im sorry, Langdon said, but Im 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 Langdons 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 mans name and number, and tell him Ill 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
strangertousled and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didnt
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 Langdons embarrassment, Boston Magazine
had listed him as one of that citys top ten most intriguing peoplea 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 Pariss 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. Langdons refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last
years 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 nextsome
ridiculous line about Harrison Ford in Harris tweedand 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, Ill have the consulate deport you.
The crowd laughed.
Well, folks, as you all know, Im here tonight to talk
about the power of symbols . . .
* * *
The ringing of Langdons 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 Langdons 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 mans English
was accenteda 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 strangers
sallow eyes studied him. What is this all about?
My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter.
Now? Langdon managed. Its 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 Sauniere had been slated to meet for drinks after
Langdons lecture tonight, but Sauniere 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 dej 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 cant
imagine who would do this to someone.
The agent looked grim. You dont understand, Mr. Langdon. What
you see in this photograph . . . He paused. Monsieur Sauniere did that to
himself.
CHAPTER 2
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through
the front gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyere. 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 spartanhardwood 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 senechaux . . . 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
brotherhoods 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 voite . . . the legendary keystone.
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel
the Teachers excitement. The keystone . Exactly as we suspected.
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of
stonea clef de voite . . . or keystonean engraved tablet that revealed the
final resting place of the brotherhoods greatest secret . . . information so
powerful that its protection was the reason for the brotherhoods 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 thingthat the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location
inside one of Pariss ancient churchesthe 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 todays 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 devicea leather
strap, studded with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual reminder
of Christs 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 Josemara Escrivthe Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escriv had died in 1975, his wisdom lived on, his words still
whispered by thousands of faithful servants around the globe as they knelt on
the floor and performed the sacred practice known as corporal mortification.
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope
coiled neatly on the floor beside him. The Discipline . The knots were caked
with dried blood. Eager for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said
a quick prayer. Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and
swung it hard over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back. He
whipped it over his shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and again, he
lashed.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow.
CHAPTER 3
The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the
Citroen ZX as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vendome. 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 curators body remained locked in his mind.
Jacques Sauniere is dead.
Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the
curators death. Despite Saunieres 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 Langdons favorite classroom texts. Tonights 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 curators body flashed in his mind. Jacques
Sauniere did that to himself? Langdon turned and looked out the window, forcing
the picture from his mind.
Outside, the city was just now winding downstreet 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 Citroen 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 theyd 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 formalityit 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 Citroen 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 havent climbed the tower.
She is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect.
Langdon nodded absently. Symbologists often remarked that
Francea country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and diminutive insecure
leaders like Napoleon and Pepin the Shortcould 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 Citroen didnt 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 GardensPariss 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 citys famous red roofing tilesor 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 Citroen swerved left now, angling west down the parks
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
stationnow the esteemed Musee 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 Musee 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.
Musee 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 facades breadth. Langdon had once walked
the Louvres 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 Litea 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 hed 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 arrive. 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 Citroen up over the curb. The Louvres
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 Peis critics described
this pyramid as fingernails on a chalkboard. Progressive admirers, though,
hailed Peis seventy one foot tall transparent pyramid as a dazzling synergy of
ancient structure and modern methoda symbolic link between the old and
newhelping 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.
Franois 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 captains name? Langdon asked, changing
topics.
Bezu Fache, the driver said, approaching the pyramids
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.
Youre not coming?
My orders are to leave you here. I have other business to
attend to.
Langdon heaved a sigh and climbed out. Its 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.
Im trapped in a Salvador Dali painting, he thought.
Langdon strode to the main entrancean enormous revolving
door. The foyer beyond was dimly lit and deserted.
Do I knock?
Langdon wondered if any of Harvards 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 fittinga guttural rumble . . . like a gathering storm.
Langdon held out his hand to shake. Robert Langdon.
Faches enormous palm wrapped around Langdons with crushing
force.
I saw the photo, Langdon said. Your agent said Jacques
Sauniere himself did
Mr. Langdon, Faches ebony eyes locked on. What you see
in the photo is only the beginning of what Sauniere did.
CHAPTER 4
Captain Bezu Fache carried himself like an angry ox, with
his wide shoulders thrown back and his chin tucked hard into his chest. His
dark hair was slicked back with oil, accentuating an arrow like widows 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. Faches 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
Mitterrands explicit demand, had been constructed of exactly 666 panes of
glassa 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 Louvres 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 museums regular security staff? Langdon asked.
En quarantaine, Fache replied, sounding as if Langdon were
questioning the integrity of Faches 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 Sauniere? the captain asked.
Actually, not at all. Wed never met.
Fache looked surprised. Your first meeting was to be
tonight?
Yes. Wed 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 Louvres lesser known pyramidLa Pyramide
Inverseea 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 Louvres three main sections.
Who requested tonights meeting? Fache asked suddenly. You
or he?
The question seemed odd. Mr. Sauniere 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 dont know. Art, I imagine. We share similar interests.
Fache looked skeptical. You have no idea what your meeting
was about?
Langdon did not. Hed been curious at the time but had not
felt comfortable demanding specifics. The venerated Jacques Sauniere 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 cant imagine. I didnt ask. I felt honored to have been contacted at
all. Im an admirer of Mr. Saunieres 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 Wings 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, Ive spent much of the last year writing the
draft for a book that deals with Mr. Saunieres primary area of expertise. I
was looking forward to picking his brain.
Fache glanced up. Pardon?
The idiom apparently didnt 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 worshipthe concept of
female sanctity and the art and symbols associated with it.
Fache ran a meaty hand across his hair. And Sauniere was
knowledgeable about this?
Nobody more so.
I see.
Langdon sensed Fache did not see at all. Jacques Sauniere
was considered the premiere goddess iconographer on earth. Not only did
Sauniere have a personal passion for relics relating to fertility, goddess
cults, Wicca, and the sacred feminine, but during his twenty year tenure as
curator, Sauniere had helped the Louvre amass the largest collection of goddess
art on earthlabrys 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 Sauniere 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. Its still in draft form, and I havent shown it to anyone except
my editor.
Fache fell silent.
Langdon did not add the reason he hadnt yet shown the
manuscript to anyone else. The three hundred page drafttentatively titled
Symbols of the Lost Sacred Feminineproposed 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.
Well take the elevator, Fache said as the lift doors
opened. As Im sure youre 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. Nothings 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, hed suffered a haunting phobia of enclosed spaceselevators, subways,
squash courts. The elevator is a perfectly safe machine, Langdon continually
told himself, never believing it. Its 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. Sauniere, 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 captains tie clipa silver crucifix with thirteen embedded pieces
of black onyx. Langdon found it vaguely surprising. The symbol was known as a
crux gemmataa cross bearing thirteen gemsa 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.
Its a crux gemmata Fache said suddenly.
Startled, Langdon glanced up to find Faches 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
baseboardsintermittent 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 nightstrategically 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 airan arid, deionized
essence that carried a faint hint of carbonthe 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 Saunieres luxurious studywarm 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 Saunieres desk,
typing into a laptop. Apparently, the curators private office had become
DCPJs makeshift command post for the evening.
Messieurs, Fache called out, and the men turned. Ne nous derangez pas sous aucun pretexte. 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 captains 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 Louvres most popular sectionla Grande Galeriea seemingly
endless corridor that housed the Louvres most valuable Italian masterpieces. Langdon
had already discerned that this was where Saunieres body lay; the Grand
Gallerys 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 hadnt 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. Hes kidding, right? The barricade looked
like a guillotine waiting to crush intruders.
Fache grumbled something in French and checked his watch. Then
he dropped to his knees and slithered his bulky frame underneath the grate. On
the other side, he stood up and looked back through the bars at Langdon.
Langdon sighed. Placing his palms flat on the polished
parquet, he lay on his stomach and pulled himself forward. As he slid
underneath, the nape of his Harris tweed snagged on the bottom of the grate,
and he cracked the back of his head on the iron.
Very suave, Robert, he thought, fumbling and then finally
pulling himself through. As he stood up, Langdon was beginning to suspect it
was going to be a very long night.
CHAPTER 5
Murray Hill Placethe new Opus Dei World Headquarters and
conference centeris 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 bishops ring with purple amethyst,
large diamonds, and hand tooled mitre crozier applique. 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 Gods
Workliterally, Opus Dei . The congregation, founded in 1928 by the Spanish
priest Josemara Escriv, 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 Deis traditionalist philosophy initially had taken
root in Spain before Francos regime, but with the 1934 publication of Josemara Escrivs spiritual book
The Way999 points of meditation for doing Gods Work in ones own lifeEscrivs 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 Deis 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 Gods 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 Gods 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 groups popular
websitewww.odan.orgrelayed frightening stories from former Opus Dei members
who warned of the dangers of joining. The media was now referring to Opus Dei
as Gods 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 planes window at the darkness of the
ocean below. For an instant, his eyes refocused, lingering on the reflection of
his awkward facedark 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. Aringarosas was a world of the soul, not of the
flesh.
As the jet passed over the coast of Portugal, the cell phone
in Aringarosas cassock began vibrating in silent ring mode. Despite airline
regulations prohibiting the use of cell phones during flights, Aringarosa knew
this was a call he could not miss. Only one man possessed this number, the man
who had mailed Aringarosa the phone.
Excited, the bishop answered quietly. Yes?
Silas has located the keystone, the caller said. It is in
Paris. Within the Church of Saint Sulpice.
Bishop Aringarosa smiled. Then we are close.
We can obtain it immediately. But we need your influence.
Of course. Tell me what to do.
When Aringarosa switched off the phone, his heart was
pounding. He gazed once again into the void of night, feeling dwarfed by the
events he had put into motion.
* * *
Five hundred miles away, the albino named Silas stood over a
small basin of water and dabbed the blood from his back, watching the patterns
of red spinning in the water. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean, he
prayed, quoting Psalms. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Silas was feeling an aroused anticipation that he had not felt
since his previous life. It both surprised and electrified him. For the last
decade, he had been following The Way, cleansing himself of sins . . .
rebuilding his life . . . erasing the violence in his past. Tonight, however,
it had all come rushing back. The hatred he had fought so hard to bury had been
summoned. He had been startled how quickly his past had resurfaced. And with
it, of course, had come his skills. Rusty but serviceable.
Jesus message is one of peace . . . of nonviolence . . . of
love . This was the message Silas had been taught from the beginning, and the
message he held in his heart. And yet this was the message the enemies of
Christ now threatened to destroy. Those who threaten God with force will be met
with force. Immovable and steadfast.
For two millennia, Christian soldiers had defended their
faith against those who tried to displace it. Tonight, Silas had been called to
battle.
Drying his wounds, he donned his ankle length, hooded robe. It
was plain, made of dark wool, accentuating the whiteness of his skin and hair. Tightening
the rope tie around his waist, he raised the hood over his head and allowed his
red eyes to admire his reflection in the mirror. The wheels are in motion.
CHAPTER 6
Having squeezed beneath the security gate, Robert Langdon
now stood just inside the entrance to the Grand Gallery. He was staring into
the mouth of a long, deep canyon. On either side of the gallery, stark walls
rose thirty feet, evaporating into the darkness above. The reddish glow of the
service lighting sifted upward, casting an unnatural smolder across a
staggering collection of Da Vincis, Titians, and Caravaggios that hung
suspended from ceiling cables. Still lifes, religious scenes, and landscapes
accompanied portraits of nobility and politicians.
Although the Grand Gallery housed the Louvres most famous
Italian art, many visitors felt the wings 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 illusiona multi dimensional
network that gave visitors the sense they were floating through the gallery on
a surface that changed with every step.
As Langdons 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 Sauniere
from his attacker. The killer was locked out there in the hallway and shot
Sauniere 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. Sauniere died in
here alone.
Langdon pictured the photograph of Saunieres 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 corridors 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 Langdons last experience in noninvasive lighting in the Vatican Secret
Archives. This was tonights 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
Decembera 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 Sauniere went this far?
Mr. Sauniere 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 Faches 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 Sauniere 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
Sauniere had spent his last minutes of life arranging his own body in this
strange fashion.
Sauniere 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 Saunieres 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.
Saunieres 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, Sauniere had drawn a simple symbol on his fleshfive
straight lines that intersected to form a five pointed star.
The pentacle.
The bloody star, centered on Saunieres 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? Faches dark eyes settled on him again.
Its 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
feelit 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 worshipa gross misconception. The words 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 Churchs fear of those who lived in the
rural villes that the once innocuous word for villagervillaincame 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 halvesmasculine 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 Saunieres stomach. This pentacle is representative of the female
half of all thingsa concept religious historians call the sacred feminine' or
the divine goddess.' Sauniere, of all people, would know this.
Sauniere drew a goddess symbol on his stomach?
Langdon had to admit, it seemed odd. In its most specific interpretation,
the pentacle symbolizes Venusthe 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 namesVenus, the Eastern Star,
Ishtar, Astarteall 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 pentacles most astonishing
propertythe 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 momentits 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 cliche in Satanic serial killer movies, usually scrawled
on the wall of some Satanists apartment along with other alleged demonic
symbology. Langdon was always frustrated when he saw the symbol in this
context; the pentacles true origins were actually quite godly.
I assure you, Langdon said, despite what you see in the
movies, the pentacles 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.
Im not sure I follow.
Langdon glanced at Faches 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 Vaticans
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; Poseidons
trident became the devils pitchfork, the wise crones pointed hat became the
symbol of a witch, and Venuss pentacle became a sign of the devil. Langdon
paused. Unfortunately, the United States military has also perverted the
pentacle; its 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.
Faches expression clouded. I beg your pardon?
Replication. Repeating a symbol is the simplest way to
strengthen its meaning. Jacques Sauniere positioned himself in the shape of a
five pointed star. If one pentacle is good, two is better.
Faches eyes followed the five points of Saunieres 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. Hed 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 Venusthe goddess of human
sexuality. Although modern culture had erased much of Venuss association with
the male/female physical union, a sharp etymological eye could still spot a
vestige of Venuss original meaning in the word venereal. Langdon decided not
to go there.
Mr. Fache, I obviously cant tell you why Mr. Sauniere drew
that symbol on himself or placed himself in this way, but I can tell you that a
man like Jacques Sauniere 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.
Im sorry?
Look at his left hand.
Langdons eyes traced the length of the curators 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.
Sauniere 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 pens 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. Faches
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 curators 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!
Faches eyes shone white. That, monsieur, is precisely the
question you are here to answer.
* * *
Not far away, inside Saunieres office, Lieutenant Collet
had returned to the Louvre and was huddled over an audio console set up on the
curators 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 Saunieres
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 verite, he mused.
Smiling, he closed his eyes and settled in to enjoy the rest
of the conversation now being taped inside the Grand Gallery.
CHAPTER 7
The modest dwelling within the Church of Saint Sulpice was
located on the second floor of the church itself, to the left of the choir
balcony. A two room suite with a stone floor and minimal furnishings, it had
been home to Sister Sandrine Bieil for over a decade. The nearby convent was
her formal residence, if anyone asked, but she preferred the quiet of the
church and had made herself quite comfortable upstairs with a bed, phone, and
hot plate.
As the churchs conservatrice d'affaires, Sister Sandrine
was responsible for overseeing all nonreligious aspects of church operationsgeneral
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 bosss voice, in fifteen years she had never been awoken by him.
The abbe was a deeply pious man who went home to bed immediately after mass.
I apologize if I have awoken you, Sister, the abbe 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 doesnt? Aringarosas 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 Deis
elevation occurred the same year the wealthy sect allegedly had transferred
almost one billion dollars into the Vaticans Institute for Religious
Workscommonly known as the Vatican Bankbailing 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 Deis good standing in Rome was
suspect, but one did not argue with the Holy See.
Bishop Aringarosa called to ask me a favor, the abbe 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. Im sorry, you say this visiting Opus Dei numerary cannot
wait until morning?
Im 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 suns
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? Thats in twenty minutes.
Sister Sandrine frowned. Of course. It would be my
pleasure.
The abbe 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 tonights phone call had certainly
roused her senses. Opus Dei had always made her uneasy. Beyond the prelatures
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 mens 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 Eves 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 womens 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.
Womens intuition?
A follower of God, Sister Sandrine had learned to find peace
in the calming voices of her own soul. Tonight, however, those voices were as
silent as the empty church around her.
CHAPTER 8
Langdon couldnt tear his eyes from the glowing purple text
scrawled across the parquet floor. Jacques Saunieres 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 Faches instinct that the pentacle had something to do with
devil worship.
O, Draconian devil!
Sauniere 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 Sauniere 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 herethe
pentacle, the text, the numbersseemed disparate at the most fundamental level.
You alleged earlier, Fache said, that Saunieres 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
communique obviously did not fit Langdons scenario of goddess worship at all.
O, Draconian devil? Oh, lame saint?
Fache said, This text appears to be an accusation of some
sort. Wouldnt you agree?
Langdon tried to imagine the curators 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 wasnt strange?
The word draconian'? he ventured, offering the first
thing that came to mind. Langdon was fairly certain that a reference to
Dracothe ruthless seventh century B.C. politicianwas an unlikely dying
thought. draconian devil' seems an odd choice of vocabulary.
Draconian? Faches tone came with a tinge of impatience
now. Saunieres choice of vocabulary hardly seems the primary issue here.
Langdon wasnt sure what issue Fache had in mind, but he was
starting to suspect that Draco and Fache would have gotten along well.
Sauniere 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 captains
meaning.
Fache nodded. Precisement . Any idea why?
Langdon knew Sauniere 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 Saunieres abdomen. Nothing
to do with devil worship? Are you still certain?
Langdon was certain of nothing anymore. The symbology and
text dont seem to coincide. Im sorry I cant 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 Langdons amazement, a rudimentary circle glowed around
the curators body. Sauniere 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. Sauniere had created a
life sized replica of Leonardo da Vincis most famous sketch.
Considered the most anatomically correct drawing of its day,
Da Vincis 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 Saunieres 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 Vincis Vitruvian Man.
The circle had been the missing critical element. A feminine
symbol of protection, the circle around the naked mans body completed Da
Vincis intended messagemale and female harmony. The question now, though, was
why Sauniere 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 Faches knowledge of Da Vinci, and
it certainly went a long way toward explaining the captains suspicions about
devil worship. Da Vinci had always been an awkward subject for historians,
especially in the Christian tradition. Despite the visionarys genius, he was a
flamboyant homosexual and worshipper of Natures divine order, both of which
placed him in a perpetual state of sin against God. Moreover, the artists
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 Vincis enormous output of breathtaking Christian
art only furthered the artists 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 venturea
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 Christiantributes 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 Sauniere shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da Vinci, including a
concern over the Churchs elimination of the sacred feminine from modern
religion. Maybe, by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Sauniere was simply
echoing some of their shared frustrations with the modern Churchs demonization
of the goddess.
Faches eyes hardened. You think Sauniere 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.
Sauniere 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 Sauniere 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, wouldnt you say?
Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. Captain, you
asked for my instincts as to what Sauniere is trying to say here, and thats
what Im giving you.
That this is an indictment of the Church? Faches 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.
Faches whispery voice sliced the air. La vengeance . I believe Sauniere 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
Sauniere 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 Sauniere 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? Its 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 Sauniere wanted to tell you who killed him, he would have
written down somebodys name.
As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Faches
lips for the first time all night. Precisement, Fache said. Precisement.
* * *
I am witnessing the work of a master, mused Lieutenant
Collet as he tweaked his audio gear and listened to Faches voice coming
through the headphones. The agent superieur 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.
Faches sole emotion this evening seemed to be one of
intense resolve, as if this arrest were somehow personal to him. Faches briefing
of his agents an hour ago had been unusually succinct and assured. I know who
murdered Jacques Sauniere, 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
Faches certainty of their suspects guilt, but he knew better than to question
the instincts of the Bull. Faches intuition seemed almost supernatural at
times. God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly
impressive display of Faches 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 regularityfar 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 Faches 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 tonightthe GPS tracking system. The
image onscreen revealed a detailed floor plan of the Denon Wing, a structural
schematic uploaded from the Louvre Security Office. Letting his eyes trace the
maze of galleries and hallways, Collet found what he was looking for.
Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery blinked a tiny red
dot.
La marque.
Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely
so. Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer.
CHAPTER 9
To ensure his conversation with Mr. Langdon would not be
interrupted, Bezu Fache had turned off his cellular phone. Unfortunately, it
was an expensive model equipped with a two way radio feature, which, contrary
to his orders, was now being used by one of his agents to page him.
Capitaine? The phone crackled like a walkie talkie.
Fache felt his teeth clench in rage. He could imagine
nothing important enough that Collet would interrupt this surveillance
cacheeespecially 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 Departement de Cryptographie est
arrive.
Faches anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite
the lousy timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Saunieres
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 Sauniere was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most
likely meant someone had decrypted Saunieres message.
Im 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. Ill speak to him when Im done.
Her, the voice corrected. Its Agent Neveu.
Fache was becoming less amused with this call every passing
moment. Sophie Neveu was one of DCPJs biggest mistakes. A young Parisian
dechiffreuse who had studied cryptography in England at the Royal Holloway,
Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part of the ministrys
attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The ministrys 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 Britains 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 shes 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
Langdons shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a
womans 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 Langdons surprise, the woman walked directly up to him
and extended a polite hand. Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJs
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 greenincisive 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.
Ive 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.
Faches 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.
Faches 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. Langdons
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.
Faches 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 embassys 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 Faches anger with the young
woman. Feeling uneasy, he accepted the captains 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 tes bien chez
Sophie Neveu, the womans voice said. Je suis absenle pour le moment, mais .
. .
Confused, Langdon turned back toward Sophie. Im sorry, Ms. Neveu? I think you may have given me
No, thats the right number, Sophie interjected quickly,
as if anticipating Langdons confusion. The embassy has an automated message
system. You have to dial an access code to pick up your messages.
Langdon stared. But
Its 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.
Dont ask questions. Just do it.
Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the slip of
paper: 454.
Sophies outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon
heard an electronic voice announce in French: You have one new message. Apparently,
454 was Sophies remote access code for picking up her messages while away from
home.
Im picking up this womans 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 Sophies.
Mr. Langdon, the message began in a fearful whisper. Do
not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now.
Follow my directions very closely.
CHAPTER 10
Silas sat behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had
arranged for him and gazed out at the great Church of Saint Sulpice. Lit from
beneath by banks of floodlights, the churchs two bell towers rose like
stalwart sentinels above the buildings 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 didnt 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 boys 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 driftera
girl twice his agemocked 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 ultimatumleave 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 sailors 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
didnt 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 didnt 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 priests 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. Youve
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.
Its 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 brotherhoods 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, Silass 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
planes window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A
pittance for something so powerful.
He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would
not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators.
CHAPTER 11
Une plaisanterie numerique? Bezu Fache was livid, glaring
at Sophie Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? Your professional assessment of
Saunieres code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?
Fache was in utter incomprehension of this womans gall. Not
only had she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying
to convince him that Sauniere, 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 Sauniere 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.
Faches tone lowered to a guttural rumble. Agent Neveu, I
have no idea where the hell youre 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 Langdons 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 didnt appreciate
Sophies off handed tone.
This is the Fibonacci sequence, she declared, nodding
toward the piece of paper in Faches 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 Saunieres death.
Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of
numbers in the thirteenth century. Obviously there can be no coincidence that
all of the numbers Sauniere wrote on the floor belong to Fibonaccis famous
sequence.
Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. Fine,
if there is no coincidence, would you tell me why Jacques Sauniere chose to do
this. What is he saying? What does this mean?
She shrugged. Absolutely nothing. Thats the point. Its 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 Sophies. I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying
explanation than that.
Sophies 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 Sauniere might be playing games with you.
Apparently not. Ill 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 statetheir 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'emasculation 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. Ill need to fly home first
thing in the morning.
Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdons face was genuine,
and yet he sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant fear were suddenly
simmering in the Americans eyes. Im 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
Id like to use the rest room.
Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. The rest room. Of
course. Lets 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 curators office.
Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward
the far end of the Grand Gallery corridor. I believe theres 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 Id 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 endthe 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 Sauniere tripped the security system. Granted, that system
had now been reset, unlocking the stairwells, but it didnt matterthe 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. Saunieres 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 Saunieres 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
shed broken the code.
Fache looked around. Is she gone?
Shes 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. Hed 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 Saunieres 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. Ive got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the
only place Langdon goes.
CHAPTER 12
Robert Langdon felt light headed as he trudged toward the end
of the Grand Gallery. Sophies 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 mens 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 rooms door creaked open
behind him. He spun.
Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing fear. Thank
God you came. We dont 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 cachee . 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, Faches 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 DCPJs favorite interrogation methodssurveillance
cacheea 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 jackets left pocket, Sophie said. Youll
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 jackets
left pocketone 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 peoples locations. Its 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 Langdons tweed
coat as they left the room. Its 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.
Sophies olive gaze was keen. I didnt tell you about the
tracking dot earlier because I didnt want you checking your pocket in front of
Fache. He cant know youve 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. Im 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 theyll know
you found the dot. The only reason Fache left you alone is because he can monitor
where you are. If he thinks youve discovered what hes doing . . . Sophie did
not finish the thought. Instead, she pried the metallic disk from Langdons
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 Sauniere!
He has some fairly persuasive reasons to suspect you. Sophies
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 Sauniere wrote
on the floor?
Langdon nodded. The numbers and words were imprinted on
Langdons mind.
Sophies 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 Saunieres message was trying to say. This is a photo of the complete
message. She handed the page to Langdon.
Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image. The close up photo
revealed the glowing message on the parquet floor. The final line hit Langdon
like a kick in the gut.
13 3 2 21 1 1 8 5
O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
P.S. Find Robert Langdon
CHAPTER 13
For several seconds, Langdon stared in wonder at the
photograph of Saunieres postscript. P.S. Find Robert Langdon . He felt as if
the floor were tilting beneath his feet. Sauniere 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 Sauniere would have accused his
killer by name.
Find Robert Langdon.
Why would Sauniere write this? Langdon demanded, his
confusion now giving way to anger. Why would I want to kill Jacques Sauniere?
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.
Hes fitted with a miniature microphone, Sophie explained.
Its 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!
Sophies eyes widened as if to say: No evidence? Mr.
Langdon, your name is written on the floor beside the body, and Saunieres 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 didnt
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 Sauniere 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 youre in trouble.
Im sorry? Its
your fault Sauniere is trying to frame me?
Sauniere wasnt
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
wasnt for the police. He wrote it for me . I think he was forced to do
everything in such a hurry that he just didnt realize how it would look to the
police. She paused. The numbered code is meaningless. Sauniere 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. Youre
saying the curator knew your favorite piece of art? She nodded. Im sorry.
This is all coming out of order. Jacques Sauniere and I . . .
Sophies voice
caught, and Langdon heard a sudden melancholy there, a painful past, simmering
just below the surface. Sophie and Jacques Sauniere 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 didnt seem to fit.
We had a falling
out ten years ago, Sophie said, her voice a whisper now. Weve 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 Sauniere was my grandfather.
CHAPTER 14
Wheres
Langdon? Fache demanded, exhaling the last of a cigarette as he paced back
into the command post.
Still in the
mens room, sir. Lieutenant Collet had been expecting the question.
Fache grumbled,
Taking his time, I see.
The captain eyed
the GPS dot over Collets 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. Were still seeing small movements inside the mens 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 Faches 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 Faches 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. Faches 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 Neveus 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 Americans 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. Its the director of our Cryptology Department.
And?
Its about
Sophie Neveu, sir. Something is not quite right.
CHAPTER 15
It was time.
Silas felt strong
as he stepped from the black Audi, the nighttime breeze rustling his loose
fitting robe. The winds of change are in the air . He knew the task before him
would require more finesse than force, and he left his handgun in the car. The
thirteen round Heckler Koch USP 40 had been provided by the Teacher.
A weapon of death
has no place in a house of God.
The plaza before
the great church was deserted at this hour, the only visible souls on the far
side of Place Saint Sulpice a couple of teenage hookers showing their wares to
the late night tourist traffic. Their nubile bodies sent a familiar longing to
Silass loins. His thigh flexed instinctively, causing the barbed cilice belt
to cut painfully into his flesh.
The lust
evaporated instantly. For ten years now, Silas had faithfully denied himself
all sexual indulgence, even self administered. It was The Way . He knew he had
sacrificed much to follow Opus Dei, but he had received much more in return. A
vow of celibacy and the relinquishment of all personal assets hardly seemed a
sacrifice. Considering the poverty from which he had come and the sexual
horrors he had endured in prison, celibacy was a welcome change.
Now, having
returned to France for the first time since being arrested and shipped to prison
in Andorra, Silas could feel his homeland testing him, dragging violent
memories from his redeemed soul. You have been reborn, he reminded himself. His
service to God today had required the sin of murder, and it was a sacrifice
Silas knew he would have to hold silently in his heart for all eternity.
The measure of
your faith is the measure of the pain you can endure, the Teacher had told him.
Silas was no stranger to pain and felt eager to prove himself to the Teacher,
the one who had assured him his actions were ordained by a higher power.
Hago la obra de
Dios, Silas whispered, moving now toward the church entrance.
Pausing in the
shadow of the massive doorway, he took a deep breath. It was not until this
instant that he truly realized what he was about to do, and what awaited him
inside.
The keystone. It
will lead us to our final goal.
He raised his
ghost white fist and banged three times on the door.
Moments later,
the bolts of the enormous wooden portal began to move.
CHAPTER 16
Sophie wondered
how long it would take Fache to figure out she had not left the building.
Seeing that Langdon was clearly overwhelmed, Sophie questioned whether she had
done the right thing by cornering him here in the mens room.
What else was I
supposed to do?
She pictured her
grandfathers 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 Sauniere 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 hadnt seen
it with my own eyes . . .
Too ashamed and
stunned to endure her grandfathers 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 onceto 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,
Sauniere had never given up on her, and Sophie now possessed a decades worth
of correspondence unopened in a dresser drawer. To her grandfathers 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 Ive 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 grandfathers voice cracked with an emotion Sophie could not place. I know
Ive 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? Sophies 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 Sophies 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. Ill wait here all night. I fear we both may
be in danger. Theres so much you need to know.
The message
ended.
In the silence,
Sophie stood trembling for what felt like minutes. As she considered her
grandfathers 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 mens room, Sophie could hear the echoes of this
afternoons 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. Sophies passion and
aptitude for cryptography were a product of growing up with Jacques Saunierea
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 strangersSophie Neveu
and Robert Langdon.
The question was
why?
Unfortunately,
from the bewildered look in Langdons 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 didnt offer any specific
reason, and I didnt ask. I assumed hed 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 didnt 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?
Langdons blue
eyes now clouded with concern. No, but considering what just happened . . .
Sophie nodded.
Considering tonights 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 upforty feet at least.
Sighing, she
raised her eyes and gazed out at Pariss 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 Sacre 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 Louvres outer wall. Far below, the usual caravan of the
citys nighttime delivery trucks sat idling, waiting for the signals to change,
their running lights seeming to twinkle mockingly up at Sophie.
I dont know
what to say, Langdon said, coming up behind her. Your grandfather is
obviously trying to tell us something. Im sorry Im so little help.
Sophie turned
from the window, sensing a sincere regret in Langdons deep voice. Even with
all the trouble around him, he obviously wanted to help her. The teacher in
him, she thought, having read DCPJs 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 grandfathers 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.
Langdons eyes
went wide. You want me to run?
Its the
smartest thing you could do. If you let Fache take you into custody now, youll
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 youre safely inside the U.S.
Embassy. Its 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. Dont 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
Sophies 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 youre guilty?
Langdon was
silent for several seconds. None whatsoever.
Sophie sighed.
Which means Fache is lying . Why, Sophie could not begin to imagine, but that
was hardly the issue at this point. The fact remained that Bezu Fache was
determined to put Robert Langdon behind bars tonight, at any cost. Sophie
needed Langdon for herself, and it was this dilemma that left Sophie only one
logical conclusion.
I need to get
Langdon to the U.S. Embassy.
Turning toward
the window, Sophie gazed through the alarm mesh embedded in the plate glass,
down the dizzying forty feet to the pavement below. A leap from this height
would leave Langdon with a couple of broken legs. At best.
Nonetheless,
Sophie made her decision.
Robert Langdon
was about to escape the Louvre, whether he wanted to or not.
CHAPTER 17
What do you mean
shes not answering? Fache looked incredulous. Youre calling her cell phone,
right? I know shes carrying it.
Collet had been
trying to reach Sophie now for several minutes. Maybe her batteries are dead.
Or her ringers 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.
Thats 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 didnt send Neveu.
What?
According to the
director, at my orders he paged his entire team to look at the images Id wired
him. When Agent Neveu arrived, she took one look at the photos of Sauniere and
the code and left the office without a word. The director said he didnt
question her behavior because she was understandably upset by the photos.
Upset? Shes
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 Saunieres
granddaughter.
Collet was
speechless.
The director
said she never once mentioned Sauniere to him, and he assumed it was because
she probably didnt 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 dont
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: Sauniere 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 Sauniere 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. Wheres Langdon?
Still in the
mens room! Collet pointed to the blinking red dot on his laptop schematic.
He must have broken the window! Collet knew Langdon wouldnt 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. Langdons 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.
Whats going on?
he wondered. Is Langdon out on a ledge or
Jesu! Collet
jumped to his feet as the dot shot farther outside the wall. The signal seemed
to shudder for a moment, and then the blinking dot came to an abrupt stop about
ten yards outside the perimeter of the building.
Fumbling with the
controls, Collet called up a Paris street map and recalibrated the GPS. Zooming
in, he could now see the exact location of the signal.
It was no longer
moving.
It lay at a dead
stop in the middle of Place du Carrousel.
Langdon had
jumped.
CHAPTER 18
Fache sprinted
down the Grand Gallery as Collets radio blared over the distant sound of the
alarm.
He jumped!
Collet was yelling. Im showing the signal out on Place du Carrousel! Outside
the bathroom window! And its 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 Saunieres body, he set his sights on the
partitions at the far end of the Denon Wing. The alarm was getting louder now.
Wait! Collets
voice blared again over the radio. Hes moving! My God, hes alive. Langdons
moving!
Fache kept
running, cursing the length of the hallway with every step.
Langdons moving
faster! Collet was still yelling on the radio. Hes running down Carrousel.
Wait . . . hes picking up speed. Hes 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 hes in a
car! I cant
Collets words
were swallowed by the alarm as Fache finally burst into the mens room with his
gun drawn. Wincing against the piercing shrill, he scanned the area.
The stalls were
empty. The bathroom deserted. Faches 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 Collets 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 trucks 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. Hes 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 trucks changing location like
some kind of bizarre play by play.
Its 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 mens room refusing to run from a crime he didnt 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 trucks massive cargo bay was a blue vinyl tarp,
loosely covering the trucks load. Langdon hoped Sophie was not thinking what
she seemed to be thinking.
Sophie, theres
no way Im 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 bigan expansive, stationary tarpand 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 mens
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.
Theres an
emergency stairwell about fifty meters back into the Grand Gallery, Sophie
said. Now that the guards are leaving the perimeter, we can get out of here.
Langdon decided
not to say another word all evening. Sophie Neveu was clearly a hell of a lot
smarter than he was.
CHAPTER 19
The Church of
Saint Sulpice, it is said, has the most eccentric history of any building in
Paris. Built over the ruins of an ancient temple to the Egyptian goddess Isis,
the church possesses an architectural footprint matching that of Notre Dame to
within inches. The sanctuary has played host to the baptisms of the Marquis de
Sade and Baudelaire, as well as the marriage of Victor Hugo. The attached
seminary has a well documented history of unorthodoxy and was once the
clandestine meeting hall for numerous secret societies.
Tonight, the
cavernous nave of Saint Sulpice was as silent as a tomb, the only hint of life
the faint smell of incense from mass earlier that evening. Silas sensed an
uneasiness in Sister Sandrines demeanor as she led him into the sanctuary. He
was not surprised by this. Silas was accustomed to people being uncomfortable
with his appearance.
Youre 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 abbe
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 brotherhoods 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 wont feel abandoned?
Not at all.
Prayer is a solitary joy.
As you wish.
Silas took his
hand from her shoulder. Sleep well, Sister. May the peace of the Lord be with
you.
And also with
you. Sister Sandrine headed for the stairs. Please be sure the door closes
tightly on your way out.
I will be sure
of it. Silas watched her climb out of sight. Then he turned and knelt in the
front pew, feeling the cilice cut into his leg.
Dear God, I offer
up to you this work I do today . . .
* * *
Crouching in the
shadows of the choir balcony high above the altar, Sister Sandrine peered
silently through the balustrade at the cloaked monk kneeling alone. The sudden
dread in her soul made it hard to stay still. For a fleeting instant, she
wondered if this mysterious visitor could be the enemy they had warned her
about, and if tonight she would have to carry out the orders she had been
holding all these years. She decided to stay there in the darkness and watch
his every move.
CHAPTER 20
Emerging from the
shadows, Langdon and Sophie moved stealthily up the deserted Grand Gallery
corridor toward the emergency exit stairwell.
As he moved,
Langdon felt like he was trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark. The
newest aspect of this mystery was a deeply troubling one: The captain of the
Judicial Police is trying to frame me for murder
Do you think,
he whispered, that maybe Fache wrote that message on the floor?
Sophie didnt
even turn. Impossible.
Langdon wasnt 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 perfectlythe 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.
Im 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 Sophies 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 Langdons 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
isnt much farther, Sophie said.
Do you think
theres a possibility that the numbers in your grandfathers 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.
Ive been
thinking about the numbers all night. Sums, quotients, products. I dont see
anything. Mathematically, theyre arranged at random. Cryptographic gibberish.
And yet theyre
all part of the Fibonacci sequence. That cant be coincidence.
Its not. Using
Fibonacci numbers was my grandfathers way of waving another flag at melike
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 didnt
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. Im
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 games 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, Tarots
mystical qualities were passed on by modern fortune tellers.
The Tarot
indicator suit for feminine divinity is pentacles, Langdon thought, realizing
that if Sauniere had been stacking his granddaughters 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 itthe 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 Saunieres clues
were even more consistent than he had first imagined.
Da Vinci . . .
Fibonacci numbers . . . the pentacle.
Incredibly, all
of these things were connected by a single concept so fundamental to art
history that Langdon often spent several class periods on the topic.
PHI.
He felt himself
suddenly reeling back to Harvard, standing in front of his Symbolism in Art
class, writing his favorite number on the chalkboard.
1.618
Langdon turned to
face his sea of eager students. Who can tell me what this number is?
A long legged
math major in back raised his hand. Thats 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 its so pretty?
Everyone laughed.
Actually,
Langdon said, Stettners 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 sequencea 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 1.618PHI!
Despite PHIs
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.
PHIs 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. Im a bio major and Ive 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?
Its 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 spirals 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 slidea close up of a sunflowers seed head. Sunflower seeds grow
in opposing spirals. Can you guess the ratio of each rotations diameter to the
next?
PHI? everyone
said.
Bingo. Langdon
began racing through slides nowspiraled pinecone petals, leaf arrangement on
plant stalks, insect segmentationall 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 slidea pale yellow parchment
displaying Leonardo da Vincis famous male nudeThe Vitruvian Mannamed 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.
Dont believe
me? Langdon challenged. Next time youre 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 Gods building block for the world, and they
worshipped Nature because of that. And one can understand why. Gods 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 dont
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 Natures rules, and because art is mans attempt to imitate the
beauty of the Creators 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
Drer, Da Vinci, and many others, demonstrating each artists 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 Mozarts sonatas, Beethovens
Fifth Symphony, as well as the works of Bartk, 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 pentagramor
pentacle, as the ancients called itthis 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.
Weve only touched on Da Vinci today, but well be seeing a lot more of him
this semester. Leonardo was a well documented devotee of the ancient ways of
the goddess. Tomorrow, Ill show you his fresco The Last Supper, which is one
of the most astonishing tributes to the sacred feminine you will ever see.
Youre 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. Whats wrong? Were 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 cant 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 Saunieres code.
O, Draconian
devil! he said. Oh, lame saint! Its 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. Langdons voice reverberated with excitement. Fibonacci numbers
only have meaning in their proper order. Otherwise theyre 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 grandfathers 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 Langdons 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 Sophies 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 anagramsrearranging 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 magnathe great art.
Langdon looked up
at Sophie, locking eyes with her now. Your grandfathers meaning was right in
front of us all along, and he left us more than enough clues to see it.
Without another
word, Langdon pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and rearranged the letters in
each line.
O, Draconian
devil! Oh, lame saint!
was a perfect
anagram of . . .
Leonardo da
Vinci! The Mona Lisa!
CHAPTER 21
The Mona Lisa.
For an instant,
standing in the exit stairwell, Sophie forgot all about trying to leave the
Louvre.
Her shock over
the anagram was matched only by her embarrassment at not having deciphered the
message herself. Sophies 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 anagramsespecially 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 cant
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 grandfathera wordplay aficionado and art
loverhad 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,
Sauniere had expressed his distaste for the modernist Cubist movement by noting
that Picassos 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
grandfathers 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 Etatsa 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 Vincis Mona Lisa.
* * *
Shes just a
little bit farther, her grandfather had whispered, clutching Sophies 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 Louvres most
famous room. Despite her grandfathers obvious excitement, Sophie wanted to go
home. She had seen pictures of the Mona Lisa in books and didnt like it at
all. She couldnt 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 lets 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 honorthe 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 shed 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?
Shes too
little.
Sauniere smiled.
Youre little and youre 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.
Shes 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.
Thats called
the sfumato style of painting, he told her, and its very hard to do.
Leonardo da Vinci was better at it than anyone.
Sophie still
didnt like the painting. She looks like she knows something . . . like when
kids at school have a secret.
Her grandfather
laughed. Thats part of why she is so famous. People like to guess why she is
smiling.
Do you know why
shes smiling?
Maybe. Her
grandfather winked. Someday Ill tell you all about it.
Sophie stamped
her foot. I told you I dont like secrets!
Princess, he
smiled. Life is filled with secrets. You cant learn them all at once.
* * *
Im going back
up, Sophie declared, her voice hollow in the stairwell.
To the Mona
Lisa? Langdon recoiled. Now?
Sophie considered
the risk. Im not a murder suspect. Ill 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. Its
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 Lisasome kind of clue as to who killed him. Or why Im 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 wouldnt he simply write it on the
floor where he died? Why this complicated word game?
Whatever my
grandfather was trying to tell me, I dont 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 Langdona
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.
Ill come.
No! We dont
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 Faches hands.
Go. Now. Sophie
gave him a grateful smile. Ill see you at the embassy, Mr. Langdon.
Langdon looked
displeased. Ill meet you there on one condition, he replied, his voice
stern.
She paused,
startled. Whats that?
That you stop
calling me Mr . Langdon.
Sophie detected
the faint hint of a lopsided grin growing across Langdons 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 classroomsrows of easels, paintings, palettes, framing
toolsan 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. Im
about to dash out of the Louvre . . . a fugitive.
Saunieres 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.
Sauniere had
written Langdons 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,
Sauniere had no reason to think Langdon was especially skilled at anagrams.
Weve 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 Saunieres actions.
Why me? Langdon
wondered, heading down the hall. Why was Saunieres dying wish that his
estranged granddaughter find me? What is it that Sauniere 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 Saunieres
message.
P.S. Find Robert
Langdon.
He fixated on two
letters.
P.S.
In that instant,
Langdon felt Saunieres puzzling mix of symbolism fall into stark focus. Like a
peal of thunder, a careers worth of symbology and history came crashing down
around him. Everything Jacques Sauniere had done tonight suddenly made perfect sense.
Langdons
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 didnt
matter.
Without
hesitation, Langdon broke into a sprint back toward the stairs.
CHAPTER 22
Kneeling in the
first pew, Silas pretended to pray as he scanned the layout of the sanctuary.
Saint Sulpice, like most churches, had been built in the shape of a giant Roman
cross. Its long central sectionthe naveled 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 churchs 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 Sulpices famed architectural odditya 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 suns 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 Rosedrawn on almost every mapindicated 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
Linealso called a meridian or longitudewas 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 Linethe zero longitudethe 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 worlds first
prime meridian, and although Greenwich had stripped Paris of the honor in 1888,
the original Rose Line was still visible today.
And so the
legend is true, the Teacher had told Silas. The Priory keystone has been said
to lie 'beneath the Sign of the Rose.'
Now, still on his
knees in a pew, Silas glanced around the church and listened to make sure no
one was there. For a moment, he thought he heard a rustling in the choir
balcony. He turned and gazed up for several seconds. Nothing.
I am alone.
Standing now, he
faced the altar and genuflected three times. Then he turned left and followed
the brass line due north toward the obelisk.
* * *
At that moment,
at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport in Rome, the jolt of tires hitting
the runway startled Bishop Aringarosa from his slumber.
I drifted off, he
thought, impressed he was relaxed enough to sleep.
Benvenuto a
Roma, the intercom announced.
Sitting up,
Aringarosa straightened his black cassock and allowed himself a rare smile.
This was one trip he had been happy to make. I have been on the defensive for
too long . Tonight, however, the rules had changed. Only five months ago,
Aringarosa had feared for the future of the Faith. Now, as if by the will of
God, the solution had presented itself.
Divine
intervention.
If all went as
planned tonight in Paris, Aringarosa would soon be in possession of something
that would make him the most powerful man in Christendom.
CHAPTER 23
Sophie arrived
breathless outside the large wooden doors of the Salle des Etatsthe room that
housed the Mona Lisa . Before entering, she gazed reluctantly farther down the
hall, twenty yards or so, to the spot where her grandfathers 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 immovableleaving 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 museums
rare culs de saca dead end and the only room off the middle of the Grand
Gallery. This door, the chambers 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 Louvres 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. Theres someone in here! A ghostly figure emerged suddenly from out of
the reddish haze. Sophie jumped back.
There you are!
Langdons 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
pere 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
grandfathers bedroom. The room was off limits to her, but her grandfather was
downstairs asleep on the couch.
Ill 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 didnt 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
symboltwo 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 grandfathers 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 peoples privacy. Gently, he
knelt down and took the key from her. This key is very special. If you had
lost it . . .
Her grandfathers
quiet voice made Sophie feel even worse. Im sorry, Grand pere . I really am.
She paused. I thought it was a necklace for my birthday.
He gazed at her
for several seconds. Ill say this once more, Sophie, because its important.
You need to learn to respect other peoples privacy.
Yes, Grand
pere.
Well 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 hadnt expected
one, not after what she had done. But he didnt 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 pere,
Sophie said, hugging him. Im really sorry about the key.
I know, sweetie.
Youre forgiven. I cant possibly stay mad at you. Grandfathers and
granddaughters always forgive each other.
Sophie knew she
shouldnt ask, but she couldnt 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 pere 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, youll learn to appreciate them as
much as I do.
I saw letters on
the key, and a flower.
Yes, thats my
favorite flower. Its 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!
Theyre my favorite too!
Then Ill make a
deal with you. Her grandfathers 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 couldnt
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 doesnt. It said P.S. My name isnt 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. Its 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. Im
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
grandfathers 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. Im 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
brotherhoods 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.
Ive 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 Prieure de Sionthe Priory of Sion. Theyre 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 Priorys membership has included some of
historys 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 brotherhoods Grand
Master, which might help explain your grandfathers passion for Leonardos
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.
Youre 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 Langdons eyes, Sophies 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
yearsto 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 cant afford to let them catch you, Robert. Theres a lot we
need to discuss. You need to go!
* * *
Langdon heard
only the faint murmur of her voice. He wasnt going anywhere. He was lost in
another place now. A place where ancient secrets rose to the surface. A place
where forgotten histories emerged from the shadows.
Slowly, as if
moving underwater, Langdon turned his head and gazed through the reddish haze
toward the Mona Lisa.
The fleur de lis
. . . the flower of Lisa . . . the Mona Lisa.
It was all
intertwined, a silent symphony echoing the deepest secrets of the Priory of
Sion and Leonardo da Vinci.
* * *
A few miles away,
on the riverbank beyond Les Invalides, the bewildered driver of a twin bed
Trailor truck stood at gunpoint and watched as the captain of the Judicial
Police let out a guttural roar of rage and heaved a bar of soap out into the
turgid waters of the Seine.
CHAPTER 24
Silas gazed
upward at the Saint Sulpice obelisk, taking in the length of the massive marble
shaft. His sinews felt taut with exhilaration. He glanced around the church one
more time to make sure he was alone. Then he knelt at the base of the
structure, not out of reverence, but out of necessity.
The keystone is
hidden beneath the Rose Line.
At the base of
the Sulpice obelisk.
All the brothers
had concurred.
On his knees now,
Silas ran his hands across the stone floor. He saw no cracks or markings to
indicate a movable tile, so he began rapping softly with his knuckles on the
floor. Following the brass line closer to the obelisk, he knocked on each tile
adjacent to the brass line. Finally, one of them echoed strangely.
Theres a hollow
area beneath the floor!
Silas smiled. His
victims had spoken the truth.
Standing, he
searched the sanctuary for something with which to break the floor tile.
* * *
High above Silas,
in the balcony, Sister Sandrine stifled a gasp. Her darkest fears had just been
confirmed. This visitor was not who he seemed. The mysterious Opus Dei monk had
come to Saint Sulpice for another purpose.
A secret purpose.
You are not the
only one with secrets, she thought.
Sister Sandrine
Bieil was more than the keeper of this church. She was a sentry. And tonight,
the ancient wheels had been set in motion. The arrival of this stranger at the
base of the obelisk was a signal from the brotherhood.
It was a silent
call of distress.
CHAPTER 25
The U.S. Embassy
in Paris is a compact complex on Avenue Gabriel, just north of the Champs
Elysees. 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 embassys
night operator was reading Time magazines 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 mans 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. Im 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 didnt 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 phones 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 womans
voice answered. Bonjour, vous tes bien chez Sophie Neveu, the recording
announced. Je suis absente pour le moment, mais . . .
Faches blood was
boiling as he typed the numbers 4 . . . 5 . . . 4.
CHAPTER 26
Despite her
monumental reputation, the Mona Lisa was a mere thirty one inches by twenty one
inchessmaller 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 Vincis mastery of the sfumato style, in
which forms appear to evaporate into one another.
Since taking up
residence in the Louvre, the Mona Lisaor La Jaconde as they call her in
Francehad been stolen twice, most recently in 1911, when she disappeared from
the Louvres satte impenetrableLe Salon Carre. Parisians wept in the streets
and wrote newspaper articles begging the thieves for the paintings 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 Sophies hand.
To the left, the rooms 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 Lisas
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 Vincis reverence for the Mona Lisa had nothing to do
with its artistic mastery. In actuality, the painting was a surprisingly
ordinary sfumato portrait. Da Vincis 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 worlds most documented inside jokes. The
paintings 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 Lisas secret with a rather unlikely groupa dozen
inmates at the Essex County Penitentiary. Langdons jail seminar was part of a
Harvard outreach program attempting to bring education into the prison
systemCulture for Convicts, as Langdons colleagues liked to call it.
Standing at an
overhead projector in a darkened penitentiary library, Langdon had shared the
Mona Lisas secret with the prisoners attending class, men whom he found
surprisingly engagedrough, 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 didnt 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
sidesleft 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 dont 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.
Its quite
possible, Langdon said. Da Vinci was a prankster, and computerized analysis
of the Mona Lisa and Da Vincis 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 thats
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. Its got a guy
with a rams head on the front and says hes 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 rams 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 Amons 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 Vincis little secret, and the reason for Mona Lisas 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
Sauniere had indeed paid a visit to the Mona Lisa before he died.
He wouldnt 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.
Theres nothing
here!
At that moment,
Langdon saw a faint purple glimmer on the protective glass before the Mona Lisa
. Reaching down, he took Sophies 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 Lisas face.
CHAPTER 27
Seated at
Saunieres 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. Weve 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. Hes a
senior warden.
Send him in,
Fache commanded. I cant get my men back to the perimeter for a few minutes,
and I dont want Langdon breaking for an exit. Fache paused. And youd 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 Neveus bravado. Shes still inside the building?
Handle it,
Fache ordered. I want Langdon and Neveu at gunpoint by the time I get back.
* * *
As the Trailor
truck drove off, Captain Fache rounded up his men. Robert Langdon had proven an
elusive quarry tonight, and with Agent Neveu now helping him, he might be far
harder to corner than expected.
Fache decided not
to take any chances.
Hedging his bets,
he ordered half of his men back to the Louvre perimeter. The other half he sent
to guard the only location in Paris where Robert Langdon could find safe
harbor.
CHAPTER 28
Inside the Salle
des Etats, Langdon stared in astonishment at the six words glowing on the
Plexiglas. The text seemed to hover in space, casting a jagged shadow across
Mona Lisas mysterious smile.
The Priory,
Langdon whispered. This proves your grandfather was a member!
Sophie looked at
him in confusion. You understand this?
Its flawless,
Langdon said, nodding as his thoughts churned. Its a proclamation of one of
the Priorys most fundamental philosophies!
Sophie looked
baffled in the glow of the message scrawled across the Mona Lisas face.
So Dark the Con
of Man
* * *
Sophie, Langdon
said, the Priorys 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.
Sophies
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 Saunieres outward message.
So dark the con
of man, he thought. So dark indeed.
Nobody could deny
the enormous good the modern Church did in todays 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 Maleficarumor The Witches
Hammerindoctrinated 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 childbirtha suffering, the Church
claimed, that was Gods rightful punishment for Eves 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.
Todays 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 Gamosthe natural
sexual union between man and woman through which each became spiritually
wholehad 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 Churchs
defamation. In France and Italy, the words for leftgauche and sinistracame
to have deeply negative overtones, while their right hand counterparts rang of
right eousness, 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 mans
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 koyanisquatsilife
out of balancean 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. Someones coming!
He heard the
approaching footsteps out in the hallway.
Over here!
Sophie extinguished the black light and seemed to evaporate before Langdons
eyes.
For an instant he
felt totally blind. Over where! As his vision cleared he saw Sophies
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.
Arrtez! 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 Langdons 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 idee,
Monsieur Langdon, he said, pressing the gun hard into Langdons back.
Mauvaise idee.
Face down on the
parquet floor with his arms and legs spread wide, Langdon found little humor in
the irony of his position. The Vitruvian Man, he thought. Face down.
CHAPTER 29
Inside Saint
Sulpice, Silas carried the heavy iron votive candle holder from the altar back
toward the obelisk. The shaft would do nicely as a battering ram. Eyeing the
gray marble panel that covered the apparent hollow in the floor, he realized he
could not possibly shatter the covering without making considerable noise.
Iron on marble.
It would echo off the vaulted ceilings.
Would the nun
hear him? She should be asleep by now. Even so, it was a chance Silas preferred
not to take. Looking around for a cloth to wrap around the tip of the iron
pole, he saw nothing except the altars 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 couldnt help but smile.
There atop the main altar, propped open on a gilded book stand, sat an enormous
leather bound Bible.
* * *
Up in the
balcony, Sister Sandrine was shaking. Moments ago, she had been about to flee
and carry out her orders, when the man below suddenly removed his cloak. When
she saw his alabaster white flesh, she was overcome with a horrified
bewilderment. His broad, pale back was soaked with blood red slashes. Even from
here she could see the wounds were fresh.
This man has been
mercilessly whipped!
She also saw the
bloody cilice around his thigh, the wound beneath it dripping. What kind of God
would want a body punished this way? The rituals of Opus Dei, Sister Sandrine
knew, were not something she would ever understand. But that was hardly her
concern at this instant. Opus Dei is searching for the keystone . How they knew
of it, Sister Sandrine could not imagine, although she knew she did not have
time to think.
The bloody monk
was now quietly donning his cloak again, clutching his prize as he moved toward
the altar, toward the Bible.
In breathless
silence, Sister Sandrine left the balcony and raced down the hall to her
quarters. Getting on her hands and knees, she reached beneath her wooden bed
frame and retrieved the sealed envelope she had hidden there years ago.
Tearing it open,
she found four Paris phone numbers.
Trembling, she
began to dial.
Downstairs, Silas
laid the stone tablet on the altar and turned his eager hands to the leather
Bible. His long white fingers were sweating now as he turned the pages.
Flipping through the Old Testament, he found the Book of Job. He located
Chapter thirty eight. As he ran his finger down the column of text, he
anticipated the words he was about to read.
They will lead
the way!
Finding verse
number eleven, Silas read the text. It was only seven words. Confused, he read
it again, sensing something had gone terribly wrong. The verse simply read:
HITHERTO SHALT
THOU COME, BUT NO FURTHER.
CHAPTER 30
Security warden
Claude Grouard simmered with rage as he stood over his prostrate captive in
front of the Mona Lisa. This bastard killed Jacques Sauniere! Sauniere 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 Langdons
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 l?
Grouard demanded, feeling his adrenaline spike for a second time in the last
thirty seconds. He suddenly didnt 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. Repondez!
C'est mot, the
voice responded in calm French. Sophie Neveu.
Somewhere in the
distant recesses of Grouards mind, the name registered. Sophie Neveu? That was
the name of Saunieres granddaughter, wasnt it? She used to come in here as a
little kid, but that was years ago. This couldnt 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 Sauniere 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
particularanother 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 grandfathers 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 pere, Im
here! But I dont 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.
Sophies eyes
locked on an incongruous glint of lustrous metal lodged near the bottom edge of
the frames 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 Sophies 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 tonights 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
guards 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 cant
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.
Arrtez! Ou je
la detruis! the womans 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. Grouards first thought was
to wonder why the paintings trip wires hadnt 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 impenetrablea six million dollar
piece of body armor.
I cant put a
bullet through a Da Vinci!
Set down your
gun and radio, the woman said in calm French, or Ill put my knee through
this painting. I think you know how my grandfather would feel about that.
Grouard felt
dizzy. Please . . . no. Thats 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,
Langdons 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 guards
pistol was now clutched tightly in Langdons hands, and he couldnt 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 tonights
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 didnt 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 wasnt about to miss the third.
CHAPTER 31
Theyre dead!
Sister Sandrine stammered into the telephone in her Saint Sulpice residence.
She was leaving a message on an answering machine. Please pick up! Theyre all
dead!
The first three
phone numbers on the list had produced terrifying resultsa 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 numberthe number she was not supposed to call unless the
first three could not be reachedshe 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 dont 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 monks eyes. He lunged, lashing out with the candle
stand like a club. As Sister Sandrine fell, her last feeling was an
overwhelming sense of foreboding.
All four are
dead.
The precious
truth is lost forever.
CHAPTER 32
The security
alarm on the west end of the Denon Wing sent the pigeons in the nearby
Tuileries Gardens scattering as Langdon and Sophie dashed out of the bulkhead
into the Paris night. As they ran across the plaza to Sophies car, Langdon
could hear police sirens wailing in the distance.
Thats it
there, Sophie called, pointing to a red snub nosed two seater parked on the
plaza.
Shes 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 medians 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 centerLa Pyramide Inverseethe 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 Elysees.
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 didnt
seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed ahead down the long thoroughfare of
Champs Elysees, 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 . Sophies 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 Saunieres brilliant hiding place;
Madonna of the Rocks was yet another fitting link in the evenings chain of
interconnected symbolism. Sauniere, it seemed, at every turn, was reinforcing
his fondness for the dark and mischievous side of Leonardo da Vinci.
Da Vincis
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 paintingthe 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
gestureher fingers looking like eagles talons, gripping an invisible head.
Finally, the most obvious and frightening image: Just below Marys curled
fingers, Uriel was making a cutting gesture with his handas if slicing the
neck of the invisible head gripped by Marys claw like hand.
Langdons
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 Londons National Gallery under the name Virgin of the
Rocks, although Langdon still preferred the Louvres more intriguing original.
As Sophie gunned
the car up Champs Elysees, Langdon said, The painting. What was behind it?
Her eyes remained
on the road. Ill show you once were safely inside the embassy.
Youll 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 couldnt
believe his ears.
* * *
Were going to
make it, Sophie thought as she swung the SmartCars wheel to the right, cutting
sharply past the luxurious Hotel de Crillon into Pariss 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, Sophies 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 Sophies thoughts through the years, her work in the
intelligence community had taught her plenty about security, and now the keys
peculiar tooling no longer looked so mystifying. A laser tooled varying matrix.
Impossible to duplicate . Rather than teeth that moved tumblers, this keys
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 keys 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 keya
far more normal onethat 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 pere will be so surprised to see me, she thought. Returning from graduate
school in Britain for spring break a few days early, Sophie couldnt 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
its 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 Sauniere despised city driving and owned a car for one destination
onlyhis vacation chateau 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 friends 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 grandfathers
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 treesa mammoth, old stone
chateau 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 carsMercedeses, BMWs, Audis,
and a Rolls Royce.
Sophie stared a
moment and then burst out laughing. My grand pere, the famous recluse! Jacques
Sauniere, 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 Pariss 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.
Nobodys 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 reda 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
Ive ever seen.
Turning now and
scanning the living room, Sophies eyes fell to the only object in the entire
house that seemed out of placeher grandfathers 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. Shed 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
floorstone, 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
grottoa 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.
Im 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.
Dont try to find me.
* * *
Beside the note,
she laid the old spare key from the chateaus woodshed.
* * *
Sophie!
Langdons 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,
Sophies blood went cold. A hundred yards ahead, the intersection was blocked
by a couple of DCPJ police cars, parked askew, their purpose obvious. Theyve
sealed off Avenue Gabriel!
Langdon gave a
grim sigh. I take it the embassy is off limits this evening?
Down the street,
the two DCPJ officers who stood beside their cars were now staring in their
direction, apparently curious about the headlights that had halted so abruptly
up the street from them.
Okay, Sophie,
turn around very slowly.
Putting the
SmartCar in reverse, she performed a composed three point turn and reversed her
direction. As she drove away, she heard the sound of squealing tires behind
them. Sirens blared to life.
Cursing, Sophie
slammed down the accelerator.
CHAPTER 33
Sophies 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 Elysees.
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 didnt,
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 Elysees, 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, youd 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
pieua 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.
Its 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.
Langdons 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 Sauniere 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 crosswith four arms of equal
lengthwhich 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 symbols violent history was reflected in its very name: cross and
crucifix came from the Latin verb cruciareto 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. Lets 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, youre 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
wont happen. If you walk into your embassy and request temporary asylum,
thats 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
theyll promise to pursue diplomatic channels to get you a fair trial. She
gazed up the line of elegant storefronts on Champs Elysees. 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 Elysees, stood the Arc de TriompheNapoleons 164 foot tall tribute
to his own military potencyencircled by Frances largest rotary, a nine lane
behemoth.
Sophies eyes
were on the rearview mirror again as they approached the rotary. We lost them
for the time being, she said, but we wont last another five minutes if we
stay in this car.
So steal a different
one, Langdon mused, now that were 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 watcha vintage, collectors 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 Langdons daily reminder to
stay young at heart. At the moment, however, Mickeys 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. Theyd
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 Langdons 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. Were buying two
tickets on the next train out of Paris.
Langdon hurried
along beside her. What had begun as a one mile dash to the U.S. Embassy had now
become a full fledged evacuation from Paris. Langdon was liking this idea less
and less.
CHAPTER 34
The driver who
collected Bishop Aringarosa from Leonardo da Vinci International Airport pulled
up in a small, unimpressive black Fiat sedan. Aringarosa recalled a day when
all Vatican transports were big luxury cars that sported grille plate
medallions and flags emblazoned with the seal of the Holy See. Those days are
gone . Vatican cars were now less ostentatious and almost always unmarked. The
Vatican claimed this was to cut costs to better serve their dioceses, but
Aringarosa suspected it was more of a security measure. The world had gone mad,
and in many parts of Europe, advertising your love of Jesus Christ was like
painting a bulls 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 years trip
to Rome, he sighed. The longest night of my life.
Five months ago,
the Vatican had phoned to request Aringarosas 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 Deis recent public
successthe completion of their World Headquarters in New York City.
Architectural Digest had called Opus Deis 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 Gods 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 swaysubstantial considering the size of the
Opus Dei constituency and their bankrollto persuade the Pope and his advisers
that softening the Churchs laws was not only faithless and cowardly, but
political suicide. He reminded them that previous tempering of Church lawthe
Vatican II fiascohad 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 Popes summer
residence? Aringarosa had never been, nor had he ever desired to see it. In
addition to being the Popes summer vacation home, the sixteenth century
citadel housed the Specula Vaticanathe Vatican Observatoryone of the most
advanced astronomical observatories in Europe. Aringarosa had never been
comfortable with the Vaticans 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 civilizationthe valley where
the Curiazi and Orazi clans fought long before the founding of Rome.
Even in
silhouette, Gandolfo was a sight to beholdan 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 castles foyera
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 floors
corridor was wide, lushly appointed, and led in only one directiontoward a
huge set of oak doors with a brass sign.
BIBLIOTECA
ASTRONOMICA
Aringarosa had
heard of this placethe Vaticans Astronomy Libraryrumored 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
Popes 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 hasnt 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 applique and the facets of the diamonds, he
reminded himself that this ring was a symbol of power far less than that which
he would soon attain.
CHAPTER 35
The inside of
Gare Saint Lazare looked like every other train station in Europe, a gaping
indoor outdoor cavern dotted with the usual suspectshomeless 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:
LYONRAPIDE3:06
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 didnt 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 Langdons 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 theyd actually escaped. Out the window to his right, he could see
Montmartre and the beautiful dome of Sacre 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 doesnt make
sense, he finally said.
Which part?
That your grandfather
would go to so much trouble to give you a key that you wouldnt know what to do
with.
I agree.
Are you sure he
didnt 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. Im
sorry?
It smells like
somebody polished it with a cleaner. Langdon held the key to his nose and
sniffed. Its stronger on the other side. He flipped it over. Yes, its
alcohol based, like its been buffed with a cleaner or Langdon stopped.
What?
He angled the key
to the light and looked at the smooth surface on the broad arm of the cross. It
seemed to shimmer in places . . . like it was wet. How well did you look at
the back of this key before you put it in your pocket?
What? Not well.
I was in a hurry.
Langdon turned to
her. Do you still have the black light?
Sophie reached in
her pocket and produced the UV penlight. Langdon took it and switched it on,
shining the beam on the back of the key.
The back
luminesced instantly. There was writing there. In penmanship that was hurried
but legible.
Well, Langdon
said, smiling. I guess we know what the alcohol smell was.
* * *
Sophie stared in
amazement at the purple writing on the back of the key.
24 Rue Haxo
* * *
An address! My
grandfather wrote down an address!
Where is this?
Langdon asked.
Sophie had no
idea. Facing front again, she leaned forward and excitedly asked the driver,
Connaissez vous la Rue Haxo?
The driver
thought a moment and then nodded. He told Sophie it was out near the tennis
stadium on the western outskirts of Paris. She asked him to take them there
immediately.
Fastest route is
through Bois de Boulogne, the driver told her in French. Is that okay?
Sophie frowned.
She could think of far less scandalous routes, but tonight she was not going to
be picky. Oui. We can shock the visiting American.
Sophie looked
back at the key and wondered what they would possibly find at 24 Rue Haxo. A
church? Some kind of Priory headquarters?
Her mind filled
again with images of the secret ritual she had witnessed in the basement grotto
ten years ago, and she heaved a long sigh. Robert, I have a lot of things to
tell you. She paused, locking eyes with him as the taxi raced westward. But
first I want you to tell me everything you know about this Priory of Sion.
CHAPTER 36
Outside the Salle
des Etats, Bezu Fache was fuming as Louvre warden Grouard explained how Sophie
and Langdon had disarmed him. Why didnt 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 Neveus 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. Im calling Interpol.
Collet looked
surprised. Youre 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 optionsno 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. Youre not flagging Sophie Neveu. Shes our own agent.
Of course Im
flagging her! Fache snapped. What good is flagging Langdon if she can do all
his dirty work? I plan to run Neveus employment filefriends, family, personal
contactsanyone she might turn to for help. I dont know what she thinks shes
doing out there, but its 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. Youve got the reins, but dont
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 wouldnt
last till dawn.
CHAPTER 37
The heavily
forested park known as the Bois de Boulogne was called many things, but the
Parisian cognoscenti knew it as the Garden of Earthly Delights. The epithet,
despite sounding flattering, was quite to the contrary. Anyone who had seen the
lurid Bosch painting of the same name understood the jab; the painting, like
the forest, was dark and twisted, a purgatory for freaks and fetishists. At
night, the forests winding lanes were lined with hundreds of glistening bodies
for hire, earthly delights to satisfy ones deepest unspoken desiresmale,
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 parks 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 brotherhoods 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 secreta 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 brotherhoodthe Priory of Sionand 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 Herods temple, which had been built atop
the earlier ruins of Solomons Temple. These documents, they believed,
corroborated Godefrois 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 arma 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. Youre 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 anyones 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 ruinsbeneath 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 themselvesan 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 Frances 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.
Clements 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. Clements
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 Clements 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 Clements 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 Vaticans 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 mysterys 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 nameSangreal. 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
sangremeaning '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, youll realize you already know a lot about it. In fact, almost
everyone on earth has heard the story of the Sangreal.
Sophie looked
skeptical. Ive never heard of it.
Sure you have.
Langdon smiled. Youre just used to hearing it called by the name 'Holy
Grail.'
CHAPTER 38
Sophie
scrutinized Langdon in the back of the taxi. Hes 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, Langdons 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 legendthat of a chaliceis
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 Langdons 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 bewildermentthe exact expression
Langdon had seen on his own editors 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 cant 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, dont get me wrong. I love your work, and weve had a great run
together. But if I agree to publish an idea like this, Ill have people
picketing outside my office for months. Besides, it will kill your reputation.
Youre a Harvard historian, for Gods 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 titlesbooks
by well known historians, some contemporary, some centuries oldmany 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.
Theyre . . . real historians!
Langdon grinned.
As you can see, Jonas, this is not only my theory. Its been around for a long
time. Im simply building on it. No book has yet explored the legend of the
Holy Grail from a symbologic angle. The iconographic evidence Im 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
Teabinga British Royal Historian.
Teabing has
spent much of his life studying the Holy Grail. Ive met with him. He was
actually a big part of my inspiration. Hes a believer, Jonas, along with all
of the others on that list.
Youre 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 interestthe Crown of Thorns, the True Cross of the
Crucifixion, the Titulusand 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 isnt this
theory more widely known?
These books
cant possibly compete with centuries of established history, especially when
that history is endorsed by the ultimate bestseller of all time.
Faukmans eyes
went wide. Dont tell me Harry Potter is actually about the Holy Grail.
I was referring
to the Bible.
Faukman cringed.
I knew that.
* * *
Laissez le!
Sophies 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 Langdons 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 drivers head. The driver instantly dropped his
radio, raising his one free hand overhead.
Sophie! Langdon
choked. What the hell
Arrtez! 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 companys dispatcher coming from
the dashboard. . . .qui s'appette Agent Sophie Neveu . . . the radio
crackled. Et un Americain, Robert Langdon . . .
Langdons 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. Youre 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 youve seen enough of our magic forest?
He nodded.
Plenty.
Good. Drive us
out of here.
Langdon looked
down at the cars controls and hesitated. Shit . He groped for the stick shift
and clutch. Sophie? Maybe you
Go! she yelled.
Outside, several
hookers were walking over to see what was going on. One woman was placing a
call on her cell phone. Langdon depressed the clutch and jostled the stick into
what he hoped was first gear. He touched the accelerator, testing the gas.
Langdon popped
the clutch. The tires howled as the taxi leapt forward, fishtailing wildly and
sending the gathering crowd diving for cover. The woman with the cell phone
leapt into the woods, only narrowly avoiding being run down.
Doucement!
Sophie said, as the car lurched down the road. What are you doing?
I tried to warn
you, he shouted over the sound of gnashing gears. I drive an automatic!
CHAPTER 39
Although the
spartan room in the brownstone on Rue La Bruyere 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 womans death complicated matters greatly. Bishop Aringarosa had
placed the phone call that got Silas into Saint Sulpice; what would the abbe
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 Deis 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 fathers disappointed
voice that whispered to him from the past.
Tu es un
desastre. Un spectre.
Kneeling on the
wooden floor, Silas prayed for forgiveness. Then, stripping off his robe, he
reached again for the Discipline.
CHAPTER 40
Struggling with
the gear shift, Langdon managed to maneuver the hijacked taxi to the far side
of the Bois de Boulogne while stalling only twice. Unfortunately, the inherent
humor in the situation was overshadowed by the taxi dispatcher repeatedly
hailing their cab over the radio.
Voiture cinq six
trois. O tes vous? Repondez!
When Langdon
reached the exit of the park, he swallowed his machismo and jammed on the
brakes. Youd better drive.
Sophie looked
relieved as she jumped behind the wheel. Within seconds she had the car humming
smoothly westward along Allee 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.
Sophies eyes
remained focused on the road. The cab driver said its 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 Vincis art and diaries in hopes of
unearthing a hidden clue as to the Grails 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 Isisa 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 Vincis 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 Adorations gray green sketched
underdrawing was indeed Da Vincis work, the painting itself was not. The truth
was that some anonymous painter had filled in Da Vincis sketch like a paint by
numbers years after Da Vincis death. Far more troubling, however, was what lay
beneath the impostors paint. Photographs taken with infrared reflectography
and X ray suggested that this rogue painter, while filling in Da Vincis
sketched study, had made suspicious departures from the underdrawing . . . as
if to subvert Da Vincis true intention. Whatever the true nature of the
underdrawing, it had yet to be made public. Even so, embarrassed officials at
Florences Uffizi Gallery immediately banished the painting to a warehouse
across the street. Visitors at the gallerys 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 quests
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 Vincis 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 youre holding unlocks the
hiding place of the Holy Grail?
Langdons laugh
sounded forced, even to him. I really cant 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 Siona 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 dont 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 hiddenthe Grand Master and his three
senechaux . 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 grandfathers 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.
Ive 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 chateau. 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. Dont be ridiculous. A forgotten Templar
church in this neighborhood?
There it is,
Sophie exclaimed, pointing.
Langdons eyes
followed to the structure ahead.
What in the
world?
The building was
modern. A squat citadel with a giant, neon equal armed cross emblazoned atop
its facade. Beneath the cross were the words:
DEPOSITORY BANK
OF ZURICH
Langdon was
thankful not to have shared his Templar church hopes with Sophie. A career hazard
of symbologists was a tendency to extract hidden meaning from situations that
had none. In this case, Langdon had entirely forgotten that the peaceful, equal
armed cross had been adopted as the perfect symbol for the flag of neutral
Switzerland.
At least the
mystery was solved.
Sophie and
Langdon were holding the key to a Swiss bank deposit box.
CHAPTER 41
Outside Castel
Gandolfo, an updraft of mountain air gushed over the top of the cliff and
across the high bluff, sending a chill through Bishop Aringarosa as he stepped
from the Fiat. I should have worn more than this cassock, he thought, fighting
the reflex to shiver. The last thing he needed to appear tonight was weak or
fearful.
The castle was
dark save the windows at the very top of the building, which glowed ominously.
The library, Aringarosa thought. They are awake and waiting . He ducked his
head against the wind and continued on without so much as a glance toward the
observatory domes.
The priest who
greeted him at the door looked sleepy. He was the same priest who had greeted
Aringarosa five months ago, albeit tonight he did so with much less
hospitality. We were worried about you, Bishop, the priest said, checking his
watch and looking more perturbed than worried.
My apologies.
Airlines are so unreliable these days.
The priest
mumbled something inaudible and then said, They are waiting upstairs. I will
escort you up.
The library was a
vast square room with dark wood from floor to ceiling. On all sides, towering
bookcases burgeoned with volumes. The floor was amber marble with black basalt
trim, a handsome reminder that this building had once been a palace.
Welcome,
Bishop, a mans voice said from across the room.
Aringarosa tried
to see who had spoken, but the lights were ridiculously lowmuch 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 recognizablethe 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. Were 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?
Id prefer we
dont 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.
Aringarosas 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 Im
right, Aringarosa thought. Now, I imagine you have something for me to sign?
They all jumped,
eagerly pushing the paper toward him, as if they wished he would simply leave.
Aringarosa eyed
the sheet before him. It bore the papal seal. This is identical to the copy
you sent me?
Exactly.
Aringarosa was
surprised how little emotion he felt as he signed the document. The three men
present, however, seemed to sigh in relief.
Thank you,
Bishop, the secretariat said. Your service to the Church will never be
forgotten.
Aringarosa picked
up the briefcase, sensing promise and authority in its weight. The four men
looked at one another for a moment as if there were something more to say, but
apparently there was not. Aringarosa turned and headed for the door.
Bishop? one of
the cardinals called out as Aringarosa reached the threshold.
Aringarosa
paused, turning. Yes?
Where will you
go from here?
Aringarosa sensed
the query was more spiritual than geographical, and yet he had no intention of
discussing morality at this hour. Paris, he said, and walked out the door.
CHAPTER 42
The Depository
Bank of Zurich was a twenty four hour Geldschrank bank offering the full modern
array of anonymous services in the tradition of the Swiss numbered account.
Maintaining offices in Zurich, Kuala Lumpur, New York, and Paris, the bank had
expanded its services in recent years to offer anonymous computer source code
escrow services and faceless digitized backup.
The bread and
butter of its operation was by far its oldest and simplest offeringthe anonyme
Lagerblind 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
buildings 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.
Switzerlands
reputation for secrecy in banking had become one of the countrys 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 peoples 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 banks drivewaya 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 drivers 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 keys 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. Lets 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 buildings 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. Youd
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.
Whos their
decorator? Langdon wondered. Allied Steel?
Sophie looked
equally intimidated as her eyes scanned the lobby.
The gray metal
was everywherethe 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
clients key was inserted outside in the entry gate.
Instead, the
guard was calling the banks 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 didnt matter. He got another look at the two
faces on the television.
The manager
answered. Oui?
We have a
situation down here.
Whats
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. Ill 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 didnt 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 placean 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. Im 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 bankers
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 Sauniere was trying to tell Agent Neveu and Robert Langdon?
Faches tone was
cold. If you arrest them, Lieutenant Collet, then I can ask them personally.
Collet took the
hint. Twenty four Rue Haxo. Right away, Captain. He hung up and radioed his
men.
CHAPTER 43
Andre
Vernetpresident of the Paris branch of the Depository Bank of Zurichlived in
a lavish flat above the bank. Despite his plush accommodations, he had always
dreamed of owning a riverside apartment on Llle 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
banks 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 warriorsthe 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 Andre Vernet. How can I be of
serv The rest of the sentence lodged somewhere beneath his Adams apple. The
woman before him was as unexpected a visitor as Vernet had ever had.
* * *
Im sorry, do we
know each other? Sophie asked. She did not recognize the banker, but he for a
moment looked as if hed seen a ghost.
No . . . the
bank president fumbled. I dont . . . 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 dont think he
had time, Sophie said. He was murdered tonight.
Her words sent
the man staggering backward. Jacques Sauniere 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 Andre
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.
Vernets face was
grim, and he paused, pondering. Your pictures are being circulated by
Interpol. This is how I recognized you. Youre 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. Im 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 DCPJs most powerful parallel processing
computers, she still would need weeks to break the code. Certainly, monsieur,
considering the circumstances, you can help us.
Im 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 mans
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. Im 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. Im 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, Vernets 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. Ill make arrangements and be right back.
But the safe
deposit box, Sophie declared. We cant just leave.
Theres nothing
I can do, Vernet said, hurrying out the door. Im 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? Youre
smiling.
Your grandfather
was a genius.
Im 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. Im pretty
sure he left it for us after all.
Where?
Langdon produced
the printout of the crime scene photo and spread it out on the coffee table.
Sophie needed only to read the first line to know Langdon was correct.
13 3 2 21 1 1 8 5
O, Draconian
devil!
Oh, lame saint!
P.S. Find Robert
Langdon
CHAPTER 44
Ten digits,
Sophie said, her cryptologic senses tingling as she studied the printout.
13 3 2 21 1 1 8 5
Grand pere 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 linesa 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 grandfathers 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 banks
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 isnt the right account number.
Of course it is!
Ten digits. What else would it be?
Its 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. Its 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 grandfathers 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 Sauniere 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 banks 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 industrialmetal 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
grandfathers 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, its
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 lids hand carved inlaya 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.
Its a perfect
size, Sophie whispered, to hold . . . a chalice.
It cant 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. Theres liquid inside?
Sophie looked
equally confused. Did you just hear . . . ?
Langdon nodded,
lost. Liquid.
Reaching forward,
Sophie slowly unhooked the clasp and raised the lid.
The object inside
was unlike anything Langdon had ever seen. One thing was immediately clear to
both of them, however. This was definitely not the Cup of Christ.
CHAPTER 45
The police are
blocking the street, Andre 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 Saunieres 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 banks small armored trucks. Transport sir 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. Ill be right back.
As Sophie and
Langdon climbed in, Vernet hurried across the loading dock to the dock
overseers office, let himself in, collected the keys for the truck, and found
a drivers uniform jacket and cap. Shedding his own suit coat and tie, he began
to put on the drivers jacket. Reconsidering, he donned a shoulder holster
beneath the uniform. On his way out, he grabbed a drivers 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 drivers cap down low and peered
in at Sophie and Langdon, who were standing inside the empty steel box.
Youll want this
on, Vernet said, reaching inside and flicking a wall switch to illuminate the
lone courtesy bulb on the holds ceiling. And youd 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 drivers 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 drivers 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 Jerome
Collet, the agent said. Lieutenant Police Judiciaire. He motioned to the
trucks cargo hold. Qu'est ce qu'ily a l dedans?
Hell if I know,
Vernet replied in crude French. Im only a driver.
Collet looked
unimpressed. Were 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. Im a dock rat. They dont 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. Dont 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 agents head
tilted to one side, his skepticism evident. Youre telling me you dont 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 Im lugging.
When was this
truck sealed?
Must have been
hours ago. Im 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 Vernets mind.
A drop of sweat
was preparing to slide down Vernets nose. You mind? he said, wiping his nose
with his sleeve and motioning to the police car blocking his way. Im on a
tight schedule.
Do all the
drivers wear Rolexes? the agent asked, pointing to Vernets 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 Pres. Ill
sell it to you for forty.
The agent paused
and finally stepped aside. No thanks. Have a safe trip.
Vernet did not
breathe again until the truck was a good fifty meters down the street. And now
he had another problem. His cargo. Where do I take them?
CHAPTER 46
Silas lay prone
on the canvas mat in his room, allowing the lash wounds on his back to clot in
the air. Tonights 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 Aringarosas 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 bishops
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 Aringarosathe man who had given him a new lifeand 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 plana 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 Teachers 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 Sauniere transferred
information before he died. I will call you soon. Our work tonight is not yet
done.
CHAPTER 47
Riding inside the
dimly lit cargo hold of the armored truck was like being transported inside a
cell for solitary confinement. Langdon fought the all too familiar anxiety that
haunted him in confined spaces. Vernet said he would take us a safe distance out
of the city. Where? How far?
Langdons 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 were 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 boxs
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
tubes circumference that drew Langdons primary focus. Each of the six disks
had been carefully carved with the same unlikely series of lettersthe entire
alphabet. The lettered cylinder reminded Langdon of one of his childhood toysa
rod threaded with lettered tumblers that could be rotated to spell different
words.
Amazing, isnt
it? Sophie whispered.
Langdon glanced
up. I dont know. What the hell is it?
Now there was a
glint in Sophies 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 Langdons surprise.
Da Vinci? he
muttered, looking again at the canister.
Yes. Its called
a cryptex . According to my grandfather, the blueprints come from one of Da
Vincis secret diaries.
What is it for?
Considering
tonights events, Sophie knew the answer might have some interesting
implications. Its a vault, she said. For storing secret information.
Langdons eyes
widened further.
Sophie explained
that creating models of Da Vincis inventions was one of her grandfathers best
loved hobbies. A talented craftsman who spent hours in his wood and metal shop,
Jacques Sauniere enjoyed imitating master craftsmenFaberge, assorted cloisonne
artisans, and the less artistic, but far more practical, Leonardo da Vinci.
Even a cursory
glance through Da Vincis 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 Saunieres favorite pastimes was bringing Da Vincis more obscure
brainstorms to lifetimepieces, 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 Ive never seen one so ornate
and large.
Langdons eyes
had never left the box. Ive never heard of a cryptex.
Sophie was not
surprised. Most of Leonardos unbuilt inventions had never been studied or even
named. The term cryptex possibly had been her grandfathers 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.
Sophies 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. Sophies 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 Vincis 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 communiques
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 bicycles 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 sheeps 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 cryptexs 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,
thats 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. Thats 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 didnt 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 rosela fleur des secretson 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 roseor sub
rosahad to remain a secret.
Langdon quickly
explained that the Roses 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 ones 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 levelssecrecy, womanhood, and guidancethe
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 cant be.
What?
Langdon slowly
raised his eyes. Under the sign of the Rose, he whispered. This cryptex . .
. I think I know what it is.
CHAPTER 48
Langdon could
scarcely believe his own supposition, and yet, considering who had given this
stone cylinder to them, how he had given it to them, and now, the inlaid Rose
on the container, Langdon could formulate only one conclusion.
I am holding the
Priory keystone.
The legend was
specific.
The keystone is
an encoded stone that lies beneath the sign of the Rose.
Robert? Sophie
was watching him. Whats going on?
Langdon needed a
moment to gather his thoughts. Did your grandfather ever speak to you of
something called la clef de voite?
The key to the
vault? Sophie translated.
No, thats the
literal translation. Clef de voite is a common architectural term. Voite refers
not to a bank vault, but to a vault in an archway. Like a vaulted ceiling.
But vaulted
ceilings dont 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 didnt
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 keystoneif this was indeed
what they were holdingwas 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.
Sophies 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.
Sophies face
went blank. And you think this is it?
Langdon didnt
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 Vinciformer Grand Master of the
Priory of Sionshone as another tantalizing indicator that this was indeed the
Priory keystone. A former Grand Masters 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 Priorys history of cryptic double talk, had
concluded la clef de voite was a literal keystonean architectural wedgean
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 cinquefoilsthe 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
cant be the keystone, Sophie argued. Its not old enough. Im certain my
grandfather made this. It cant 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.
Sophies 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 dont 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
Priorys biggest secretthe location of the Holy Grailwas never written down.
For securitys sake, it was verbally transferred to each new rising senechal 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.
Thats 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 senechal . Rather than telling the new senechal 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 herpreuves de merite . 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 candidates induction as thirty second
degree Mason.
So the keystone
is a preuve de merite, Sophie said. If a rising Priory senechal can open it,
he proves himself worthy of the information it holds.
Langdon nodded.
I forgot youd had experience with this sort of thing.
Not only with my
grandfather. In cryptology, thats called a self authorizing language.' That
is, if youre smart enough to read it, youre permitted to know what is being
said.
Langdon hesitated
a moment. Sophie, you realize that if this is indeed the keystone, your
grandfathers 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. Im 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 wasnt supposed to see ten years ago. We havent 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 . . . theres no way you
could know that!
Id rather not
talk about it. Sophie looked away, her expression as determined as it was
pained.
Langdon sat in
stunned silence. Jacques Sauniere? 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 Pariss Bibliotheque Nationale in papers that became known as Les
Dossiers Secrets.
Every Priory
historian and Grail buff had read the Dossiers . Cataloged under Number 4 lm1
249, the Dossiers Secrets had been authenticated by many specialists and
incontrovertibly confirmed what historians had suspected for a long time:
Priory Grand Masters included Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli, Sir Isaac Newton,
Victor Hugo, and, more recently, Jean Cocteau, the famous Parisian artist.
Why not Jacques
Sauniere?
Langdons
incredulity intensified with the realization that he had been slated to meet
Sauniere tonight. The Priory Grand Master called a meeting with me. Why? To
make artistic small talk? It suddenly seemed unlikely. After all, if Langdons
instincts were correct, the Grand Master of the Priory of Sion had just
transferred the brotherhoods legendary keystone to his granddaughter and
simultaneously commanded her to find Robert Langdon.
Inconceivable!
Langdons
imagination could conjure no set of circumstances that would explain Saunieres
behavior. Even if Sauniere feared his own death, there were three senechaux who
also possessed the secret and therefore guaranteed the Priorys security. Why
would Sauniere take such an enormous risk giving his granddaughter the
keystone, especially when the two of them didnt 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.
Im sorry about
this, he said. I really have no choice.
CHAPTER 49
Andre Vernet
looked awkward with a pistol, but his eyes shone with a determination that
Langdon sensed would be unwise to test.
Im 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 grandfathers 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 Im 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
clients assets.
We are your
clients now, Sophie said.
Vernets visage
turned ice cold, an eerie transformation. Mademoiselle Neveu, I dont 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 grandfathers death!
Vernet looked at
Langdon. And yet the radio claims you are wanted not only for the murder of
Jacques Sauniere 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 senechaux? Langdons eyes dropped to the rosewood box.
If the senechaux were murdered, Sauniere 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 reasonto 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. Dont 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.
Ive got to do
something! Langdon thought. Im 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.
Vernets gun, though raised, was at Langdons 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 trucks 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
doors 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. Whats going on? Vernet pulled again, but
the bolt wouldnt lock. The mechanism was not properly aligned. The door isnt
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 couldnt
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
trucks wide wheelbase fail to navigate a turn. There was a crash as the front
bumper clipped a tree. The engine roared, and the tree bent. Finally, it was
the bumper that gave, tearing half off. The armored car lurched away, its front
bumper dragging. When the truck reached the paved access road, a shower of
sparks lit up the night, trailing the truck as it sped away.
Vernet turned his
eyes back to the ground where the truck had been parked. Even in the faint
moonlight he could see there was nothing there.
The wooden box
was gone.
CHAPTER 50
The unmarked Fiat
sedan departing Castel Gandolfo snaked downward through the Alban Hills into
the valley below. In the back seat, Bishop Aringarosa smiled, feeling the
weight of the bearer bonds in the briefcase on his lap and wondering how long
it would be before he and the Teacher could make the exchange.
Twenty million
euro.
The sum would buy
Aringarosa power far more valuable than that.
As his car sped
back toward Rome, Aringarosa again found himself wondering why the Teacher had
not yet contacted him. Pulling his cell phone from his cassock pocket, he
checked the carrier signal. Extremely faint.
Cell service is
intermittent up here, the driver said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.
In about five minutes, well 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 phones 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 Teachers 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.
Hell think
something is wrong.
Or that I failed
to get the bonds.
The bishop broke
a light sweat.
Or worse . . .
that I took the money and ran!
CHAPTER 51
Even at a modest
sixty kilometers an hour, the dangling front bumper of the armored truck grated
against the deserted suburban road with a grinding roar, spraying sparks up
onto the hood.
Weve got to get
off the road, Langdon thought.
He could barely
even see where they were headed. The trucks 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 questionsthe issue of your
grandfathers 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.
Im 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 Sauniere might have transferred
the keystone to Sophie and Langdonpeople outside the brotherhood, people he
knew were not compromised. We cant 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
Langdons hands, whether they wanted it or not.
The trucks 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 Sauniere 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 pere is trying to tell you something!
Opening the box,
she eyed the cryptexs dials. A proof of merit . She could feel her
grandfathers 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 cryptexs 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
didnt 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
grandfathers rationale for including him was now clear. Sophie was not
equipped to understand her grandfathers 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. Theres a religious historian I know who lives near Versailles. I cant
remember exactly where, but we can look it up. Ive been to his estate a few
times. His name is Leigh Teabing. Hes a former British Royal Historian.
And he lives in
Paris?
Teabings 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. Hes 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.
Sophies eyes
were wary. Can you trust him?
Trust him to
what? Not steal the information?
And not to turn
us in.
I dont intend
to tell him were wanted by the police. Im hoping hell 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.
Hell make it impossible for us to move around without being recognized.
Terrific, Langdon
thought. My French TV debut will be on Pariss 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 Britains First Duke
of Lancaster, Teabing had gotten his money the old fashioned wayhed 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 Teabings 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 Teabings 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 Teabings Paris estate for the filming. He sat before cameras in
Teabings 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 researcha 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 friendthe Catholic Bishop of Philadelphia. The
card simply read: Et tu, Robert?
Robert, Sophie
asked, youre certain we can trust this man?
Absolutely.
Were colleagues, he doesnt 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. Hell 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 isnt a member of the brotherhood?
Teabing has
spent his life trying to broadcast the truth about the Holy Grail. The Priorys
oath is to keep its true nature hidden.
Sounds to me
like a conflict of interest.
Langdon
understood her concerns. Sauniere had given the cryptex directly to Sophie, and
although she didnt 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 dont 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, youll 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 Sauniere had included him.
Do you know more
or less where Mr. Teabing lives? Sophie asked.
His estate is
called Chateau Villette.
Sophie turned
with an incredulous look. The Chateau Villette?
Thats the one.
Nice friends.
You know the
estate?
Ive passed it.
Its 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.
Ill tell you at Teabings. He and I specialize in different areas of the
legend, so between the two of us, youll get the full story. Langdon smiled.
Besides, the Grail has been Teabings life, and hearing the story of the Holy
Grail from Leigh Teabing will be like hearing the theory of relativity from
Einstein himself.
Lets hope Leigh
doesnt mind late night visitors.
For the record,
its 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. Youre kidding, right? Were going to visit a knight?
Langdon gave an
awkward smile. Were on a Grail quest, Sophie. Who better to help us than a
knight?
CHAPTER 52
The Sprawling 185
acre estate of Chateau Villette was located twenty five minutes northwest of
Paris in the environs of Versailles. Designed by Franois Mansart in 1668 for
the Count of Aufflay, it was one of Pariss most significant historical
chateaux. Complete with two rectangular lakes and gardens designed by Le Notre,
Chateau 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 Teabings 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 gates intercom entry system on the right
hand side of the truckthe passengers side everywhere in Europe except
England.
Sophie gave the
misplaced intercom an odd look. And if someone arrives without a passenger?
Dont ask.
Langdon had already been through that with Teabing. He prefers things the way
they are at home.
Sophie rolled
down her window. Robert, youd better do the talking.
Langdon shifted
his position, leaning out across Sophie to press the intercom button. As he
did, an alluring whiff of Sophies 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. Chateau Villette. Who is
calling?
This is Robert
Langdon, Langdon called out, sprawled across Sophies lap. Im 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 Im sure he
will be pleased to receive you in the morning.
Langdon shifted
his weight. Its quite important.
As is Sir
Leighs 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 youd
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 Teabings 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, hes something of a
character.
Your first
question, Teabing declared, his tone Herculean. Shall I serve you coffee, or
tea?
Langdon knew
Teabings feelings about the American phenomenon of coffee. Tea, he replied.
Earl Grey.
Excellent. Your
second question. Milk or sugar?
Langdon
hesitated.
Milk, Sophie
whispered in his ear. I think the British take milk.
Milk, Langdon
said.
Silence.
Sugar?
Teabing made no
reply.
Wait! Langdon now
recalled the bitter beverage he had been served on his last visit and realized
this question was a trick. Lemon! he declared. Earl Grey with lemon
Indeed. Teabing
sounded deeply amused now. And finally, I must make the most grave of
inquiries. Teabing paused and then spoke in a solemn tone. In which year did
a Harvard sculler last outrow an Oxford man at Henley?
Langdon had no
idea, but he could imagine only one reason the question had been asked. Surely
such a travesty has never occurred.
The gate clicked
open. Your heart is true, my friend. You may pass.
CHAPTER 53
Monsieur
Vernet! The night manager of the Depository Bank of Zurich felt relieved to
hear the bank presidents 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. Its 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 cant 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?
Id like you to
activate the trucks emergency transponder.
The night
managers eyes moved to the LoJack control box across the room. Like many
armored cars, each of the banks 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 flawlesslylocating 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. Ill hold.
I need the exact location of that truck the instant you have it.
Right away,
sir.
* * *
Thirty seconds
later, forty kilometers away, hidden in the undercarriage of the armored truck,
a tiny transponder blinked to life.
CHAPTER 54
As Langdon and
Sophie drove the armored truck up the winding, poplar lined driveway toward the
house, Sophie could already feel her muscles relaxing. It was a relief to be
off the road, and she could think of few safer places to get their feet under
them than this private, gated estate owned by a good natured foreigner.
They turned into
the sweeping circular driveway, and Chateau 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 shouldnt leave it out here, but
if Leigh sees it, hell 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. Ill 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 Langdons arms.
Thank you, Im
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 onthe Renaissance
velvet divan, the rustic eagle claw rocker, or the pair of stone pews that
looked like theyd 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
grandfathers 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. Theyre gargling, her grandfather told her.
Gargariser! And thats 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 pere 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 . Sophies grandfathers 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 Roberts 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 its quite late.
It is so late,
my dear, its early. He laughed. Vous n'tes pas Americaine?
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, youve lost weight.
Langdon grinned.
And youve found some.
Teabing laughed
heartily, patting his rotund belly. Touche. 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 shed 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 Remy
Legaludec, Teabing said, my manservant.
The slender
butler gave a stiff nod and disappeared yet again.
Remy is
Lyonais, Teabing whispered, as if it were an unfortunate disease. But he does
sauces quite nicely.
Langdon looked
amused. I would have thought youd 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.
Weve 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, wed like to talk to you about the Priory of Sion.
Teabings bushy
eyebrows arched with intrigue. The keepers. So this is indeed about the Grail.
You say you come with information? Something new, Robert?
Perhaps. Were
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 doesnt know?
Langdon shook his
head.
The smile that
grew on Teabings face was almost obscene. Robert, youve 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 earlierthe 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.
Thats all?
Teabing fired Langdon a scandalous look. Robert, I thought you were a
gentleman. Youve robbed her of the climax!
I know, I
thought perhaps you and I could . . . Langdon apparently decided the unseemly
metaphor had gone far enough.
Teabing already
had Sophie locked in his twinkling gaze. You are a Grail virgin, my dear. And
trust me, you will never forget your first time.
CHAPTER 55
Seated on the
divan beside Langdon, Sophie drank her tea and ate a scone, feeling the welcome
effects of caffeine and food. Sir Leigh Teabing was beaming as he awkwardly
paced before the open fire, his leg braces clicking on the stone hearth.
The Holy Grail,
Teabing said, his voice sermonic. Most people ask me only where it is. I fear
that is a question I may never answer. He turned and looked directly at
Sophie. However . . . the far more relevant question is this: What is the Holy
Grail?
Sophie sensed a
rising air of academic anticipation now in both of her male companions.
To fully
understand the Grail, Teabing continued, we must first understand the Bible.
How well do you know the New Testament?
Sophie shrugged.
Not at all, really. I was raised by a man who worshipped Leonardo da Vinci.
Teabing looked
both startled and pleased. An enlightened soul. Superb! Then you must be aware
that Leonardo was one of the keepers of the secret of the Holy Grail. And he
hid clues in his art.
Robert told me
as much, yes.
And Da Vincis
views on the New Testament?
I have no idea.
Teabings 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 Vincis notebook on polemics and speculation, Teabing
said, indicating one quote in particular. I think youll 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
* * *
Heres 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.
Leonardos 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
inclusionMatthew, 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 Constantines day, Romes official religion was sun worshipthe
cult of Sol Invictus, or the Invincible Sunand Constantine was its head
priest. Unfortunately for him, a growing religious turmoil was gripping Rome.
Three centuries after the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, Christs 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 ritualthe miter, the altar, the doxology, and
communion, the act of God eatingwere taken directly from earlier pagan
mystery religions.
Teabing groaned.
Dont get a symbologist started on Christian icons. Nothing in Christianity is
original. The pre Christian God Mithrascalled the Son of God and the Light of
the Worldwas 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 Christianitys 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 pagans 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 gods
weekly tributeSun day.
Sophies 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
uponthe date of Easter, the role of the bishops, the administration of
sacraments, and, of course, the divinity of Jesus.
I dont 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. Youre
saying Jesus divinity was the result of a vote?
A relatively
close vote at that, Teabing added. Nonetheless, establishing Christs
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 channelthe 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. Ive
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. Constantines
underhanded political maneuvers dont diminish the majesty of Christs 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 Christs 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 Christs 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 Constantines
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 worlds 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 Christs 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 wouldnt 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
agendato promote the divinity of the man Jesus Christ and use His influence to
solidify their own power base.
And yet,
Langdon countered, its important to remember that the modern Churchs 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.
Thats understandable. Constantines 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
Vincis paintings of the Holy Grail, Id 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?
Hes kidding,
right? Sophie was staring at the most famous fresco of all timeThe Last
SupperDa Vincis 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.
Teabings eyes
twinkled. A bit strange, dont you think, considering that both the Bible and
our standard Grail legend celebrate this moment as the definitive arrival of
the Holy Grail. Oddly, Da Vinci appears to have forgotten to paint the Cup of
Christ.
Surely art
scholars must have noted that.
You will be
shocked to learn what anomalies Da Vinci included here that most scholars
either do not see or simply choose to ignore. This fresco, in fact, is the
entire key to the Holy Grail mystery. Da Vinci lays it all out in the open in
The Last Supper
Sophie scanned
the work eagerly. Does this fresco tell us what the Grail really is?
Not what it is,
Teabing whispered. But rather who it is. The Holy Grail is not a thing. It is,
in fact . . . a person
CHAPTER 56
Sophie stared at
Teabing a long moment and then turned to Langdon. The Holy Grail is a person?
Langdon nodded.
A woman, in fact. From the blank look on Sophies 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 womans womb. This
symbol communicates femininity, womanhood, and fertility. Langdon looked
directly at her now. Sophie, legend tells us the Holy Grail is a chalicea
cup. But the Grails 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 females creative power by ignoring
biological truth and making man the Creator. Genesis tells us that Eve was
created from Adams 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. Im 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 Vincis painting of
her.
* * *
Two rooms away,
in the kitchen, manservant Remy Legaludec stood in silence before a television.
The news station was broadcasting photos of a man and woman . . . the same two
individuals to whom Remy had just served tea.
CHAPTER 57
Standing at the
roadblock outside the Depository Bank of Zurich, Lieutenant Collet wondered
what was taking Fache so long to come up with the search warrant. The bankers
were obviously hiding something. They claimed Langdon and Neveu had arrived
earlier and were turned away from the bank because they did not have proper
account identification.
So why wont they
let us inside for a look?
Finally, Collets
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. Youre kidding.
I have an
address in the suburbs. Somewhere near Versailles.
Does Captain
Fache know?
Not yet. Hes
busy on an important call.
Im on my way.
Have him call as soon as hes 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 Langdons 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 cant know were
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 chateau in the distance.
The downstairs
lights were all ablaze. Odd for this hour, Silas thought, smiling. The
information the Teacher had given him was obviously accurate. I will not leave
this house without the keystone, he vowed. I will not fail the bishop and the
Teacher.
Checking the
thirteen round clip in his Heckler Koch, Silas pushed it through the bars and
let it fall onto the mossy ground inside the compound. Then, gripping the top
of the fence, he heaved himself up and over, dropping to the ground on the
other side. Ignoring the slash of pain from his cilice, Silas retrieved his gun
and began the long trek up the grassy slope.
CHAPTER 58
Teabings study
was like no study Sophie had ever seen. Six or seven times larger than even the
most luxurious of office spaces, the knights 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 gearcomputers, 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 lifes 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. Thats the same painting you just showed me.
He winked. I
know, but the enlargement is so much more exciting. Dont you think?
Sophie turned to
Langdon for help. Im 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 figuresJesus Christ
in the middle, six disciples on His left, and six on His right. Theyre 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 persons
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.
Thats a woman!
Sophie exclaimed.
Teabing was
laughing. Surprise, surprise. Believe me, its 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.
Its 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
Vincis original layer of paint. He motioned to the photograph. Et voil!
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 secrether 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? Sophies eyes moved to Langdon and then back to Teabing.
Its 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 itthe 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, wouldnt 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 Mwhether
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. Ill admit, the hidden Ms 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 Bibles 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
documentstattered 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 Sophies
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
grandfathers door when she was a schoolgirl.
Is this the home
of Jacques Sauniere? 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 mornings paper. She found her
grandfathers name on an article on the second page. She read it. Sophie didnt
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 grandfathers article said the Church was arrogant and
wrong to ban it.
No wonder the
priest is mad, Sophie thought.
Its
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.
Youre 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 cant
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 wouldnt mind.
* * *
Sir Leigh Teabing
was still talking. I shant bore you with the countless references to Jesus
and Magdalenes 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 Magdalenes 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. Youre 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 . Thats 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, youll see that this hand belongs to . . . no one
at all. Its disembodied. Anonymous.
Sophie was
starting to feel overwhelmed. Im sorry, I still dont 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
Christs 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 Magdalenes 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 SolomonKing 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 Magdalenethe female womb that carried Jesus royal
bloodline.
The words seemed
to echo across the ballroom and back before they fully registered in Sophies
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 timethe Holy Grail.
Magdalenes 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 Grealor Holy Grail. But in
its most ancient form, the word Sangreal was divided in a different spot.
Teabing wrote on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to her.
She read what he
had written.
Sang Real
* * *
Instantly, Sophie
recognized the translation. Sang Real literally meant Royal Blood.
CHAPTER 59
The male
receptionist in the lobby of the Opus Dei headquarters on Lexington Avenue in
New York City was surprised to hear Bishop Aringarosas voice on the line.
Good evening, sir.
Have I had any
messages? the bishop demanded, sounding unusually anxious.
Yes, sir. Im
very glad you called in. I couldnt 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? Thats 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 Aringarosas phone
connection sounded so crackly. The bishops 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 Romes Ciampino Charter Airport. The Teacher was trying to reach me .
Despite Aringarosas 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.
Ill 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 tes vous?
the woman said. Your name?
Aringarosa was
uncertain if he should reveal it. The French Judicial Police?
Your name,
monsieur? the woman pressed.
Bishop Manuel
Aringarosa.
Un moment.
There was a click on the line.
After a long
wait, another man came on, his tone gruff and concerned. Bishop, I am glad I
finally reached you. You and I have much to discuss.
CHAPTER 60
Sangreal . . .
Sang Real . . . San Greal . . . Royal Blood . . . Holy Grail.
It was all
intertwined.
The Holy Grail is
Mary Magdalene . . . the mother of the royal bloodline of Jesus Christ . Sophie
felt a new wave of disorientation as she stood in the silence of the ballroom
and stared at Robert Langdon. The more pieces Langdon and Teabing laid on the
table tonight, the more unpredictable this puzzle became.
As you can see,
my dear, Teabing said, hobbling toward a bookshelf, Leonardo is not the only
one who has been trying to tell the world the truth about the Holy Grail. The
royal bloodline of Jesus Christ has been chronicled in exhaustive detail by
scores of historians. He ran a finger down a row of several dozen books.
Sophie tilted her
head and scanned the list of titles:
The Templar
Revelation:
Secret Guardians
of the True Identity of Christ
* * *
The Woman with
the alabaster Jar:
Mary Magdalene
and the Holy Grail
THE GODDESS IN
THE GOSPELS
Reclaiming the
Sacred Feminine
Here is perhaps
the best known tome, Teabing said, pulling a tattered hardcover from the stack
and handing it to her. The cover read:
HOLY BLOOD, HOLY
GRAIL
The Acclaimed
International Bestseller
Sophie glanced
up. An international bestseller? Ive 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 Christs bloodline into the mainstream.
What was the
Churchs 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. Thats 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 Churchs newly proclaimed deity had spawned a mortal
bloodline. The Church, in order to defend itself against the Magdalenes power,
perpetuated her image as a whore and buried evidence of Christs 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 Churchs
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 Christs 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 Teabings 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
pseudonymsthe 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 lifebirth,
menstruation, motherhood, menopause, and death. And in modern times, the
flowering roses 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 youve ever seen any paintings by Georgia O'Keeffe, youll 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 Christs 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 childs name?
Far more than
that. Magdalenes and Sarahs lives were scrutinously chronicled by their
Jewish protectors. Remember that Magdalenes child belonged to the lineage of
Jewish kingsDavid 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 Magdalenes 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 Christs bloodline? Sophie asked. Its 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 booksbooks 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 Documentsthousands 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 Documenta 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 wouldnt 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 DiariesMary Magdalenes 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 Solomons 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?
Teabings 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 Magdalenethe wronged Queen,
entombed with proof of her familys 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 wellto protect the bloodline
itself. Christs 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 doctrinethat of a
divine Messiah who did not consort with women or engage in sexual union. He
paused. Nonetheless, Christs 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. Thats one
of the reasons the Grail legend is so rich in France. Many of the Vaticans
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, wasnt he? Stabbed in the eye while sleeping?
Exactly.
Assassinated by the Vatican in collusion with Pepin d'Heristal. Late seventh
century. With Dagoberts murder, the Merovingian bloodline was almost
exterminated. Fortunately, Dagoberts son, Sigisbert, secretly escaped the
attack and carried on the lineage, which later included Godefroi de
Bouillonfounder of the Priory of Sion.
The same man,
Langdon said, who ordered the Knights Templar to recover the Sangreal
documents from beneath Solomons 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 Christthose 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 grandfathers 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
manservants 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. Remy, 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, Remy.
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 wont 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. Ill be right there, Remy. Can I bring you
anything when I come?
Only freedom
from oppression, sir.
Remy, you
realize your steak au poivre is the only reason you still work for me.
So you tell me,
sir. So you tell me.
CHAPTER 61
Princess Sophie.
Sophie felt
hollow as she listened to the clicking of Teabings 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 its impossible. Langdon paused. Sauniere is
not a Merovingian name.
Sophie wasnt
sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Earlier, Langdon had asked an
unusual passing question about Sophies mothers maiden name. Chauvel. The
question now made sense. And Chauvel? she asked, anxious.
Again he shook
his head. Im 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 Magdalenes long red hair and
quiet eyes. There was something in the womans 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 Ive ever
heard any of this.
Langdon looked as
if he wanted to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he refrained. Youve
heard her story before, Sophie. Everyone has. We just dont realize it when we
hear it.
I dont
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 todays 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 Hugos Hunchback of Notre
Dame and Mozarts 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
lifes 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 Disneys
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 Whiteall of which dealt with the incarceration of the sacred
feminine. Nor did one need a background in symbolism to understand that Snow
Whitea princess who fell from grace after partaking of a poisoned applewas a
clear allusion to the downfall of Eve in the Garden of Eden. Or that Sleeping
Beautys Princess Auroracode named Rose and hidden deep in the forest to
protect her from the clutches of the evil witchwas 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
Simbas head. Although Langdon suspected this was more of a cartoonists
sophomoric prank than any kind of enlightened allusion to pagan human
sexuality, he had learned not to underestimate Disneys 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 Ariels underwater home was none other than seventeenth
century artist Georges de la Tours The Penitent Magdalenea famous homage to
the banished Mary Magdalenefitting 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 Mermaids 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 Mermaids flowing red hair was certainly no coincidence
either.
The clicking of
Teabings crutches approached in the hallway, his pace unusually brisk. When
their host entered the study, his expression was stern.
Youd better
explain yourself, Robert, he said coldly. You have not been honest with me.
CHAPTER 62
Im being framed,
Leigh, Langdon said, trying to stay calm. You know me. I wouldnt kill anyone.
Teabings tone
did not soften. Robert, youre on television, for Christs sake. Did you know
you were wanted by the authorities?
Yes.
Then you abused
my trust. Im 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 didnt kill
anyone.
Jacques Sauniere
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 voite. The Priory keystone.
Teabing stared at
her for several seconds and scoffed derisively. A desperate ploy. Robert knows
how Ive sought it.
Shes telling
the truth, Langdon said. Thats 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.
Teabings balance
seemed to falter a bit.
Remy now marched
stiffly across the room. Leave at once! Or I will forcibly
Remy! Teabing
spun, snapping at his servant. Excuse us for a moment.
The servants jaw
dropped. Sir? I must protest. These people are
Ill handle
this. Teabing pointed to the hallway.
After a moment of
stunned silence, Remy 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 Teabings 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 hosts bewilderment.
Grand Master?
Teabing choked, eyeing Sophie. Jacques Sauniere?
Sophie nodded,
seeing the shock in his eyes.
But you could
not possibly know that!
Jacques Sauniere
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 Sauniere was on that list along with many others. But Grand Master, you
say? Its 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 brotherhoods ultimate treasure.
Granddaughter or not, you are not eligible to receive such knowledge.
Mr. Sauniere was
dying when he passed on the information, Langdon said. He had limited
options.
He didnt need
options, Teabing argued. There exist three senechaux who also know the
secret. That is the beauty of their system. One will rise to Grand Master and
they will induct a new senechal and share the secret of the keystone.
I guess you
didnt 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.
Teabings jaw
fell. And you think they were . . .
The senechaux,
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
cant even name one Priory member. It seems inconceivable that all three
senechaux 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 decapiter . Its 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. Its 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.
Teabings body
seemed to sway with the weight of Langdons 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 grandfathers 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 Priorys 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 Teabings 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. Isnt it possible that these Priory members were
murdered by someone outside the Church? Someone who didnt 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
Churchs 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.
Ill 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 Priorys 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 Priorys date?
Why notif were
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 dont
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 Piscesthe 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 Aquariusthe water bearerwhose 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. Thats 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
agePisces, which began at the time of Christs birth, spanned two thousand
years, and waned with the passing of the millennium. Now that weve 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 brotherhoods 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 dont know. Anyway, its
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.
Teabings head
snapped up, his face wild with disbelief. Impossible! What church did I miss?
Ive searched every church in France!
Its not in a
church, Sophie said. Its in a Swiss depository bank.
Teabings look of
excitement waned. The keystone is in a bank?
A vault,
Langdon offered.
A bank vault?
Teabing shook his head violently. Thats 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. Youve 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 senechaux? 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?
Dont 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
Chateau Villette had picked up, and Silass 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 Teachers
words were fresh in his mind. Enter Chateau Villette. Take the keystone. Hun no
one.
Now, Langdon and
the others had adjourned suddenly to another room, extinguishing the study
lights as they went. Feeling like a panther stalking prey, Silas crept to the
glass doors. Finding them unlocked, he slipped inside and closed the doors
silently behind him. He could hear muffled voices from another room. Silas
pulled the pistol from his pocket, turned off the safety, and inched down the
hallway.
CHAPTER 63
Lieutenant Collet
stood alone at the foot of Leigh Teabings 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 Collets 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
didnt 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.
Im coming out,
Fache said. Dont make a move. Ill handle this personally.
Collets jaw
dropped. But Captain, youre twenty minutes away! We should act immediately. I
have him staked out. Im 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
Americans face all over the television, Fache wanted to be sure his own face
got equal time. Collets 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 suspects 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
Langdonsurveillance cachee, Interpol, and now television. Not even the great
Bezu Fache would survive the political fallout if he had mistakenly splashed a
prominent Americans face all over French television, claiming he was a
murderer. If Fache now realized hed 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 Brits private estate and take Langdon at
gunpoint.
Moreover, Collet
realized, if Langdon were innocent, it explained one of this cases 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 Sophies odd behavior,
including that Sophie, as Saunieres sole heir, had persuaded her secret lover
Robert Langdon to kill off Sauniere for the inheritance money. Sauniere, 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 its
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 Sophies whereabouts and then helped them escape. But who? And why?
Collet wondered if maybe this were the reason Fache had told him not to take
action yet. Maybe Fache realized there were more people involved tonight than
just Langdon and Sophie. And if Langdon and Neveu arrived in the armored truck,
then who drove the Audi?
Hundreds of miles
to the south, a chartered Beechcraft Baron 58 raced northward over the
Tyrrhenian Sea. Despite calm skies, Bishop Aringarosa clutched an airsickness
bag, certain he could be ill at any moment. His conversation with Paris had not
at all been what he had imagined.
Alone in the
small cabin, Aringarosa twisted the gold ring on his finger and tried to ease
his overwhelming sense of fear and desperation. Everything in Paris has gone
terribly wrong . Closing his eyes, Aringarosa said a prayer that Bezu Fache
would have the means to fix it.
CHAPTER 64
Teabing sat on
the divan, cradling the wooden box on his lap and admiring the lids 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 voitea 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
Vincis 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 lifes 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 Langdons 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. Teabings
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 doesnt 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 dont recognize the
language!
A sudden movement
behind him caught his attention. Out of nowhere, a crushing blow to the head
knocked Langdon to his knees.
As he fell, he
thought for a moment he saw a pale ghost hovering over him, clutching a gun.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 65
Sophie Neveu,
despite working in law enforcement, had never found herself at gunpoint until
tonight. Almost inconceivably, the gun into which she was now staring was
clutched in the pale hand of an enormous albino with long white hair. He looked
at her with red eyes that radiated a frightening, disembodied quality. Dressed
in a wool robe with a rope tie, he resembled a medieval cleric. Sophie could
not imagine who he was, and yet she was feeling a sudden newfound respect for
Teabings 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 monks eyes fell immediately to the keystone
on Teabings lap.
Teabings 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 Teabings manservant was. Didnt he hear Robert fall?
Who is your
teacher? Teabing asked. Perhaps we can make a financial arrangement.
The Grail is
priceless. He moved closer.
Youre
bleeding, Teabing noted calmly, nodding to the monks right ankle where a
trickle of blood had run down his leg. And youre 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 Teabings 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.
Its quite
heavy, the man on crutches said, his arm wavering now. If you dont take it
soon, Im 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 Silass leg.
Splinters of pain
tore up Silass 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 womans 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 Faches 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 estates 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. Hed 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? Ill call the police!
Bloody hell!
Dont 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 Langdons 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.
Sophies touch
was shaken but tender. Just give yourself a minute, Robert.
I fear, Teabing
said, that Ive 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 monks 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 sects 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. Whats 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 wed better make it
fast.
CHAPTER 66
Collet and his
agents burst through the front door of Sir Leigh Teabings 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.
Theyre
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 workshoplawn 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
astonishinga 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 cant 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 barns 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. Theyre probably already stuck somewhere nearby. These fancy sports
cars cant handle terrain.
Um, sir? The
agent pointed to a nearby pegboard on which hung several sets of keys. The
labels above the keys bore familiar names.
DAIMLER . . .
ROLLS ROYCE . . . ASTIN MARTIN . . . PORSCHE . . .
The last peg was
empty.
When Collet read
the label above the empty peg, he knew he was in trouble.
CHAPTER 67
The Range Rover
was Java Black Pearl, four wheel drive, standard transmission, with high
strength polypropylene lamps, rear light cluster fittings, and the steering wheel
on the right.
Langdon was
pleased he was not driving.
Teabings
manservant Remy, on orders from his master, was doing an impressive job of
maneuvering the vehicle across the moonlit fields behind Chateau 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.
Hows 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 monks 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, Ive
waited my entire life to be involved. Teabing looked past Langdon out the
windshield at the shadow of a long hedgerow. He tapped Remy 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.
Remy 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 cant 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 Remy corrected in the other direction. Keeping the wheel more or less
straight now, he inched ahead about thirty yards.
Youre doing
beautifully, Remy, 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, Remy,
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 dont hit any standing
water or fallen trees, we shall emerge unscathed on the shoulder of highway
five.
Unscathed .
Langdons 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. Its bumpy and dark. God save us if we break anything.
If you didnt recognize the language in the light, you wont do any better in
the dark. Lets 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 cant 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. Youre 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. Im not surprised the police found you, but I am surprised that
this Opus Dei character found you. From all youve told me, I cant 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
tonights murders. And Vernet had turned on them rather suddenly, although
considering Langdon was being charged with four murders, the bankers 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.
Remy 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. Im sorry. I have a small problem. Im feeling a bit off.
Remy 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 Queens ransom.
Langdon turned
full around and looked at him.
What? Teabing
demanded. You two cant 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.
Youre running a
big risk, Sophie said, by helping us. You wont 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 shant care if I ever again see Chateau Villette.
Sophie sounded
uncertain. How will we get through airport security?
Teabing chuckled.
I fly from Le Bourgetan 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 were
airborne, you can make a decision as to whether or not youd like someone from
the U.S. Embassy to meet us.
Langdon suddenly
didnt 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 Arthurs 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? Remy said.
Are you truly thinking of returning to England for good?
Remy, you
neednt worry, Teabing assured. Just because I am returning to the Queens
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. Im planning to
buy a splendid villa in Devonshire, and well have all your things shipped up
immediately. An adventure, Remy. 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 mans 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 hes
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 mans 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 Silass 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?
Ill 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 doesnt cover transatlantic.
Langdon dialed
zero, knowing that the next sixty seconds might answer a question that had been
puzzling him all night.
CHAPTER 68
New York editor
Jonas Faukman had just climbed into bed for the night when the telephone rang.
A little late for callers, he grumbled, picking up the receiver.
An operators
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. Ill keep this very short. I really need to know. The
manuscript I gave you. Have you
Robert, Im
sorry, I know I said Id send the edits out to you this week, but Im swamped.
Next Monday. I promise.
Im not worried
about the edits. I need to know if you sent any copies out for blurbs without
telling me?
Faukman
hesitated. Langdons newest manuscriptan exploration of the history of goddess
worshipincluded 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
Langdons 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 Faukmans
experience, most people jumped at the opportunity to see their name in print.
Jonas? Langdon
pressed. You sent out my manuscript, didnt 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. Sauniere 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,
arent 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 Sauniere? Did he like the
manuscript?
I dont know. I
havent yet heard from him.
Well, dont hold
your breath. Ive 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, youre 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 Sauniere 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.
Heres the
million dollar question, Teabing said, still chuckling. Was your position on
the Priory favorable or unfavorable?
Langdon could
hear Teabings 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 Priorys 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 Saunieres
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 didnt! My
editor sent him a manuscript.
Think about it,
Robert. If Captain Fache didnt 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, Remy 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. Thats 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 andHe 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. Weve 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 pilots eyes
bulged at the sight of the weapon. He walked over to Teabing and whispered,
Sir, my humble apologies, but my diplomatic flight allowance provides only for
you and your manservant. I cannot take your guests.
Richard,
Teabing said, smiling warmly, two thousand pounds sterling and that loaded gun
say you can take my guests. He motioned to the Range Rover. And the
unfortunate fellow in the back.
CHAPTER 69
The Hawker 731s
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.
Im 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 grandfathers 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 cabinthe 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, Teabings manservant Remy sat with the pistol in hand, begrudgingly
carrying out Teabings 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 Langdons 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 grandfathers 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. Im 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.
Im not sure that is my decision to make.
Teabings
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 monks
purpose is the Churchs 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 Priorys 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. Lets move on.
CHAPTER 70
Standing in the
drawing room of Chateau 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
Faches 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
Collets claims that a shot had been fired. Still, Faches 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. Wheres Captain Fache?
Collet barely
looked up from the burning embers. Hes on the phone.
Im off the
phone, Fache snapped, stalking into the room. What have you got?
The second agent
said, Sir, Central just heard from Andre 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 hell
talk only to you, but hes agreed to cooperate fully.
In exchange for
what?
For our keeping
his banks name out of the news and also for helping him recover some stolen
property. It sounds like Langdon and Neveu stole something from Saunieres
account.
What? Collet
blurted. How?
Fache never
flinched, his eyes riveted on the second agent. What did they steal?
Vernet didnt
elaborate, but he sounds like hes 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 Saunieres 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? Im going through Mr. Teabings speed
dial numbers, and Im on the phone with Le Bourget Airfield. Ive got some bad
news.
Thirty seconds
later, Fache was packing up and preparing to leave Chateau Villette. He had
just learned that Teabing kept a private jet nearby at Le Bourget Airfield and
that the plane had taken off about a half hour ago.
The Bourget
representative on the phone had claimed not to know who was on the plane or where
it was headed. The takeoff had been unscheduled, and no flight plan had been
logged. Highly illegal, even for a small airfield. Fache was certain that by
applying the right pressure, he could get the answers he was looking for.
Lieutenant
Collet, Fache barked, heading for the door. I have no choice but to leave you
in charge of the PTS investigation here. Try to do something right for a
change.
CHAPTER 71
As the Hawker
leveled off, with its nose aimed for England, Langdon carefully lifted the rosewood
box from his lap, where he had been protecting it during takeoff. Now, as he
set the box on the table, he could sense Sophie and Teabing leaning forward
with anticipation.
Unlatching the
lid and opening the box, Langdon turned his attention not to the lettered dials
of the cryptex, but rather to the tiny hole on the underside of the box lid.
Using the tip of a pen, he carefully removed the inlaid Rose on top and
revealed the text beneath it. Sub Rosa, he mused, hoping a fresh look at the
text would bring clarity. Focusing all his energies, Langdon studied the
strange text.
After several
seconds, he began to feel the initial frustration resurfacing. Leigh, I just
cant seem to place it.
From where Sophie
was seated across the table, she could not yet see the text, but Langdons
inability to immediately identify the language surprised her. My grandfather
spoke a language so obscure that even a symbologist cant identify it? She
quickly realized she should not find this surprising. This would not be the
first secret Jacques Sauniere 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 dont know,
Langdon whispered intently. My first guess is a Semitic, but now Im 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 nekkudottiny dots and dashes written either below or within the
consonantsto 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 ancientsGreek, Latin, the Romancesbut 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.
Im astonished, he said. This language looks like nothing Ive ever seen!
Langdon slumped.
Might I see it?
Sophie asked.
Teabing pretended
not to hear her. Robert, you said earlier that you thought youd seen
something like this before?
Langdon looked
vexed. I thought so. Im 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 hadnt 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.
Youre 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. Im fluent. She leaned across the
table and fixed Teabing with an admonishing glare. And frankly, sir,
considering your allegiance to the Crown, Im a little surprised you didnt
recognize it.
In a flash,
Langdon knew.
No wonder the
script looks so damned familiar!
Several years
ago, Langdon had attended an event at Harvards Fogg Museum. Harvard dropout
Bill Gates had returned to his alma mater to lend to the museum one of his
priceless acquisitionseighteen sheets of paper he had recently purchased at
auction from the Armand Hammar Estate.
His winning bida
cool $30.8 million.
The author of the
pagesLeonardo da Vinci.
The eighteen
foliosnow known as Leonardos Codex Leicester after their famous owner, the
Earl of Leicesterwere all that remained of one of Leonardos most fascinating
notebooks: essays and drawings outlining Da Vincis 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
penmanshipcrimson ink on cream paperthe 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 mirrors surface.
Instantly it was
clear.
Langdon had been
so eager to peruse some of the great thinkers ideas that he had forgotten one
of the mans 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. Its English.
Teabing was still
sputtering. Whats going on?
Reverse text,
Langdon said. We need a mirror.
No we dont,
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 couldnt actually write in reverse, so he always cheated by
writing normally and then flipping the paper over and tracing the reversed
impression. Sophies 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 hed
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, Remy Legaludec strained to hear beyond the rumbling engines, but the
conversation up front was inaudible. Remy did not like the way the night was
progressing. Not at all. He looked down at the bound monk at his feet. The man
lay perfectly still now, as if in a trance of acceptance, or perhaps, in silent
prayer for deliverance.
CHAPTER 72
Fifteen thousand
feet in the air, Robert Langdon felt the physical world fade away as all of his
thoughts converged on Saunieres 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 scatterd 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 himthe 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 Voltairebold 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.
Its
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 Latinthe tongue of the
VaticanEnglish was linguistically removed from Romes 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 wisdomselections from mystic chants, astrological
prophecies, secret society inductions, Wicca incantations, Egyptian magic
spells, pagan mantrasthe 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, youre 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. Its possible the poem is referencing a gravestone
the Templars praised at the tomb of Magdalene, but that doesnt help us much
because we have no idea where her tomb is.
The last line,
Sophie said, says that Atbash will reveal the truth. Ive heard that word.
Atbash.
Im 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 Sophies 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 dont 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 Langdons face that finding the Templar headstone would
be no small feat.
Atbash is the
key, Sophie thought. But we dont have a door.
It was three
minutes later that Teabing heaved a frustrated sigh and shook his head. My
friends, Im stymied. Let me ponder this while I get us some nibblies and check
on Remy 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 grandfathers 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 Teabings and Langdons
confidence that the truth lay just within the marble cylinder, Sophie had
solved enough of her grandfathers treasure hunts to know that Jacques Sauniere
did not give up his secrets easily.
CHAPTER 73
Bourget
Airfields 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.
Teabings jet,
Bezu Fache blared, marching into the small tower, where did it go?
The controllers
initial response was a babbling, lame attempt to protect the privacy of their
British clientone of the airfields 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 nations 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 dont 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 theyre going to Biggin Hill, how long until they land?
The controller
fumbled through his records. Its 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. Im going to London. And
get me the Kent local police. Not British MI5. I want this quiet. Kent local .
Tell them I want Teabings plane to be permitted to land. Then I want it
surrounded on the tarmac. Nobody deplanes until I get there.
CHAPTER 74
Youre quiet,
Langdon said, gazing across the Hawkers cabin at Sophie.
Just tired, she
replied. And the poem. I dont 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 hed 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 theres something he wanted me to explain to you.
The history of
the Holy Grail and Mary Magdalene isnt enough?
Langdon felt
uncertain how to proceed. The rift between you. The reason you havent 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 havent told you what drove us apart.
Langdon eyed her
carefully. You witnessed a sex rite. Didnt 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 havent spoken to him
since. I know a fair amount about secret societies. It doesnt 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?
Id rather not.
She turned suddenly back to Langdon, her eyes welling with emotion. I dont
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. Its 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 gnosisknowledge of the divine. Since the days of Isis, sex
rites had been considered mans 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, its important to remember that the ancients view of sex was
entirely opposite from ours today. Sex begot new lifethe ultimate miracleand
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 spiritmale and femalethrough 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.
Its 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. Langdons 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 Solomons Temple
housed not only God but also His powerful female equal, Shekinah. Men seeking
spiritual wholeness came to the Temple to visit priestessesor hieroduleswith
whom they made love and experienced the divine through physical union. The
Jewish tetragrammaton YHWHthe sacred name of Godin 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, mankinds 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
naturala cherished route to spiritual fulfillmentand 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 worldmany of them quite influentialstill practiced sex rites and
kept the ancient traditions alive. Tom Cruises 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
therea 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 hed 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
youre 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.
Sophies forehead
felt cold as she pressed it against the planes 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 grandfathers Normandy chateau . . .
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.
Im dreaming,
Sophie told herself. This is a dream. What else could this be?
The women and men
were staggered, black, white, black, white. The womens 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 pere! 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 chantingmaking love to Sophies grandfather.
Sophie wanted to
turn and run, but she couldnt. The stone walls of the grotto imprisoned her as
the chanting rose to a fever pitch. The circle of participants seemed almost to
be singing now, the noise rising in crescendo to a frenzy. With a sudden roar,
the entire room seemed to erupt in climax. Sophie could not breathe. She
suddenly realized she was quietly sobbing. She turned and staggered silently up
the stairs, out of the house, and drove trembling back to Paris.
CHAPTER 75
The chartered
turboprop was just passing over the twinkling lights of Monaco when Aringarosa
hung up on Fache for the second time. He reached for the airsickness bag again
but felt too drained even to be sick.
Just let it be
over!
Faches 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. Youre 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
Its 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.
Its 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 bishops 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,
Aringarosas moment of glory was in shambles.
It had all begun
as a holy cause. A brilliantly crafted scheme. Now, like a house of cards, it
was collapsing in on itself . . . and the end was nowhere in sight.
CHAPTER 76
Langdon could see
Sophie was still shaken from recounting her experience of Hieros Gamos. For his
part, Langdon was amazed to have heard it. Not only had Sophie witnessed the
full blown ritual, but her own grandfather had been the celebrant . . . the
Grand Master of the Priory of Sion. It was heady company. Da Vinci, Botticelli,
Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo, Jean Cocteau . . . Jacques Sauniere.
I dont know
what else I can tell you, Langdon said softly.
Sophies 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 isnt 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 wouldnt 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 wont believe this, he said, turning to the
others. The Templar headstoneI figured it out.
Teabings 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, youre 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. Baphomets 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 Baphomets 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 Churchs 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 Baphomets
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 friends head in the V symbol of
horns; certainly few of the pranksters realized their mocking gesture was in
fact advertising their victims robust sperm count.
Yes, yes,
Teabing was saying excitedly. Baphomet must be what the poem is referring to.
A headstone praised by Templars.
Okay, Sophie
said, but if Baphomet is the headstone praised by Templars, then we have a new
dilemma. She pointed to the dials on the cryptex. Baphomet has eight letters.
We only have room for five.
Teabing grinned
broadly. My dear, this is where the Atbash Cipher comes into play
CHAPTER 77
Langdon was
impressed. Teabing had just finished writing out the entire twenty two letter
Hebrew alphabetalef beitfrom memory. Granted, hed 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. Ill sketch in the missing vowels for claritys 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.
Theres 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
Sophies 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 Jeremiahthe 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.
Were 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.
Langdons heart
pounded. B P V M Th . The sun was pouring through the windows now. He looked at
Sophies 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.
Langdons head
snapped up.
Whats wrong?
Sophie demanded.
You wont
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 didnt
recognize it either.
Teabings 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 cant be the password, she
argued. The cryptex doesnt 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.
Teabings smile
never faded. Look at the poem again. Your grandfather wrote, 'An ancient word
of wisdom.'
Yes?
Teabing winked.
In ancient Greek, wisdom is spelled S O F I A.
CHAPTER 78
Sophie felt a
wild excitement as she cradled the cryptex and began dialing in the letters. An
ancient word of wisdom frees this scroll . Langdon and Teabing seemed to have
stopped breathing as they looked on.
S . . . O . . . F
. . .
Carefully,
Teabing urged. Ever so carefully.
. . .I . . . A.
Sophie aligned
the final dial. Okay, she whispered, glancing up at the others. Im 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, Sophies 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. Sophies 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 objectthe vial of vinegar, she assumed. Strangely, though, the
paper around the vinegar was not the customary delicate papyrus but rather,
vellum. Thats odd, she thought, vinegar cant 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.
Whats 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.
Thats not
papyrus, Teabing said. Its too heavy.
I know. Its
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 Sauniere 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. Saunieres 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.
Whitefemale.
Blackmale.
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.
Youll be
pleased to hear that at least were 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 Teabings 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 knights tomb, somewhere in the city.
Langdon turned
excitedly to Teabing. Do you have any idea what knight this poem is referring
to?
Teabing grinned.
Not the foggiest. But I know in precisely which crypt we should look.
At that moment,
fifteen miles ahead of them, six Kent police cars streaked down rain soaked
streets toward Biggin Hill Executive Airport.
CHAPTER 79
Lieutenant Collet
helped himself to a Perrier from Teabings 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
Chateau 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 melange.
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 Brits 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 cathedralthe 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 cathedrals long
hollow nave as a secret pagan tribute to a womans womb. This was strange. The
notation describing the cathedrals doorway, however, was what startled him.
Hold on! He thinks a cathedrals entrance represents a womans . . .
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
SecretsNumber 4 lm1 249
Whats this?
Collet asked.
No idea. Hes
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
Gisors
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
Prieure de Sion?
Collet wondered.
Lieutenant?
Another agent stuck his head in. The switchboard has an urgent call for
Captain Fache, but they cant reach him. Will you take it?
Collet returned
to the kitchen and took the call.
It was Andre
Vernet.
The bankers
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 mans voice, but he couldnt
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 Colletthe 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, Andre Vernet.
CHAPTER 80
Seat belts,
please, Teabings pilot announced as the Hawker 731 descended into a gloomy
morning drizzle. Well 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 Remy 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, Ill tell him Im traveling with a French celebrity
who prefers that nobody knows she is in Englandpress considerations, you
knowand Ill offer the official this generous tip as gratitude for his
discretion.
Langdon looked
amazed. And the official will accept?
Not from anyone,
they wont, but these people all know me. Im not an arms dealer, for heavens
sake. I was knighted. Teabing smiled. Membership has its privileges.
Remy approached
up the aisle now, the Heckler Koch pistol cradled in his hand. Sir, my
agenda?
Teabing glanced
at his servant. Im going to have you stay onboard with our guest until we
return. We cant 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 Remy.
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 Remy 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 Im 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. Theyve got some kind of maintenance
problem out near your hangar, and theyre 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. Were 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.
Remy 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 Im his man.
Either that,
Sophie said, or he is too deep into this to admit his error.
Teabing was not
listening. Regardless of Faches mind set, action needed to be taken fast.
Dont lose sight of the ultimate goal. The Grail. Were 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 theyre 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! Were all in this together.
Maybe a
different airport? Sophie said.
Teabing shook his
head. If we pull up now, by the time we get clearance anywhere else, our
welcoming party will include army tanks.
Sophie slumped.
Teabing sensed
that if they were to have any chance of postponing confrontation with the
British authorities long enough to find the Grail, bold action had to be taken.
Give me a minute, he said, hobbling toward the cockpit.
What are you
doing? Langdon asked.
Sales meeting,
Teabing said, wondering how much it would cost him to persuade his pilot to
perform one highly irregular maneuver.
CHAPTER 81
The Hawker is on
final approach.
Simon
EdwardsExecutive Services Officer at Biggin Hill Airportpaced 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 days 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
organicsmostly luxury foodsFrench escargots, a particularly ripe unprocessed
Roquefort, certain fruits. Many customs laws were absurd, anyway, and if Biggin
Hill didnt accommodate its clients, certainly competing airfields would.
Teabing was provided with what he wanted here at Biggin Hill, and the employees
reaped the benefits.
Edwardss nerves
felt frayed now as he watched the jet coming in. He wondered if Teabings
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 Hawkers pilot and order him directly to the terminal
rather than to the clients 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 planes
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 Hawkers 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 Teabings 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 Teabings 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 Hawkers
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 pilots 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 planes 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 policemens 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. Weve had a gas leak and your pilot said he was
coming to the terminal.
Yes, yes, well,
I told him to come here instead. Im late for an appointment. I pay for this
hangar, and this rubbish about avoiding a gas leak sounded overcautious.
Im afraid your
arrival has taken us a bit off guard, sir.
I know. Im off
my schedule, I am. Between you and me, the new medication gives me the tinkles.
Thought Id 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. Im 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 Teabings 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.
Teabings
manservant Remy 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. Remy
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. Ill bring the car.
Remy started down the stairs.
Im 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 heavens sake, this is ridiculous! We
dont have anyone else on board. Just the usualRemy, 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 planes
occupants in an effort to keep Teabings business at Biggin Hill. I will look
myself.
Teabing shook his
head. No you wont, 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.
Teabings
demeanor turned frosty. Inspector, Im afraid I dont have time to indulge in
your games. Im late, and Im leaving. If it is that important to you to stop
me, youll just have to shoot me. With that, Teabing and Remy 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 Teabings 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. Im 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 planes
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.
Teabings 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,
Teabings 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, Remy 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 limos 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 limos 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 knights tomb . . .
CHAPTER 82
Fleet Street?
Langdon asked, eyeing Teabing in the back of the limo. Theres a crypt on Fleet
Street? So far, Leigh was being playfully cagey about where he thought they
would find the knights 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
planes 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 labors 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 poems final referenceRosy flesh and seeded
wombwas 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. Its
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, thats 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 1307unlucky Friday the thirteenthwhen
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
heavens sake! The church built in London by the Priorys military armthe
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 hed 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 Solomons 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 Churchs unusual sanctuary. The Temple Church is on Fleet Street?
Actually, its
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.
Im not
surprised, Teabing said. The church is hidden now behind much larger
buildings. Few people even know its 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 historians
mirthful air faded. Im not sure. Its 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 passwordsGRAIL, GRAAL, GREAL, VENUS, MARIA, JESUS, SARAHbut the
cylinder had not budged. Far too obvious . Apparently there existed some other
five letter reference to the Roses 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? Remy
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.
Im sorry. Im
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 its 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
Remy.
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 . Leighs
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 Langdons name scrawled on the Louvre floor and in Saunieres date
book, Langdon now appeared to have lied about his manuscript and then run away.
At Sophies suggestion.
Robert, Im
sorry youre so deeply involved, Sophie said, placing her hand on his knee.
But Im very glad youre 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. Im a lot more
fun when Ive slept.
Sophie was silent
for several seconds. My grandfather asked me to trust you. Im glad I listened
to him for once.
Your grandfather
didnt even know me.
Even so, I cant
help but think youve 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
Eyea 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 Sophies 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.
Im 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.
Thats 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
femininetracing her iconography throughout history. I certainly didnt presume
to know where the Grail is hidden or whether it should ever be revealed.
And yet youre
writing a book about it, so you obviously feel the information should be
shared.
Theres 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 faithacceptance 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?
Im a historian.
Im 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.
Youre 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.
Thats not fair.
A moment passed.
What was your
question again? Langdon asked.
I cant
remember.
He smiled. Works
every time.
CHAPTER 83
Langdons 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.
Londons 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 Romes 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.
Its early on a
Saturday, Teabing said, hobbling toward the entrance, so Im assuming we
wont have services to deal with.
The churchs
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 dont open to sightseers for another couple of
hours. He moved to the door and tried it. The door didnt 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. Cant 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 Churchs 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 youre not in sales, young man, youre not very
convincing. Where is Father Knowles?
Its Saturday.
Hes not due in until later.
The crippled
mans scowl deepened. Theres gratitude. He assured us he would be here, but
it looks like well do it without him. It wont take long.
The altar boy
remained blocking the doorway. Im sorry, what wont take long?
The visitors
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 Wrens descendants bring a pinch of the old mans 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 isnt open yet, and Im not
finished hoovering.
The man on
crutches glared angrily. Young man, the only reason theres anything left of
this building for you to hoover is on account of the gentleman in that womans
pocket.
Im 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 weve 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.
Teabings eyes
twinkled. Oxford Theatre Club. They still talk of my Julius Caesar. Im
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 Magdalenes sarcophagus? It gives me gooseflesh.
Langdon was
feeling gooseflesh too as they stepped into the circular chamber. His eye
traced the curvature of the chambers 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 uniquedifferent armory pieces, distinct leg and arm
positions, facial features, and markings on their shields.
In London lies a
knight a Pope interred.
Langdon felt
shaky as he inched deeper into the circular room.
This had to be
the place.
CHAPTER 84
In a rubbish
strewn alley very close to Temple Church, Remy 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 limousines main cabin where the monk was.
Sensing Remys
presence, the monk in the back emerged from a prayer like trance, his red eyes
looking more curious than fearful. All evening Remy had been impressed with
this trussed mans 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, Remy unbuttoned his high, starched, wing tipped collar and felt as if he
could breathe for the first time in years. He went to the limousines 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, Remy 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.
Remy turned and faced Silas, holding up the glimmering blade.
Now those red
eyes flashed fear.
Remy smiled and
moved toward the back of the limousine. The monk recoiled, struggling against
his bonds.
Be still, Remy
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 Gods 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 disorientationthe bodys
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.
Silass 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 Chateau Villette, and then at Biggin Hill airport, this was
the first possible moment. You understand, dont 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?
Remy 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 Remy.
Silas was amazed.
I dont understand. If you work for the Teacher, why did Langdon bring the
keystone to your home?
Not my home. The
home of the worlds foremost Grail historian, Sir Leigh Teabing.
But you live
there. The odds . . .
Remy smiled,
seeming to have no trouble with the apparent coincidence of Langdons 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 Teabings research. It was brilliant.
There is much I
have to tell you, Remy 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 inspectors account of what had happened in Teabings 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 Teabings 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 Langdons full attention during the flight
to London.
Open the safe,
Fache demanded.
The pilot looked
terrified. I dont know the combination!
Thats too bad.
I was going to offer to let you keep your pilots 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 polices blunder could cost me dearly . Everyone was now on the
lookout for a black Jaguar limousine.
Faches phone
rang, and he wished for a moments peace. Allo?
Im en route to
London. It was Bishop Aringarosa. Ill 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.
Aringarosas
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. Im his only passenger, but our redirect was
unscheduled.
Tell him to come
to Biggin Hill Executive Airport in Kent. Ill get him clearance. If Im not
here when you land, Ill have a car waiting for you.
Thank you.
As I expressed
when we first spoke, Bishop, you would do well to remember that you are not the
only man on the verge of losing everything.
CHAPTER 85
You seek the orb
that ought be on his tomb.
Each of the
carved knights within the Temple Church lay on his back with his head resting
on a rectangular stone pillow. Sophie felt a chill. The poems reference to an
orb conjured images of the night in her grandfathers 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 Teabings 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 differencetheir 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 labors 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. Theres 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 isnt this
knight shown? Langdon asked.
Fascinating,
Teabing said, stroking his chin. I had forgotten about this oddity. Its 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 churchs 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 familys
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.
Youre
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 boys
expression turned even more skeptical. These are not tombs.
Im 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 dont know. I always thought . . . certainly, this must be the
place. I cant 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 Sauniere 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. Im sorry, he
called out, passing a large pillar, were 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 boys 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 boys forehead.
The altar boy
felt his groin grow hot and realized he had wet himself.
Listen
carefully, the tuxedoed man whispered. You will exit this church silently,
and you will run. You will not stop. Is that clear?
The boy nodded as
best he could with the hand over his mouth.
If you call the
police . . . The tuxedoed man pressed the gun to his skin. I will find you.
The next thing
the boy knew, he was sprinting across the outside courtyard with no plans of
stopping until his legs gave out.
CHAPTER 86
Like a ghost,
Silas drifted silently behind his target. Sophie Neveu sensed him too late.
Before she could turn, Silas pressed the gun barrel into her spine and wrapped
a powerful arm across her chest, pulling her back against his hulking body. She
yelled in surprise. Teabing and Langdon both turned now, their expressions
astonished and fearful.
What . . . ?
Teabing choked out. What did you do to Remy!
Your only
concern, Silas said calmly, is that I leave here with the keystone. This
recovery mission, as Remy 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?
Its over here,
Langdons 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 Langdons 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.
Youre wrong.
You want it much more. Youve proven youre willing to kill for it.
Forty feet away,
peering out from the annex pews near the archway, Remy 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 Teachers orders, Remy
had forbidden Silas to fire his gun.
Let them go,
Langdon again demanded, holding the cryptex high over his head and staring into
Silass gun.
The monks red
eyes filled with anger and frustration, and Remy tightened with fear that Silas
might actually shoot Langdon while he was holding the cryptex. The cryptex
cannot fall!
The cryptex was
to be Remys 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 Chateau
Villette, catering to the whims of the insufferable cripple Sir Leigh Teabing.
Then he was approached with an extraordinary proposition. Remys association
with Sir Leigh Teabingthe preeminent Grail historian on earthwas going to
bring Remy everything he had ever dreamed of in life. Since then, every moment
he had spent inside Chateau Villette had been leading him to this very instant.
I am so close,
Remy told himself, gazing into the sanctuary of the Temple Church and the
keystone in Robert Langdons hand. If Langdon dropped it, all would be lost.
Am I willing to
show my face? It was something the Teacher had strictly forbidden. Remy was the
only one who knew the Teachers identity.
Are you certain
you want Silas to carry out this task? Remy 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, Remy thought. With what youve 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 freeanother unrecognizable, beautiful face soaking
up the sun on the beach. Understood, Remy said. I will assist Silas from the
shadows.
For your own
knowledge, Remy, 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.
Remy 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.
Remy didnt give
a damn about the Grail, except that the Teacher refused to pay him until it was
found. Remy felt giddy every time he thought of the money he soon would have.
One third of twenty million euro. Plenty to disappear forever . Remy had
pictured the beach towns on the Cote 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,
Remys future was at risk. Unable to bear the thought of coming this close only
to lose it all, Remy 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, Remy marched into the circular chamber and aimed the gun directly at
Teabings head. Old man, Ive been waiting a long time to do this.
Sir Leigh
Teabings heart practically stalled to see Remy 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.
Remy? Teabing
sputtered in shock. What is going on?
Langdon and
Sophie looked equally dumbstruck.
Remy 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. Remy, I dont
Ill make it
simple, Remy snapped, eyeing Langdon over Teabings 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,
Remy 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?
Remy 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 lifes work evaporating before his eyes. All
his dreams about to be shattered.
Robert, no!
Teabing exclaimed. Dont! Thats the Grail youre holding! Remy would never
shoot me. Weve known each other for ten
Remy 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, Remy 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
Remys 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.
Were taking Mr.
Teabing for a drive, Remy 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.
Remy laughed. I
dont 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 Remy pulled Leigh toward the
exit, his crutches dragging behind him.
Sophies voice
was unwavering. Who are you working for?
The question
brought a smirk to the departing Remys face. You would be surprised,
Mademoiselle Neveu.
CHAPTER 87
The fireplace in
Chateau Villettes drawing room was cold, but Collet paced before it
nonetheless as he read the faxes from Interpol.
Not at all what
he expected.
Andre Vernet,
according to official records, was a model citizen. No police recordnot even a
parking ticket. Educated at prep school and the Sorbonne, he had a cum laude
degree in international finance. Interpol said Vernets 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. Vernets
credit card records showed a penchant for art books, expensive wine, and
classical CDsmostly Brahmswhich 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 Teabings 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 Remy 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 agents 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
wasnt 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 wouldnt 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.
Collets eyes
climbed the ladders 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. Youll 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.
Its over
there, the PTS agent said, pointing deep into the immaculately clean loft.
Only one set of prints up here. Well 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 workstationtwo 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?
Its 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 hes doing. A lot of this gear is as
sophisticated as our own equipment. Miniature microphones, photoelectric
recharging cells, high capacity RAM chips. Hes even got some of those new nano
drives.
Collet was
impressed.
Heres 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.
Collets 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. Its the strangest thing . . .
CHAPTER 88
Langdon felt
utterly spent as he and Sophie hurdled a turnstile at the Temple tube station
and dashed deep into the grimy labyrinth of tunnels and platforms. The guilt
ripped through him.
I involved Leigh,
and now hes in enormous danger.
Remys
involvement had been a shock, and yet it made sense. Whoever was pursuing the
Grail had recruited someone on the inside. They went to Teabings 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 Remys 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, Sophies
logic began to make sense. Teabing was safe at the moment. Even if Remy and the
others knew where the knights tomb was located, they still might need
Teabings 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, Remy has a big head
start.
Slowing Remy down
had become Sophies task.
Finding the right
tomb had become Langdons.
Sophie would make
Remy and Silas fugitives of the London police, forcing them into hiding or,
better yet, catching them. Langdons plan was less certainto take the tube to
nearby Kings 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,
Sophies call finally connected to the London police.
Snow Hill
Division, the dispatcher said. How may I direct your call?
Im 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 Teabings captors. A man in a tuxedo . How much easier to
identify could a suspect be? Even if Remy 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.
Sophies
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.
Sophies 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 Sauniere 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 Im 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?
Faches 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. Ive 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 Remy Legaludec, Sophie said. He is Teabings servant. He just kidnapped
Teabing inside the Temple Church and
Agent Neveu!
Fache bellowed as the train thundered into the station. This is not something
to discuss on an open line. You and Langdon will come in now. For your own well
being! That is a direct order!
Sophie hung up
and dashed with Langdon onto the train.
CHAPTER 89
The immaculate
cabin of Teabings 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 Teabings 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 jets window at the hangar, pondering his
brief conversation with Sophie, as well as the information hed received from
PTS in Chateau 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?
Vernets 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 Neveus 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 banks reputation, are
in the safest of hands.
CHAPTER 90
High in the
hayloft at Chateau 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
SOSTAQUEChairman of the Conseil Constitutionnel
JEAN CHAFFeECurator,
Musee du Jeu de Paume
EDOUARD
DESROCHERSSenior Archivist, Mitterrand Library
JACQUES
SAUNIeRECurator, Musee du Louvre
MICHEL
BRETONHead 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 Sauniere 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. Heres
one of the most recent. The agent clicked a few computer keys. The speakers
crackled to life. Capitaine, un agent du Departement de Cryptographie est
arriv e.
Collet could not
believe his ears. Thats me! Thats my voice! He recalled sitting at
Saunieres desk and radioing Fache in the Grand Gallery to alert him of Sophie
Neveus 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 Saunieres desk!
Collets eyes
moved to the margins, where someone had scribbled notes on the photocopy in red
felt tipped marker. The notes were in French and appeared to be ideas outlining
how best to insert a listening device into the knight.
CHAPTER 91
Silas sat in the
passenger seat of the parked Jaguar limousine near the Temple Church. His hands
felt damp on the keystone as he waited for Remy to finish tying and gagging
Teabing in back with the rope they had found in the trunk.
Finally, Remy
climbed out of the rear of the limo, walked around, and slid into the drivers
seat beside Silas.
Secure? Silas
asked.
Remy 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. Hes not going anywhere.
Silas could hear
Teabings muffled cries and realized Remy had used some of the old duct tape to
gag him.
Ferme ta
gueule! Remy shouted over his shoulder at Teabing. Reaching to a control panel
on the elaborate dash, Remy pressed a button. An opaque partition raised behind
them, sealing off the back. Teabing disappeared, and his voice was silenced.
Remy glanced at Silas. Ive been listening to his miserable whimpering long
enough.
Minutes later, as
the Jaguar stretch limo powered through the streets, Silass cell phone rang.
The Teacher . He answered excitedly. Hello?
Silas, the
Teachers 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 Remy with you?
Silas was
surprised to hear the Teacher use Remys name. Yes. Remy 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 Remy to bring it to me.
Remy? 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 Remy?
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 youa man of God rather than a
criminalbut Remy 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 Remy. 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 Remy
to bring me the keystone. Do you understand?
Silas sensed
anger in the Teachers voice and was surprised the man was not more
understanding. Showing his face could not be avoided, Silas thought. Remy 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. Its
time I speak to Remy.
Silas handed Remy
the phone, sensing it might be the last call Remy Legaludec ever took.
As Remy 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.
Remy still
marveled at the Teachers powers of persuasion. Bishop Aringarosa had trusted
everything. He had been blinded by his own desperation. Aringarosa was far too
eager to believe . Although Remy did not particularly like the Teacher, he felt
pride at having gained the mans 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. Jamess Park. It is adjacent
to Parliament and Big Ben. You can park the limousine on Horse Guards Parade.
Well talk there.
With that, the
connection went dead.
CHAPTER 92
Kings 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.
Kings 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 ita 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 librarians
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 didnt know you
were coming.
Neither did we.
If its 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 youre the guest of someone at the college?
Langdon shook his
head. Im afraid weve 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, its 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, wouldnt you say? A regular Don Quixote, that one.
Is there any
chance you can help us? Sophie asked. Its quite important.
Gettum glanced
around the deserted library and then winked at them both. Well, I cant very
well claim Im too busy, now can I? As long as you sign in, I cant imagine
anyone being too upset. What did you have in mind?
Were trying to
find a tomb in London.
Gettum looked
dubious. Weve got about twenty thousand of them. Can you be a little more
specific?
Its the tomb of
a knight . We dont have a name.
A knight. That
tightens the net substantially. Much less common.
We dont have
much information about the knight were 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 knights 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 labors fruit
a Holy wrath incurred.
She glanced at
her guests. What is this? Some kind of Harvard scavenger hunt?
Langdons 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 lets see what we can pull up
in the database.
Over the past two
decades, Kings 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 textsencyclopedias
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,
well 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. Im asking the system to show us any
documents whose complete text contains all three of these keywords. Well get
more hits than we want, but its 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 youre 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? Theres 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
Langdons experience in Rome last year. This American had been granted access
to the most secure library on earththe 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 Id 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 its 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. Ill play along. If this is a Grail related issue,
we should cross reference against Grail keywords. Ill 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? Gettums eyes glimmered as
she clicked the SEARCH key. A mere fifteen minutes.
Langdon and
Sophie said nothing, but Gettum sensed this sounded like an eternity to them.
Tea? Gettum
asked, standing and walking toward the pot she had made earlier. Leigh always
loves my tea.
CHAPTER 93
Londons 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, Remy
had dropped him off a short distance away in order to keep the limousine off
the main streets. Silas didnt mind the walk. The rain was cleansing.
At Remys
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 Remy 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 Remy as they drove over here.
Remy 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 Silass 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. Weve
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. Dont say a word to anyone. Im
sending officers over right away.
CHAPTER 94
St. Jamess Park
is a sea of green in the middle of London, a public park bordering the palaces
of Westminster, Buckingham, and St. Jamess. Once enclosed by King Henry VIII
and stocked with deer for the hunt, St. Jamess Park is now open to the public.
On sunny afternoons, Londoners picnic beneath the willows and feed the ponds
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 themhundreds 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 knights tombthe real reason he had told Remy to come
to this spot.
As the Teacher
approached the front passenger door of the parked limousine, Remy 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 Remy and
closed the door.
Remy held up the
keystone like a trophy. It was almost lost.
You have done
well, the Teacher said.
We have done
well, Remy replied, laying the keystone in the Teachers 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 Remy. Lets toast
our success. The end is near.
Remy accepted the
bottle gratefully. The cognac tasted salty, but Remy didnt 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 Remy gazed down the
embankment at the duck pond below, Chateau Villette seemed miles away.
Taking another
swig from the flask, Remy could feel the cognac warming his blood. The warmth
in Remys throat, however, mutated quickly to an uncomfortable heat. Loosening
his bow tie, Remy tasted an unpleasant grittiness and handed the flask back to
the Teacher. Ive probably had enough, he managed, weakly.
Taking the flask,
the Teacher said, Remy, 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, Remy felt a surge of fear, but the Teacher simply slipped it in
his trousers pocket.
What is he doing?
Remy 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
Remys 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.
Im being
murdered!
Incredulous, Remy
turned to see the Teacher sitting calmly beside him, staring straight ahead out
the windshield. Remys 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 Remy all along or whether it had been Remys actions in the
Temple Church that had made the Teacher lose faith, Remy would never know.
Terror and rage coursed through him now. Remy tried to lunge for the Teacher,
but his stiffening body could barely move. I trusted you with everything!
Remy 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. Remy 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, Remy 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. Remy sealed his own fate . The Teacher had
feared all along that Remy might need to be eliminated when the mission was
complete, but by brazenly showing himself in the Temple Church, Remy had
accelerated the necessity dramatically. Robert Langdons unexpected visit to
Chateau 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. Remys prints were all over Chateau Villette, as well as in the
barns listening post, where Remy had carried out the surveillance. The Teacher
was grateful he had taken so much care in preventing any ties between Remys
activities and his own. Nobody could implicate the Teacher unless Remy 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. Jamess 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 Saunieres
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 poems reference to the knight was brutally simple once one
saw ita credit to Saunieres witand 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 Londons
grandest nine hundred year old building.
Just as the
Teacher was stepping out of the rain, Bishop Aringarosa was stepping into it.
On the rainy tarmac at Biggin Hill Executive Airport, Aringarosa emerged from
his cramped plane, bundling his cassock against the cold damp. He had hoped to
be greeted by Captain Fache. Instead a young British police officer approached
with an umbrella.
Bishop
Aringarosa? Captain Fache had to leave. He asked me to look after you. He
suggested I take you to Scotland Yard. He thought it would be safest.
Safest?
Aringarosa looked down at the heavy briefcase of Vatican bonds clutched in his
hand. He had almost forgotten. Yes, thank you.
Aringarosa
climbed into the police car, wondering where Silas could be. Minutes later, the
police scanner crackled with the answer.
5 Orme Court.
Aringarosa
recognized the address instantly.
The Opus Dei
Centre in London.
He spun to the
driver. Take me there at once!
CHAPTER 95
Langdons 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. Whats 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 dont 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 Popes
opera anthology divas . . .
. . .Wagners
tomb in bayreuth, germany . . .
Wrong Pope,
Langdon said, disappointed. Even so, he was amazed by the systems ease of use.
The keywords with context were enough to remind him that Wagners 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. Its a numbers game. Let the machine run.
Over the next few
minutes, the computer returned several more Grail references, including a text
about troubadoursFrances 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 Ladya 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. Im 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.
Thats 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
suitsspades, hearts, clubs, diamondswere Grail related symbols that came
directly from Tarots four suits of swords, cups, scepters, and pentacles.
Spades were
SwordsThe blade. Male.
Hearts were
CupsThe chalice. Feminine.
Clubs were
SceptersThe Royal Line. The flowering staff.
Diamonds were
PentaclesThe 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 dont tell me its 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. Lets 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. Its 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. Theres no way a Catholic Pope was present. Cream and
sugar?
Sophie nodded.
Gettum waited.
Robert?
Langdons 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
Newtons 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 Sauniere,
the master of double entendres, had proven once again that he was a
frighteningly clever man.
CHAPTER 96
Silas awoke with
a start.
He had no idea
what had awoken him or how long he had been asleep. Was I dreaming? Sitting up
now on his straw mat, he listened to the quiet breathing of the Opus Dei
residence hall, the stillness textured only by the soft murmurs of someone
praying aloud in a room below him. These were familiar sounds and should have
comforted him.
And yet he felt a
sudden and unexpected wariness.
Standing, wearing
only his undergarments, Silas walked to the window. Was I followed? The
courtyard below was deserted, exactly as he had seen it when he entered. He
listened. Silence. So why am I uneasy? Long ago Silas had learned to trust his
intuition. Intuition had kept him alive as a child on the streets of Marseilles
long before prison . . . long before he was born again by the hand of Bishop
Aringarosa. Peering out the window, he now saw the faint outline of a car
through the hedge. On the cars 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 Silass head, just as he connected
with the officers 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 womens 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, Silass broad, naked shoulder grinding into the mans sternum with
crushing force. He drove the officer backward onto the pavement, landing hard
on top of him. The officers gun clattered away. Silas could hear men running
down the hall shouting. Rolling, he grabbed the loose gun just as the officers
emerged. A shot rang out on the stairs, and Silas felt a searing pain below his
ribs. Filled with rage, he opened fire at all three officers, their blood
spraying.
A dark shadow
loomed behind, coming out of nowhere. The angry hands that grabbed at his bare
shoulders felt as if they were infused with the power of the devil himself. The
man roared in his ear. SILAS, NO!
Silas spun and
fired. Their eyes met. Silas was already screaming in horror as Bishop
Aringarosa fell.
CHAPTER 97
More than three
thousand people are entombed or enshrined within Westminster Abbey. The
colossal stone interior burgeons with the remains of kings, statesmen,
scientists, poets, and musicians. Their tombs, packed into every last niche and
alcove, range in grandeur from the most regal of mausoleumsthat of Queen
Elizabeth I, whose canopied sarcophagus inhabits its own private, apsidal
chapeldown to the most modest etched floor tiles whose inscriptions have worn
away with centuries of foot traffic, leaving it to ones 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 statefrom 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 abbeys ancient history, save
one eventthe 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 abbeys newest additiona large walk
through metal detectornow 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.
Langdons and
Sophies eyes, like those of almost every visitor, shifted immediately skyward,
where the abbeys 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.
Its 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 Langdons 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 Langdons
apprehension. If anyone is in here, they cant be armed.
Langdon nodded
but still felt circumspect. He had wanted to bring the London police with them,
but Sophies 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 couldnt 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 Teabinga modern
British knightwas 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 Louvres
Grand Gallery, it had a lone point of entrythe door through which they had
just passedeasy to find your way in, but impossible to find your way out. A
literal tourist trap, one of Langdons 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 dont 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 abbeys nave, the full
magnitude of the building now visible. Aah, she said. Lets 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.
Newtons 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 booksDivinity, Chronology, Opticks, and
Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica . At Newtons feet stood two
winged boys holding a scroll. Behind Newtons 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 Saunieres 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 bodiesconstellations, 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 simplea 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 Teachers
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
niches 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 Saunieres 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 poems meaning and
come to Newtons 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 abbeys metal detectors had blared as the
Teacher passed through with the concealed gun. Also as expected, the guards had
backed off at once when the Teacher glared indignantly and flashed his
identification card. Official rank always commanded the proper respect.
Although
initially the Teacher had hoped to solve the cryptex alone and avoid any
further complications, he now sensed that the arrival of Langdon and Neveu was
actually a welcome development. Considering the lack of success he was having
with the orb reference, he might be able to use their expertise. After all,
if Langdon had deciphered the poem to find the tomb, there was a reasonable
chance he also knew something about the orb. And if Langdon knew the password,
then it was just a matter of applying the right pressure.
Not here, of
course.
Somewhere
private.
The Teacher
recalled a small announcement sign he had seen on his way into the abbey.
Immediately he knew the perfect place to lure them.
The only question
now . . . what to use as bait.
CHAPTER 98
Langdon and
Sophie moved slowly down the north aisle, keeping to the shadows behind the
ample pillars that separated it from the open nave. Despite having traveled
more than halfway down the nave, they still had no clear view of Newtons tomb.
The sarcophagus was recessed in a niche, obscured from this oblique angle.
At least theres
nobody over there, Sophie whispered.
Langdon nodded,
relieved. The entire section of the nave near Newtons tomb was deserted. Ill
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. Newtons tomb was covered
with orbsstars, 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, werent 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 Priorys 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 Priorys plans to unveil the truth
about 'the Rose' and her fertile womb was linked directly to the position of
planetsorbs.
Langdon nodded,
feeling the first faint wisps of possibility materializing. Even so, his
intuition told him astronomy was not the key. The Grand Masters previous
solutions had all possessed an eloquent, symbolic significancethe Mona Lisa,
Madonna of the Rocks, SOFIA. This eloquence was definitely lacking in the
concept of planetary orbs and the zodiac. Thus far, Jacques Sauniere had proven
himself a meticulous code writer, and Langdon had to believe that his final
passwordthose five letters that unlocked the Priorys ultimate secretwould
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 Newtons outstretched
right foot.
Langdon did not
understand her concern. A careless tourist had left a charcoal, grave rubbing
pencil on the sarcophagus lid near Newtons foot. Its 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 Newtons 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 dont know the password either, he whispered.
Sophie nodded.
Otherwise why make their presence known?
They may want to
trade Leigh for the password.
Or its a trap.
Langdon shook his
head. I dont think so. The garden is outside the abbey walls. A very public
place. Langdon had once visited the abbeys famous College Gardena small
fruit orchard and herb gardenleft 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 Ill
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. Faiths
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
cloisters 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 abbeys 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. Faiths
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. Faiths 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 rooms 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 structurea
freestanding annex at the end of the long hallway to ensure the privacy of the
Parliament proceedings housed there.
It looks huge,
Sophie whispered as they approached.
Langdon had
forgotten just how large this room was. Even from outside the entrance, he
could gaze across the vast expanse of floor to the breathtaking windows on the
far side of the octagon, which rose five stories to a vaulted ceiling. They
would certainly have a clear view of the garden from in here.
Crossing the
threshold, both Langdon and Sophie found themselves having to squint. After the
gloomy cloisters, the Chapter House felt like a solarium. They were a good ten
feet into the room, searching the south wall, when they realized the door they
had been promised was not there.
They were
standing in an enormous dead end.
The creaking of a
heavy door behind them made them turn, just as the door closed with a resounding
thud and the latch fell into place.
The lone man who
had been standing behind the door looked calm as he aimed a small revolver at
them. He was portly and was propped on a pair of aluminum crutches.
For a moment
Langdon thought he must be dreaming.
It was Leigh
Teabing.
CHAPTER 99
Sir Leigh Teabing
felt rueful as he gazed out over the barrel of his Medusa revolver at Robert
Langdon and Sophie Neveu. My friends, he said, since the moment you walked
into my home last night, I have done everything in my power to keep you out of
harms way. But your persistence has now put me in a difficult position.
He could see the
expressions of shock and betrayal on Sophies and Langdons 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. Thats 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
Sauniere 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 grandfathers murder?
Teabing scoffed.
Your grandfather and his senechaux were traitors to the Grail.
Sophie felt a
fury rising from deep within. Hes lying!
Teabings 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
Sophies 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 Masters 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 untouchedthe Priorys Grand Master and his lone granddaughterthe
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 Sauniere 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 Priorys 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
Teabings 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 grandfathers
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. Sauniere 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
Saunieres 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
grandfathers 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 nowgetting 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
Chateau 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 Sophies 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. Im 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 didnt 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 Teabings
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 wont smash it right now?
Teabings 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
historythe 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 admireDa
Vinci, Botticelli, Newtoneach 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 Newtons 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 Remy and I eliminated you both when you walked into Chateau
Villette. Instead I risked everything to take the nobler course.
This is noble?
Langdon demanded, eyeing the gun.
Saunieres
fault, Teabing said. He and his senechaux 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 Sauniere 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 Chateau 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 Chateau Villettethus
removing you from the equation without hurting you, and exonerating me from any
suspicion of complicity. However, when I saw the intricacy of Saunieres 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. Remys orders had been clearstay out of sight while Silas
recovers the keystone. Unfortunately, Langdons threat to smash the keystone on
the chapel floor had caused Remy to panic. If only Remy had not revealed
himself, Teabing thought ruefully, recalling his own mock kidnapping. Remy was
the sole link to me, and he showed his face!
Fortunately,
Silas remained unaware of Teabings true identity and was easily fooled into
taking him from the church and then watching naively as Remy 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. Remy.
Teabing struggled
deeply with the decision, but in the end Remy had proven himself a liability.
Every Grail quest requires sacrifice . The cleanest solution had been staring
Teabing in the face from the limousines wet bara flask, some cognac, and a
can of peanuts. The powder at the bottom of the can would be more than enough
to trigger Remys deadly allergy. When Remy 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 Remy. 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 Teabings 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 solutionan 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 Priorys 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 knights allegiance to uncover the truth
and make it known.
Sophie stared
deep into Teabings eyes and spoke in a steely tone. I will never swear an
oath with my grandfathers murderer. Except an oath that I will see you go to
prison.
Teabings heart
turned grave, then resolute. I am sorry you feel that way, mademoiselle. He
turned and aimed the gun at Langdon. And you, Robert? Are you with me, or
against me?
CHAPTER 100
Bishop Manuel
Aringarosas 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, youre 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 lifes 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 Gandolfos 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 Aringarosas 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 Deis more controversial
practices.
Aringarosa felt
himself bristle instantly. He already had been through this on numerous
occasions with the new pontiff, who, to Aringarosas 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
Vaticans 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. Im 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, masstake your pickchoose 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 todays society.
Well, they seem
to be working for Opus Dei!
Bishop
Aringarosa, the secretariat said, his voice conclusive. Out of respect for
your organizations 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 Ill tell him that in person!
Im 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!
Im sorry. The
secretariats 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 Teachera title common in the
prelature. He said he knew of the Vaticans 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 Deis 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. Marys 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
Aringarosas pulse. Hes lost a lot of blood. I am not hopeful.
Aringarosas eyes
flickered, and he returned for a moment, his gaze locating Silas. My child . .
.
Silass 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 Silass hand
and gave it a firm squeeze. Forgiveness is Gods greatest gift.
But Father . .
.
Aringarosa closed
his eyes. Silas, you must pray.
CHAPTER 101
Robert Langdon
stood beneath the lofty cupola of the deserted Chapter House and stared into
the barrel of Leigh Teabings gun.
Robert, are you
with me, or against me? The Royal Historians words echoed in the silence of
Langdons 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.
Langdons 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 rooms 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. Thats
why he handed me the cryptex. So I could feel the weight of my decision . The
British historian hoped the touch of the Grand Masters 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 cryptexs 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 Newtons 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
Saunieres mind, he urged, gazing outward now into College Garden. What would
he believe is the orb that ought be on Newtons tomb? Images of stars, comets, and
planets twinkled in the falling rain, but Langdon ignored them. Sauniere 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 Britains 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 Sauniere. Listening in on the curator,
Teabing was certain the mans eagerness to meet privately with Langdon could
mean only one thing. Langdons mysterious manuscript has touched a nerve with
the Priory.
Langdon has
stumbled onto a truth, and Sauniere 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. Silass attack would accomplish two goals. It would prevent
Sauniere from persuading Langdon to keep quiet, and it would ensure that once
the keystone was in Teabings hands, Langdon would be in Paris for recruitment
should Teabing need him.
Arranging the
fatal meeting between Sauniere and Silas had been almost too easy. I had inside
information about Saunieres deepest fears . Yesterday afternoon, Silas had
phoned the curator and posed as a distraught priest. Monsieur Sauniere,
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.
Saunieres
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.
Sauniere fell
silent.
Monsieur
Sauniere, 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
Sophies name had been the catalyst. The curator leapt into action. He ordered
Silas to come see him immediately in the safest location Sauniere knewhis
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 wont 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 Newtons
tomb. Yes, I think I can find the password!
Teabings heart
soared. Where, Robert? Tell me!
Sophie sounded
horrified. Robert, no! Youre 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.
Teabings
optimism darkened. We are so close, Robert. Dont you dare start playing games
with me!
No games,
Langdon said. Let her go. Then Ill take you to Newtons tomb. Well open the
cryptex together.
Im 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! Youre in danger. Im trying to help you!
How? By
unveiling the secret my grandfather died trying to protect? He trusted you,
Robert. I trusted you!
Langdons blue
eyes showed panic now, and Teabing could not help but smile to see the two of
them working against one another. Langdons attempts to be gallant were more
pathetic than anything. On the verge of unveiling one of historys 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. Sophies 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 grandfathers 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 Remy. 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 Newtons tomb the answer lies .
Truly, Robert? You know where on the tomb to look?
I do.
The falter in
Langdons 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
well talk.
Langdon knew his
lie had failed.
He could see the
dark resolve in Teabings 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.
Langdons eyes
moved heavenward, up into the gaping void of the Chapter House cupola.
Crouching lower, Langdon lowered his gaze to Teabings gun, aimed directly at
him.
Im 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. Langdons crouched form was now vertical, almost airborne,
and the bullet exploded in the floor near Langdons feet. Half of Teabings
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 Teabings 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 Teabings
hopes and dreams were plummeting toward earth. It cannot strike the floor! I
can reach it! Teabings 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 Langdons 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 Newtons tomb could be none other than the Rosy apple that fell from
heaven, struck Newton on the head, and inspired his lifes work. His labors 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 Langdons face.
He knows!
Teabings heart craved that knowledge. His lifes dream was right in front of
him. Tell me! Teabing demanded. Please! Oh God, please! Its 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 targetLeigh Teabinghelpless 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 Faches 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.
Its in
Langdons 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 its hidden!
As Teabing
passed, Langdon looked him in the eye. Only the worthy find the Grail, Leigh.
You taught me that.
CHAPTER 102
The mist had
settled low on Kensington Gardens as Silas limped into a quiet hollow out of
sight. Kneeling on the wet grass, he could feel a warm stream of blood flowing
from the bullet wound below his ribs. Still, he stared straight ahead.
The fog made it
look like heaven here.
Raising his
bloody hands to pray, he watched the raindrops caress his fingers, turning them
white again. As the droplets fell harder across his back and shoulders, he
could feel his body disappearing bit by bit into the mist.
I am a ghost.
A breeze rustled
past him, carrying the damp, earthy scent of new life. With every living cell
in his broken body, Silas prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for
mercy. And, above all, he prayed for his mentor . . . Bishop Aringarosa . . .
that the Lord would not take him before his time. He has so much work left to
do.
The fog was
swirling around him now, and Silas felt so light that he was sure the wisps
would carry him away. Closing his eyes, he said a final prayer.
From somewhere in
the mist, the voice of Manuel Aringarosa whispered to him.
Our Lord is a
good and merciful God.
Silass pain at
last began to fade, and he knew the bishop was right.
CHAPTER 103
It was late
afternoon when the London sun broke through and the city began to dry. Bezu
Fache felt weary as he emerged from the interrogation room and hailed a cab.
Sir Leigh Teabing had vociferously proclaimed his innocence, and yet from his
incoherent rantings about the Holy Grail, secret documents, and mysterious
brotherhoods, Fache suspected the wily historian was setting the stage for his
lawyers to plead an insanity defense.
Sure, Fache
thought. Insane . Teabing had displayed ingenious precision in formulating a
plan that protected his innocence at every turn. He had exploited both the
Vatican and Opus Dei, two groups that turned out to be completely innocent. His
dirty work had been carried out unknowingly by a fanatical monk and a desperate
bishop. More clever still, Teabing had situated his electronic listening post
in the one place a man with polio could not possibly reach. The actual
surveillance had been carried out by his manservant, Remythe lone person privy
to Teabings true identitynow conveniently dead of an allergic reaction.
Hardly the
handiwork of someone lacking mental faculties, Fache thought.
The information
coming from Collet out of Chateau Villette suggested that Teabings cunning ran
so deep that Fache himself might even learn from it. To successfully hide bugs
in some of Pariss most powerful offices, the British historian had turned to
the Greeks. Trojan horses . Some of Teabings intended targets received lavish
gifts of artwork, others unwittingly bid at auctions in which Teabing had
placed specific lots. In Saunieres case, the curator had received a dinner
invitation to Chateau Villette to discuss the possibility of Teabings funding
a new Da Vinci Wing at the Louvre. Saunieres invitation had contained an
innocuous postscript expressing fascination with a robotic knight that Sauniere
was rumored to have built. Bring him to dinner, Teabing had suggested. Sauniere
apparently had done just that and left the knight unattended long enough for
Remy 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. Marys
Hospital recovery room was sunny.
Youve 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 Vaticans 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 shrewdlyfeigning a French accent and a pious heart, and
demanding as payment the one thing he did not needmoney. 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 Vaticans
separation payment to Opus Dei, the finances had worked nicely. The blind see
what they want to see . Teabings 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
youre well, My Lord.
Aringarosa
recognized the gruff voice in the doorway, but the face was unexpectedstern,
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 Aringarosas 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.
Faches 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
Collets 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 Id like to discussyour 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 applique.
Aringarosa felt
tears welling as he accepted the ring and slipped it back on his finger.
Youve been so kind. He held out his hand and clasped Faches. Thank you.
Fache waved off
the gesture, walking to the window and gazing out at the city, his thoughts
obviously far away. When he turned, there was an uncertainty about him. My
Lord, where do you go from here?
Aringarosa had
been asked the exact same question as he left Castel Gandolfo the night before.
I suspect my path is as uncertain as yours.
Yes. Fache
paused. I suspect I will be retiring early.
Aringarosa
smiled. A little faith can do wonders, Captain. A little faith.
CHAPTER 104
Rosslyn
Chapeloften called the Cathedral of Codesstands 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 chapels
geographic coordinates fall precisely on the north south meridian that runs
through Glastonbury. This longitudinal Rose Line is the traditional marker of
King Arthurs Isle of Avalon and is considered the central pillar of Britains
sacred geometry. It is from this hallowed Rose Line that Rosslynoriginally
spelled Roslintakes its name.
Rosslyns 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 Saunieres final message could not have been more
specific.
The Holy Grail
'neath ancient Roslin waits.
Langdon had
fantasized that Saunieres Grail map would be a diagrama drawing with an X
marks the spotand yet the Priorys final secret had been unveiled in the same
way Sauniere 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
chapels renowned architectural features.
Despite the
clarity of Saunieres 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
Grails presence. The whispers had turned to shouts in recent decades when
ground penetrating radar revealed the presence of an astonishing structure
beneath the chapela 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 decoyone of the devious dead ends the
Priory crafted so convincingly. Tonight, however, with the Priorys 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
Sauniere 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 coreminus 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
Solomons Temple.
The Knights
Templar had designed Rosslyn Chapel as an exact architectural blueprint of
Solomons Temple in Jerusalemcomplete 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 Grails original hiding
place.
Rosslyn Chapels
entrance was more modest than Langdon expected. The small wooden door had two
iron hinges and a simple, oak sign.
Roslin
This ancient
spelling, Langdon explained to Sophie, derived from the Rose Line meridian on
which the chapel sat; or, as Grail academics preferred to believe, from the
Line of Rosethe 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 Rosslyns arrestingly intricate
stonework, seeing it in person was an overwhelming encounter.
Symbology heaven,
one of Langdons colleagues had called it.
Every surface in
the chapel had been carved with symbolsChristian 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
days last tour. He was leading them in a single file line along a well known
route on the flooran 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 Solomons Seal,
this hexagram had once been the secret symbol of the stargazing priests and was
later adopted by the Israelite kingsDavid 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 . . . Ive been here.
Langdon was
surprised. But you said you hadnt even heard of Rosslyn.
I hadnt . . .
She scanned the sanctuary, looking uncertain. My grandfather must have brought
me here when I was very young. I dont 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 . . . Ive 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
days sunlight streamed in through the west window. The pillarspositioned
where the altar would normally standwere 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, Im positive I have seen
these!
I dont doubt
youve seen them, Langdon said, but it wasnt 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
Solomons Temple? Those two pillars are exact replicas of the two pillars that
stood at the head of Solomons Temple. Langdon pointed to the pillar on the
left. Thats called Boazor the Masons Pillar. The other is called Jachinor
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 degreesApprentice Freemason,
Fellowcraft Freemason, and Master Masonharked back to early Templar days.
Sophies grandfathers final verse made direct reference to the Master Masons
who adorned Rosslyn with their carved artistic offerings. It also noted
Rosslyns central ceiling, which was covered with carvings of stars and
planets.
Ive 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. Im 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. Theres a code here!
The docent looked
pleased by her enthusiasm. Yes there is, ma'am.
Its 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 Rosslyns 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 matteredcryptographers 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. Id be happy to show . . .
The docents
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 familys 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 pere? 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?
Youre doing another
big person thing?
He nodded. Ill
be fast. I promise.
Can I do the
archway code again? That was fun.
I dont know. I
have to step outside. You wont be frightened in here alone?
Of course not!
she said with a huff. Its 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. Im going to break this code before
you get back!
Its a race
then. He bent over, kissed her forehead, and walked to the nearby side door.
Ill be right outside. Ill 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 pere?
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 pere? 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 pere?
He picked her up
and held her close. Oh, Sophie, you and I have said good bye to a lot of
people this year. Its 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 Saunieres 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 Langdons hands. But this box . .
. might I ask where you got it?
Langdon gave a
weary laugh. Thats an exceptionally long story.
The young man
hesitated, his eyes on the box again. Its the strangest thingmy grandmother
has a box exactly like thata 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 onethe
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. Thats 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. Ive 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.
Langdons 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 pere.
The woman had
obviously heard the sad news of his death last night.
A board squeaked
beneath Sophies feet, and the woman turned slowly, her sad eyes finding
Sophies. Sophie wanted to run, but she stood transfixed. The womans 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 womans
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 Sophies 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.
Sophies words
were a choked whisper. But . . . Grand pere said you were . . .
I know. The
woman placed her tender hands on Sophies 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. Im 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. Theres so much to explain. So very much to explain. She kissed
Sophies forehead once again, then whispered in her ear. No more secrets,
princess. Its 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 mans face, but as
they embraced, she could feel the power of the blood coursing through his veins
. . . the blood she now understood they shared.
When Langdon
walked across the lawn to join them, Sophie could not imagine that only
yesterday she had felt so alone in the world. And now, somehow, in this foreign
place, in the company of three people she barely knew, she felt at last that
she was home.
CHAPTER 105
Night had fallen
over Rosslyn.
Robert Langdon
stood alone on the porch of the fieldstone house enjoying the sounds of
laughter and reunion drifting through the screened door behind him. The mug of
potent Brazilian coffee in his hand had granted him a hazy reprieve from his
mounting exhaustion, and yet he sensed the reprieve would be fleeting. The
fatigue in his body went to the core.
You slipped out
quietly, a voice behind him said.
He turned.
Sophies 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 Id 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 Jacquess murder, I
was terrified for Sophies 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 Sophies late parents. Incredibly, both had been from
Merovingian familiesdirect descendants of Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ.
Sophies 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
Sophies 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
usincluding you two grandchildrenwere 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 Rosslyns unsolved mystery. Is the Grail
really here at Rosslyn? And if so, where are the blade and chalice that
Sauniere mentioned in his poem?
Ill take that,
Marie said, motioning to Langdons 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 Saunieres papyrus. He had taken it from the
cryptex once again in hopes of seeing something he had missed earlier. Of
course, Im 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. Andre Vernet was a
dear friend of Jacques, and Jacques trusted him explicitly. Andre would have
done anything to honor Jacquess requests for the care of this box.
Including
shooting me, Langdon recalled, deciding not to mention that he had probably
broken the poor mans nose. Thinking of Paris, Langdon flashed on the three
senechaux 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 Sophies 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 senechaux were traditionally menthe
guardiansand 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 todays 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. Dont ask,
he told himself. This is not the moment . He glanced at the papyrus in Maries
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 its here?
Langdon motioned
to the papyrus in her hand. Your husbands poem speaks specifically of
Rosslyn, except it also mentions a blade and chalice watching over the Grail. I
didnt 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 didnt 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. Theres 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 thats 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 . . . Solomons Seal . . . marking
the Holy of Holies, where the male and female deitiesYahweh and Shekinahwere
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 Priorys 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. Jacquess 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 youve 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 youre
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 Sauniere 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 womens 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 Sophies forehead. Dont 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? Its a lot
to take in.
She smiled
quietly. I have a family. Thats where Im 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. Im
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. Im
sorry, Im 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 Im
lecturing at a conference in Florence. Ill be there a week without much to
do.
Is that an
invitation?
Wed be living
in luxury. Theyre 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? Theres 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. Its a date.
EPILOGUE
Robert Langdon
awoke with a start. He had been dreaming. The bathrobe beside his bed bore the
monogram HOTEL RITZ PARIS . He saw a dim light filtering through the blinds. Is
it dusk or dawn? he wondered.
Langdons 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 hed 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 Vendome. 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 forthe famous royal arcadea glistening
expanse of polished black marble. Moving onto it, Langdon scanned the surface
beneath his feet. Within seconds, he found what he knew was thereseveral
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 Comedie Franaise, 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 Sacre Coeur, north across
the Seine, and finally to the ancient Paris Observatory. There he discovered
the significance of the sacred path it traced.
The earths
original prime meridian.
The first zero
longitude of the world.
Pariss 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. Saunieres ancient spelling of Roslin . . . the blade
and chalice . . . the tomb adorned with masters art.
Is that why
Sauniere 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 monumentsconceived and
commissioned in the 1980s by the Sphinx himself, Franois 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 Louvrethe enormous
circle of grass surrounded by a perimeter of neatly trimmed hedgesonce the
site of Pariss 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 citys
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 Louvres subterranean entresol.
La Pyramide
Inversee.
Tremulous,
Langdon walked to the edge and peered down into the Louvres 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 worlds 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 days 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 Louvres courtyard, back toward La Pyramide Inversee.
At the end of the
tunnel, he emerged into a large chamber. Directly before him, hanging down from
above, gleamed the inverted pyramida breathtaking V shaped contour of glass.
The Chalice.
Langdons 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.
Langdons
manuscript, while discussing the Louvres 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 icebergthe
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 Chauvels 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 Sauniere to keep watch? Now at last, he sensed he understood the true
meaning of the Grand Masters 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 womans voice . . . the wisdom of the ages . . . whispering
up from the chasms of the earth.
Copyright 2003
by Dan Brown