First and foremost, to my friend and editor, Jason Kaufman, for working
so hard on this project and for truly understanding what this book is all
about. And to the incomparable Heide Lange--tireless champion of The Da
Vinci Code, agent extraordinaire, and trusted friend.
I cannot fully express my gratitude to the exceptional team at
Doubleday, for their generosity, faith, and superb guidance. Thank you
especially to Bill Thomas and Steve Rubin, who believed in this book from
the start. My thanks also to the initial core of early in-house supporters,
headed by Michael Palgon, Suzanne Herz, Janelle Moburg, Jackie Everly, and
Adrienne Sparks, as well as to the talented people of Doubleday's sales
force.
For their generous assistance in the research of the book, I would like
to acknowledge the Louvre Museum, the French Ministry of Culture, Project
Gutenberg, Bibliothuque Nationale, the Gnostic Society Library, the
Department of Paintings Study and Documentation Service at the Louvre,
Catholic World News, Royal Observatory Greenwich, London Record Society, the
Muniment Collection at Westminster Abbey, John Pike and the Federation of
American Scientists, and the five members of Opus Dei (three active, two
former) who recounted their stories, both positive and negative, regarding
their experiences inside Opus Dei.
My gratitude also to Water Street Bookstore for tracking down so many
of my research books, my father Richard Brown--mathematics teacher and
author--for his assistance with the Divine Proportion and the Fibonacci
Sequence, Stan Planton, Sylvie Baudeloque, Peter McGuigan, Francis
McInerney, Margie Wachtel, Andru Vernet, Ken Kelleher at Anchorball Web
Media, Cara Sottak, Karyn Popham, Esther Sung, Miriam Abramowitz, William
Tunstall-Pedoe, and Griffin Wooden Brown.
And finally, in a novel drawing so heavily on the sacred feminine, I
would be remiss if I did not mention the two extraordinary women who have
touched my life. First, my mother, Connie Brown--fellow scribe, nurturer,
musician, and role model. And my wife, Blythe--art historian, painter,
front-line editor, and without a doubt the most astonishingly talented woman
I have ever known.
FACT:
The Priory of Sion--a European secret society founded in 1099--is a
real organization. In 1975 Paris's Bibliothuque Nationale discovered
parchments known as Les Dossiers Secrets, identifying numerous members of
the Priory of Sion, including Sir Isaac Newton, Botticelli, Victor Hugo, and
Leonardo da Vinci.
The Vatican prelature known as Opus Dei is a deeply devout Catholic
sect that has been the topic of recent controversy due to reports of
brainwashing, coercion, and a dangerous practice known as "corporal
mortification." Opus Dei has just completed construction of a $47 million
World Headquarters at 243 Lexington Avenue in New York City.
All descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret
rituals in this novel are accurate.
Prologue
Louvre Museum, Paris 10:46 P.M.
Renowned curator Jacques Sauniure staggered through the vaulted archway
of the museum's Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could
see, a Caravaggio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man
heaved the masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and
Sauniure collapsed backward in a heap beneath the canvas.
As he had anticipated, a thundering iron gate fell nearby, barricading
the entrance to the suite. The parquet floor shook. Far off, an alarm began
to ring.
The curator lay a moment, gasping for breath, taking stock. I am still
alive. He crawled out from under the canvas and scanned the cavernous space
for someplace to hide.
A voice spoke, chillingly close. "Do not move."
On his hands and knees, the curator froze, turning his head slowly.
Only fifteen feet away, outside the sealed gate, the mountainous
silhouette of his attacker stared through the iron bars. He was broad and
tall, with ghost-pale skin and thinning white hair. His irises were pink
with dark red pupils. The albino drew a pistol from his coat and aimed the
barrel through the bars, directly at the curator. "You should not have run."
His accent was not easy to place. "Now tell me where it is."
"I told you already," the curator stammered, kneeling defenseless on
the floor of the gallery. "I have no idea what you are talking about!"
"You are lying." The man stared at him, perfectly immobile except for
the glint in his ghostly eyes. "You and your brethren possess something that
is not yours."
The curator felt a surge of adrenaline. How could he possibly know
this?
"Tonight the rightful guardians will be restored. Tell me where it is
hidden, and you will live." The man leveled his gun at the curator's head.
"Is it a secret you will die for?"
Sauniure could not breathe.
The man tilted his head, peering down the barrel of his gun.
Sauniure held up his hands in defense. "Wait," he said slowly. "I will
tell you what you need to know." The curator spoke his next words carefully.
The lie he told was one he had rehearsed many times... each time praying he
would never have to use it.
When the curator had finished speaking, his assailant smiled smugly.
"Yes. This is exactly what the others told me."
Sauniure recoiled. The others?
"I found them, too," the huge man taunted. "All three of them. They
confirmed what you have just said."
It cannot be! The curator's true identity, along with the identities of
his three sunuchaux, was almost as sacred as the ancient secret they
protected. Sauniure now realized his sunuchaux, following strict procedure,
had told the same lie before their own deaths. It was part of the protocol.
The attacker aimed his gun again. "When you are gone, I will be the
only one who knows the truth."
The truth. In an instant, the curator grasped the true horror of the
situation. If I die, the truth will be lost forever. Instinctively, he tried
to scramble for cover.
The gun roared, and the curator felt a searing heat as the bullet
lodged in his stomach. He fell forward... struggling against the pain.
Slowly, Sauniure rolled over and stared back through the bars at his
attacker.
The man was now taking dead aim at Sauniure's head.
Sauniure closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest of fear and
regret.
The click of an empty chamber echoed through the corridor.
The curator's eyes flew open.
The man glanced down at his weapon, looking almost amused. He reached
for a second clip, but then seemed to reconsider, smirking calmly at
Sauniure's gut. "My work here is done."
The curator looked down and saw the bullet hole in his white linen
shirt. It was framed by a small circle of blood a few inches below his
breastbone. My stomach. Almost cruelly, the bullet had missed his heart. As
a veteran of la Guerre d'Algurie, the curator had witnessed this horribly
drawn-out death before. For fifteen minutes, he would survive as his stomach
acids seeped into his chest cavity, slowly poisoning him from within.
"Pain is good, monsieur," the man said.
Then he was gone.
Alone now, Jacques Sauniure turned his gaze again to the iron gate. He
was trapped, and the doors could not be reopened for at least twenty
minutes. By the time anyone got to him, he would be dead. Even so, the fear
that now gripped him was a fear far greater than that of his own death.
I must pass on the secret.
Staggering to his feet, he pictured his three murdered brethren. He
thought of the generations who had come before them... of the mission with
which they had all been entrusted.
An unbroken chain of knowledge.
Suddenly, now, despite all the precautions... despite all the
fail-safes... Jacques Sauniure was the only remaining link, the sole
guardian of one of the most powerful secrets ever kept.
Shivering, he pulled himself to his feet.
I must find some way....
He was trapped inside the Grand Gallery, and there existed only one
person on earth to whom he could pass the torch. Sauniure gazed up at the
walls of his opulent prison. A collection of the world's most famous
paintings seemed to smile down on him like old friends.
Wincing in pain, he summoned all of his faculties and strength. The
desperate task before him, he knew, would require every remaining second of
his life.
CHAPTER 1
Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darkness--a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He
fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings
he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed
walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed.
Where the hell am I?
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL
RITZ PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"
Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had
been asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but
you have a visitor. He insists it is urgent."
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled
flyer on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON
PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture--a slide show about pagan symbolism
hidden in the stones of Chartres Cathedral--had probably ruffled some
conservative feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar
had trailed him home to pick a fight.
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and--"
"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an
urgent whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult
symbology had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year
Langdon's visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a
widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of
self-important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed
never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain
polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll try to
call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before the
concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations
Handbook, whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS.
SLUMBER AT THE PARIS RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length
mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger--tousled
and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate
seeing proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and
drawn tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin.
Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way
deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues
insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed
him as one of that city's top ten most intriguing people--a dubious honor
that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues.
Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to
haunt him at the lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at
the American University of Paris's Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight
needs no introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of
Secret Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and
when I say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite
literally. Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive
curriculum vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was
seated onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we
say... intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and
Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds
later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up.
"And Mr. Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last
year's Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter."
The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like
some of our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than
his share of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an
unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe
as 'chocolate for the ears.' "
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next--some
ridiculous line about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"--and because this
evening he had figured it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed
and Burberry turtleneck, he decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her
away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He
turned to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of
you provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power
of symbols..."
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence.
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"
As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I
am calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I
thought I should alert you."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the
authority to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?"
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door.
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into
the savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the
door. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was
accented--a sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet.
Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent
of the U.S. FBI.
Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few
inches. The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was
exceptionally lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.
"May I come in?" the agent asked.
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes
studied him. "What is this all about?"
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the
Louvre this evening?"
Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator
Jacques Sauniure had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture
tonight, but Sauniure had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"
"We found your name in his daily planner."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the
narrow opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock
gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question,
considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."
Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The
image was gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling
sense of duju vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a
photograph of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours
later, he had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was
entirely different, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly
familiar.
The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture.
"This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..."
"Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who
would do this to someone."
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see
in this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Sauniure did that to himself."
CHAPTER 2
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front
gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyure. The spiked
cilice belt that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and yet his
soul sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord.
Pain is good.
His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He
climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow
numeraries. His bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He
entered, closing the door behind him.
The room was spartan--hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in
the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet
for many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New York
City.
The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.
Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying
to the dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and
placed a call.
"Yes?" a male voice answered.
"Teacher, I have returned."
"Speak," the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.
"All four are gone. The three sunuchaux... and the Grand Master
himself."
There was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have
the information?"
"All four concurred. Independently."
"And you believed them?"
"Their agreement was too great for coincidence."
An excited breath. "Excellent. I had feared the brotherhood's
reputation for secrecy might prevail."
"The prospect of death is strong motivation."
"So, my pupil, tell me what I must know."
Silas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come
as a shock. "Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of the clef de
voute... the legendary keystone."
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the
Teacher's excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected."
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone--a clef
de voute... or keystone--an engraved tablet that revealed the final resting
place of the brotherhood's greatest secret... information so powerful that
its protection was the reason for the brotherhood's very existence.
"When we possess the keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one
step away."
"We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris."
"Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy."
Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening... how all four of his
victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back their
godless lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same
thing--that the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location inside
one of Paris's ancient churches--the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice.
"Inside a house of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock
us!"
"As they have for centuries."
The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this moment
settle over him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to God.
We have waited centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me.
Immediately. Tonight. You understand the stakes."
Silas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was
now commanding seemed impossible. "But the church, it is a fortress.
Especially at night. How will I enter?"
With the confident tone of a man of enormous influence, the Teacher
explained what was to be done.
When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with anticipation.
One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given him time
to carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of God. I must
purge my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today had been holy in
purpose. Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for
centuries. Forgiveness was assured.
Even so, Silas knew, absolution required sacrifice.
Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of his
room. Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around his
thigh. All true followers of The Way wore this device--a leather strap,
studded with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual
reminder of Christ's suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped
counteract the desires of the flesh.
Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the
requisite two hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the buckle,
he cinched it one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into his
flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain.
Pain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father
Josemarua Escrivu--the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escrivu had died in
1975, his wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of
faithful servants around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed
the sacred practice known as "corporal mortification."
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on
the floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots were caked with dried blood.
Eager for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said a quick prayer.
Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and swung it hard
over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back. He whipped it
over his shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and again, he lashed.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow.
CHAPTER 3
The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citroun ZX
as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vendume. In the
passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city tear past him as he tried to
clear his thoughts. His quick shower and shave had left him looking
reasonably presentable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The
frightening image of the curator's body remained locked in his mind.
Jacques Sauniure is dead.
Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curator's
death. Despite Sauniure's reputation for being reclusive, his recognition
for dedication to the arts made him an easy man to revere. His books on the
secret codes hidden in the paintings of Poussin and Teniers were some of
Langdon's favorite classroom texts. Tonight's meeting had been one Langdon
was very much looking forward to, and he was disappointed when the curator
had not shown.
Again the image of the curator's body flashed in his mind. Jacques
Sauniure did that to himself? Langdon turned and looked out the window,
forcing the picture from his mind.
Outside, the city was just now winding down--street vendors wheeling
carts of candied amandes, waiters carrying bags of garbage to the curb, a
pair of late night lovers cuddling to stay warm in a breeze scented with
jasmine blossom. The Citroun navigated the chaos with authority, its
dissonant two-tone siren parting the traffic like a knife.
"Le capitaine was pleased to discover you were still in Paris tonight,"
the agent said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hotel. "A
fortunate coincidence."
Langdon was feeling anything but fortunate, and coincidence was a
concept he did not entirely trust. As someone who had spent his life
exploring the hidden interconnectivity of disparate emblems and ideologies,
Langdon viewed the world as a web of profoundly intertwined histories and
events. The connections may be invisible, he often preached to his symbology
classes at Harvard, but they are always there, buried just beneath the
surface.
"I assume," Langdon said, "that the American University of Paris told
you where I was staying?"
The driver shook his head. "Interpol."
Interpol, Langdon thought. Of course. He had forgotten that the
seemingly innocuous request of all European hotels to see a passport at
check-in was more than a quaint formality--it was the law. On any given
night, all across Europe, Interpol officials could pinpoint exactly who was
sleeping where. Finding Langdon at the Ritz had probably taken all of five
seconds.
As the Citroun accelerated southward across the city, the illuminated
profile of the Eiffel Tower appeared, shooting skyward in the distance to
the right. Seeing it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful
promise a year ago that every six months they would meet again at a
different romantic spot on the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected,
would have made their list. Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy
airport in Rome more than a year ago.
"Did you mount her?" the agent asked, looking over.
Langdon glanced up, certain he had misunderstood. "I beg your pardon?"
"She is lovely, no?" The agent motioned through the windshield toward
the Eiffel Tower. "Have you mounted her?"
Langdon rolled his eyes. "No, I haven't climbed the tower."
"She is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect."
Langdon nodded absently. Symbologists often remarked that France--a
country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and diminutive insecure leaders
like Napoleon and Pepin the Short--could not have chosen a more apt national
emblem than a thousand-foot phallus.
When they reached the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, the traffic light
was red, but the Citroun didn't slow. The agent gunned the sedan across the
junction and sped onto a wooded section of Rue Castiglione, which served as
the northern entrance to the famed Tuileries Gardens--Paris's own version of
Central Park. Most tourists mistranslated Jardins des Tuileries as relating
to the thousands of tulips that bloomed here, but Tuileries was actually a
literal reference to something far less romantic. This park had once been an
enormous, polluted excavation pit from which Parisian contractors mined clay
to manufacture the city's famous red roofing tiles--or tuiles.
As they entered the deserted park, the agent reached under the dash and
turned off the blaring siren. Langdon exhaled, savoring the sudden quiet.
Outside the car, the pale wash of halogen headlights skimmed over the
crushed gravel parkway, the rugged whir of the tires intoning a hypnotic
rhythm. Langdon had always considered the Tuileries to be sacred ground.
These were the gardens in which Claude Monet had experimented with form and
color, and literally inspired the birth of the Impressionist movement.
Tonight, however, this place held a strange aura of foreboding.
The Citroun swerved left now, angling west down the park's central
boulevard. Curling around a circular pond, the driver cut across a desolate
avenue out into a wide quadrangle beyond. Langdon could now see the end of
the Tuileries Gardens, marked by a giant stone archway.
Arc du Carrousel.
Despite the orgiastic rituals once held at the Arc du Carrousel, art
aficionados revered this place for another reason entirely. From the
esplanade at the end of the Tuileries, four of the finest art museums in the
world could be seen... one at each point of the compass.
Out the right-hand window, south across the Seine and Quai Voltaire,
Langdon could see the dramatically lit facade of the old train station--now
the esteemed Musue d'Orsay. Glancing left, he could make out the top of the
ultramodern Pompidou Center, which housed the Museum of Modern Art. Behind
him to the west, Langdon knew the ancient obelisk of Ramses rose above the
trees, marking the Musue du Jeu de Paume.
But it was straight ahead, to the east, through the archway, that
Langdon could now see the monolithic Renaissance palace that had become the
most famous art museum in the world.
Musue du Louvre.
Langdon felt a familiar tinge of wonder as his eyes made a futile
attempt to absorb the entire mass of the edifice. Across a staggeringly
expansive plaza, the imposing facade of the Louvre rose like a citadel
against the Paris sky. Shaped like an enormous horseshoe, the Louvre was the
longest building in Europe, stretching farther than three Eiffel Towers laid
end to end. Not even the million square feet of open plaza between the
museum wings could challenge the majesty of the facade's breadth. Langdon
had once walked the Louvre's entire perimeter, an astonishing three-mile
journey.
Despite the estimated five days it would take a visitor to properly
appreciate the 65,300 pieces of art in this building, most tourists chose an
abbreviated experience Langdon referred to as "Louvre Lite"--a full sprint
through the museum to see the three most famous objects: the Mona Lisa,
Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory. Art Buchwald had once boasted he'd seen
all three masterpieces in five minutes and fifty-six seconds.
The driver pulled out a handheld walkie-talkie and spoke in rapid-fire
French. "Monsieur Langdon est arrivu. Deux minutes."
An indecipherable confirmation came crackling back.
The agent stowed the device, turning now to Langdon. "You will meet the
capitaine at the main entrance."
The driver ignored the signs prohibiting auto traffic on the plaza,
revved the engine, and gunned the Citroun up over the curb. The Louvre's
main entrance was visible now, rising boldly in the distance, encircled by
seven triangular pools from which spouted illuminated fountains.
La Pyramide.
The new entrance to the Paris Louvre had become almost as famous as the
museum itself. The controversial, neomodern glass pyramid designed by
Chinese-born American architect I. M. Pei still evoked scorn from
traditionalists who felt it destroyed the dignity of the Renaissance
courtyard. Goethe had described architecture as frozen music, and Pei's
critics described this pyramid as fingernails on a chalkboard. Progressive
admirers, though, hailed Pei's seventy-one-foot-tall transparent pyramid as
a dazzling synergy of ancient structure and modern method--a symbolic link
between the old and new--helping usher the Louvre into the next millennium.
"Do you like our pyramid?" the agent asked.
Langdon frowned. The French, it seemed, loved to ask Americans this. It
was a loaded question, of course. Admitting you liked the pyramid made you a
tasteless American, and expressing dislike was an insult to the French.
"Mitterrand was a bold man," Langdon replied, splitting the difference.
The late French president who had commissioned the pyramid was said to have
suffered from a "Pharaoh complex." Singlehandedly responsible for filling
Paris with Egyptian obelisks, art, and artifacts.
Franuois Mitterrand had an affinity for Egyptian culture that was so
all-consuming that the French still referred to him as the Sphinx.
"What is the captain's name?" Langdon asked, changing topics.
"Bezu Fache," the driver said, approaching the pyramid's main entrance.
"We call him le Taureau."
Langdon glanced over at him, wondering if every Frenchman had a
mysterious animal epithet. "You call your captain the Bull?"
The man arched his eyebrows. "Your French is better than you admit,
Monsieur Langdon."
My French stinks, Langdon thought, but my zodiac iconography is pretty
good. Taurus was always the bull. Astrology was a symbolic constant all over
the world.
The agent pulled the car to a stop and pointed between two fountains to
a large door in the side of the pyramid. "There is the entrance. Good luck,
monsieur."
"You're not coming?"
"My orders are to leave you here. I have other business to attend to."
Langdon heaved a sigh and climbed out. It's your circus.
The agent revved his engine and sped off.
As Langdon stood alone and watched the departing taillights, he
realized he could easily reconsider, exit the courtyard, grab a taxi, and
head home to bed. Something told him it was probably a lousy idea.
As he moved toward the mist of the fountains, Langdon had the uneasy
sense he was crossing an imaginary threshold into another world. The
dreamlike quality of the evening was settling around him again. Twenty
minutes ago he had been asleep in his hotel room. Now he was standing in
front of a transparent pyramid built by the Sphinx, waiting for a policeman
they called the Bull.
I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting, he thought.
Langdon strode to the main entrance--an enormous revolving door. The
foyer beyond was dimly lit and deserted.
Do I knock?
Langdon wondered if any of Harvard's revered Egyptologists had ever
knocked on the front door of a pyramid and expected an answer. He raised his
hand to bang on the glass, but out of the darkness below, a figure appeared,
striding up the curving staircase. The man was stocky and dark, almost
Neanderthal, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit that strained to cover
his wide shoulders. He advanced with unmistakable authority on squat,
powerful legs. He was speaking on his cell phone but finished the call as he
arrived. He motioned for Langdon to enter.
"I am Bezu Fache," he announced as Langdon pushed through the revolving
door. "Captain of the Central Directorate Judicial Police." His tone was
fitting--a guttural rumble... like a gathering storm.
Langdon held out his hand to shake. "Robert Langdon."
Fache's enormous palm wrapped around Langdon's with crushing force.
"I saw the photo," Langdon said. "Your agent said Jacques Sauniure
himself did--"
"Mr. Langdon," Fache's ebony eyes locked on. "What you see in the photo
is only the beginning of what Sauniure did."
CHAPTER 4
Captain Bezu Fache carried himself like an angry ox, with his wide
shoulders thrown back and his chin tucked hard into his chest. His dark hair
was slicked back with oil, accentuating an arrow-like widow's peak that
divided his jutting brow and preceded him like the prow of a battleship. As
he advanced, his dark eyes seemed to scorch the earth before him, radiating
a fiery clarity that forecast his reputation for unblinking severity in all
matters.
Langdon followed the captain down the famous marble staircase into the
sunken atrium beneath the glass pyramid. As they descended, they passed
between two armed Judicial Police guards with machine guns. The message was
clear: Nobody goes in or out tonight without the blessing of Captain Fache.
Descending below ground level, Langdon fought a rising trepidation.
Fache's presence was anything but welcoming, and the Louvre itself had an
almost sepulchral aura at this hour. The staircase, like the aisle of a dark
movie theater, was illuminated by subtle tread-lighting embedded in each
step. Langdon could hear his own footsteps reverberating off the glass
overhead. As he glanced up, he could see the faint illuminated wisps of mist
from the fountains fading away outside the transparent roof.
"Do you approve?" Fache asked, nodding upward with his broad chin.
Langdon sighed, too tired to play games. "Yes, your pyramid is
magnificent."
Fache grunted. "A scar on the face of Paris."
Strike one. Langdon sensed his host was a hard man to please. He
wondered if Fache had any idea that this pyramid, at President Mitterrand's
explicit demand, had been constructed of exactly 666 panes of glass--a
bizarre request that had always been a hot topic among conspiracy buffs who
claimed 666 was the number of Satan.
Langdon decided not to bring it up.
As they dropped farther into the subterranean foyer, the yawning space
slowly emerged from the shadows. Built fifty-seven feet beneath ground
level, the Louvre's newly constructed 70,000-square-foot lobby spread out
like an endless grotto. Constructed in warm ocher marble to be compatible
with the honey-colored stone of the Louvre facade above, the subterranean
hall was usually vibrant with sunlight and tourists. Tonight, however, the
lobby was barren and dark, giving the entire space a cold and crypt-like
atmosphere.
"And the museum's regular security staff?" Langdon asked.
"En quarantaine," Fache replied, sounding as if Langdon were
questioning the integrity of Fache's team. "Obviously, someone gained entry
tonight who should not have. All Louvre night wardens are in the Sully Wing
being questioned. My own agents have taken over museum security for the
evening."
Langdon nodded, moving quickly to keep pace with Fache.
"How well did you know Jacques Sauniure?" the captain asked.
"Actually, not at all. We'd never met."
Fache looked surprised. "Your first meeting was to be tonight?"
"Yes. We'd planned to meet at the American University reception
following my lecture, but he never showed up."
Fache scribbled some notes in a little book. As they walked, Langdon
caught a glimpse of the Louvre's lesser-known pyramid--La Pyramide
Inversue--a huge inverted skylight that hung from the ceiling like a
stalactite in an adjoining section of the entresol. Fache guided Langdon up
a short set of stairs to the mouth of an arched tunnel, over which a sign
read: DENON. The Denon Wing was the most famous of the Louvre's three main
sections.
"Who requested tonight's meeting?" Fache asked suddenly. "You or he?"
The question seemed odd. "Mr. Sauniure did," Langdon replied as they
entered the tunnel. "His secretary contacted me a few weeks ago via e-mail.
She said the curator had heard I would be lecturing in Paris this month and
wanted to discuss something with me while I was here."
"Discuss what?"
"I don't know. Art, I imagine. We share similar interests."
Fache looked skeptical. "You have no idea what your meeting was about?"
Langdon did not. He'd been curious at the time but had not felt
comfortable demanding specifics. The venerated Jacques Sauniure had a
renowned penchant for privacy and granted very few meetings; Langdon was
grateful simply for the opportunity to meet him.
"Mr. Langdon, can you at least guess what our murder victim might have
wanted to discuss with you on the night he was killed? It might be helpful."
The pointedness of the question made Langdon uncomfortable. "I really
can't imagine. I didn't ask. I felt honored to have been contacted at all.
I'm an admirer of Mr. Sauniure's work. I use his texts often in my classes."
Fache made note of that fact in his book.
The two men were now halfway up the Denon Wing's entry tunnel, and
Langdon could see the twin ascending escalators at the far end, both
motionless.
"So you shared interests with him?" Fache asked.
"Yes. In fact, I've spent much of the last year writing the draft for a
book that deals with Mr. Sauniure's primary area of expertise. I was looking
forward to picking his brain."
Fache glanced up. "Pardon?"
The idiom apparently didn't translate. "I was looking forward to
learning his thoughts on the topic."
"I see. And what is the topic?"
Langdon hesitated, uncertain exactly how to put it. "Essentially, the
manuscript is about the iconography of goddess worship--the concept of
female sanctity and the art and symbols associated with it."
Fache ran a meaty hand across his hair. "And Sauniure was knowledgeable
about this?"
"Nobody more so."
"I see."
Langdon sensed Fache did not see at all. Jacques Sauniure was
considered the premiere goddess iconographer on earth. Not only did Sauniure
have a personal passion for relics relating to fertility, goddess cults,
Wicca, and the sacred feminine, but during his twenty-year tenure as
curator, Sauniure had helped the Louvre amass the largest collection of
goddess art on earth--labrys axes from the priestesses' oldest Greek shrine
in Delphi, gold caducei wands, hundreds of Tjet ankhs resembling small
standing angels, sistrum rattles used in ancient Egypt to dispel evil
spirits, and an astonishing array of statues depicting Horus being nursed by
the goddess Isis.
"Perhaps Jacques Sauniure knew of your manuscript?" Fache offered. "And
he called the meeting to offer his help on your book."
Langdon shook his head. "Actually, nobody yet knows about my
manuscript. It's still in draft form, and I haven't shown it to anyone
except my editor."
Fache fell silent.
Langdon did not add the reason he hadn't yet shown the manuscript to
anyone else. The three-hundred-page draft--tentatively titled Symbols of the
Lost Sacred Feminine--proposed some very unconventional interpretations of
established religious iconography which would certainly be controversial.
Now, as Langdon approached the stationary escalators, he paused,
realizing Fache was no longer beside him. Turning, Langdon saw Fache
standing several yards back at a service elevator.
"We'll take the elevator," Fache said as the lift doors opened. "As I'm
sure you're aware, the gallery is quite a distance on foot."
Although Langdon knew the elevator would expedite the long, two-story
climb to the Denon Wing, he remained motionless.
"Is something wrong?" Fache was holding the door, looking impatient.
Langdon exhaled, turning a longing glance back up the open-air
escalator. Nothing's wrong at all, he lied to himself, trudging back toward
the elevator. As a boy, Langdon had fallen down an abandoned well shaft and
almost died treading water in the narrow space for hours before being
rescued. Since then, he'd suffered a haunting phobia of enclosed
spaces--elevators, subways, squash courts. The elevator is a perfectly safe
machine, Langdon continually told himself, never believing it. It's a tiny
metal box hanging in an enclosed shaft! Holding his breath, he stepped into
the lift, feeling the familiar tingle of adrenaline as the doors slid shut.
Two floors. Ten seconds.
"You and Mr. Sauniure," Fache said as the lift began to move, "you
never spoke at all? Never corresponded? Never sent each other anything in
the mail?"
Another odd question. Langdon shook his head. "No. Never." Fache cocked
his head, as if making a mental note of that fact. Saying nothing, he stared
dead ahead at the chrome doors.
As they ascended, Langdon tried to focus on anything other than the
four walls around him. In the reflection of the shiny elevator door, he saw
the captain's tie clip--a silver crucifix with thirteen embedded pieces of
black onyx. Langdon found it vaguely surprising. The symbol was known as a
crux gemmata--a cross bearing thirteen gems--a Christian ideogram for Christ
and His twelve apostles. Somehow Langdon had not expected the captain of the
French police to broadcast his religion so openly. Then again, this was
France; Christianity was not a religion here so much as a birthright.
"It's a crux gemmata" Fache said suddenly.
Startled, Langdon glanced up to find Fache's eyes on him in the
reflection.
The elevator jolted to a stop, and the doors opened.
Langdon stepped quickly out into the hallway, eager for the wide-open
space afforded by the famous high ceilings of the Louvre galleries. The
world into which he stepped, however, was nothing like he expected.
Surprised, Langdon stopped short.
Fache glanced over. "I gather, Mr. Langdon, you have never seen the
Louvre after hours?"
I guess not, Langdon thought, trying to get his bearings.
Usually impeccably illuminated, the Louvre galleries were startlingly
dark tonight. Instead of the customary flat-white light flowing down from
above, a muted red glow seemed to emanate upward from the
baseboards--intermittent patches of red light spilling out onto the tile
floors.
As Langdon gazed down the murky corridor, he realized he should have
anticipated this scene. Virtually all major galleries employed red service
lighting at night--strategically placed, low-level, noninvasive lights that
enabled staff members to navigate hallways and yet kept the paintings in
relative darkness to slow the fading effects of overexposure to light.
Tonight, the museum possessed an almost oppressive quality. Long shadows
encroached everywhere, and the usually soaring vaulted ceilings appeared as
a low, black void.
"This way," Fache said, turning sharply right and setting out through a
series of interconnected galleries.
Langdon followed, his vision slowly adjusting to the dark. All around,
large-format oils began to materialize like photos developing before him in
an enormous darkroom... their eyes following as he moved through the rooms.
He could taste the familiar tang of museum air--an arid, deionized essence
that carried a faint hint of carbon--the product of industrial, coal-filter
dehumidifiers that ran around the clock to counteract the corrosive carbon
dioxide exhaled by visitors.
Mounted high on the walls, the visible security cameras sent a clear
message to visitors: We see you. Do not touch anything.
"Any of them real?" Langdon asked, motioning to the cameras.
Fache shook his head. "Of course not."
Langdon was not surprised. Video surveillance in museums this size was
cost-prohibitive and ineffective. With acres of galleries to watch over, the
Louvre would require several hundred technicians simply to monitor the
feeds. Most large museums now used "containment security." Forget keeping
thieves out. Keep them in. Containment was activated after hours, and if an
intruder removed a piece of artwork, compartmentalized exits would seal
around that gallery, and the thief would find himself behind bars even
before the police arrived.
The sound of voices echoed down the marble corridor up ahead. The noise
seemed to be coming from a large recessed alcove that lay ahead on the
right. A bright light spilled out into the hallway.
"Office of the curator," the captain said.
As he and Fache drew nearer the alcove, Langdon peered down a short
hallway, into Sauniure's luxurious study--warm wood, Old Master paintings,
and an enormous antique desk on which stood a two-foot-tall model of a
knight in full armor. A handful of police agents bustled about the room,
talking on phones and taking notes. One of them was seated at Sauniure's
desk, typing into a laptop. Apparently, the curator's private office had
become DCPJ's makeshift command post for the evening.
"Messieurs," Fache called out, and the men turned. "Ne nous durangez
pas sous aucun prutexte. Entendu?"
Everyone inside the office nodded their understanding.
Langdon had hung enough NE PAS DERANGER signs on hotel room doors to
catch the gist of the captain's orders. Fache and Langdon were not to be
disturbed under any circumstances.
Leaving the small congregation of agents behind, Fache led Langdon
farther down the darkened hallway. Thirty yards ahead loomed the gateway to
the Louvre's most popular section--la Grande Galerie--a seemingly endless
corridor that housed the Louvre's most valuable Italian masterpieces.
Langdon had already discerned that this was where Sauniure's body lay; the
Grand Gallery's famous parquet floor had been unmistakable in the Polaroid.
As they approached, Langdon saw the entrance was blocked by an enormous
steel grate that looked like something used by medieval castles to keep out
marauding armies.
"Containment security," Fache said, as they neared the grate.
Even in the darkness, the barricade looked like it could have
restrained a tank. Arriving outside, Langdon peered through the bars into
the dimly lit caverns of the Grand Gallery.
"After you, Mr. Langdon," Fache said.
Langdon turned. After me, where?
Fache motioned toward the floor at the base of the grate.
Langdon looked down. In the darkness, he hadn't noticed. The barricade
was raised about two feet, providing an awkward clearance underneath.
"This area is still off limits to Louvre security," Fache said. "My
team from Police Technique et Scientifique has just finished their
investigation." He motioned to the opening. "Please slide under."
Langdon stared at the narrow crawl space at his feet and then up at the
massive iron grate. He's kidding, right? The barricade looked like a
guillotine waiting to crush intruders.
Fache grumbled something in French and checked his watch. Then he
dropped to his knees and slithered his bulky frame underneath the grate. On
the other side, he stood up and looked back through the bars at Langdon.
Langdon sighed. Placing his palms flat on the polished parquet, he lay
on his stomach and pulled himself forward. As he slid underneath, the nape
of his Harris tweed snagged on the bottom of the grate, and he cracked the
back of his head on the iron.
Very suave, Robert, he thought, fumbling and then finally pulling
himself through. As he stood up, Langdon was beginning to suspect it was
going to be a very long night.
CHAPTER 5
Murray Hill Place--the new Opus Dei World Headquarters and conference
center--is located at 243 Lexington Avenue in New York City. With a price
tag of just over $47 million, the 133,000-square-foot tower is clad in red
brick and Indiana limestone. Designed by May & Pinska, the building
contains over one hundred bedrooms, six dining rooms, libraries, living
rooms, meeting rooms, and offices. The second, eighth, and sixteenth floors
contain chapels, ornamented with mill-work and marble. The seventeenth floor
is entirely residential. Men enter the building through the main doors on
Lexington Avenue. Women enter through a side street and are "acoustically
and visually separated" from the men at all times within the building.
Earlier this evening, within the sanctuary of his penthouse apartment,
Bishop Manuel Aringarosa had packed a small travel bag and dressed in a
traditional black cassock. Normally, he would have wrapped a purple cincture
around his waist, but tonight he would be traveling among the public, and he
preferred not to draw attention to his high office. Only those with a keen
eye would notice his 14-karat gold bishop's ring with purple amethyst, large
diamonds, and hand-tooled mitre-crozier appliquu. Throwing the travel bag
over his shoulder, he said a silent prayer and left his apartment,
descending to the lobby where his driver was waiting to take him to the
airport.
Now, sitting aboard a commercial airliner bound for Rome, Aringarosa
gazed out the window at the dark Atlantic. The sun had already set, but
Aringarosa knew his own star was on the rise. Tonight the battle will be
won, he thought, amazed that only months ago he had felt powerless against
the hands that threatened to destroy his empire.
As president-general of Opus Dei, Bishop Aringarosa had spent the last
decade of his life spreading the message of "God's Work"--literally, Opus
Dei. The congregation, founded in 1928 by the Spanish priest Josemarua
Escrivu, promoted a return to conservative Catholic values and encouraged
its members to make sweeping sacrifices in their own lives in order to do
the Work of God.
Opus Dei's traditionalist philosophy initially had taken root in Spain
before Franco's regime, but with the 1934 publication of Josemarua Escrivu's
spiritual book The Way--999 points of meditation for doing God's Work in
one's own life--Escrivu's message exploded across the world. Now, with over
four million copies of The Way in circulation in forty-two languages, Opus
Dei was a global force. Its residence halls, teaching centers, and even
universities could be found in almost every major metropolis on earth. Opus
Dei was the fastest-growing and most financially secure Catholic
organization in the world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in an age
of religious cynicism, cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei's escalating
wealth and power was a magnet for suspicion.
"Many call Opus Dei a brainwashing cult," reporters often challenged.
"Others call you an ultraconservative Christian secret society. Which are
you?"
"Opus Dei is neither," the bishop would patiently reply. "We are a
Catholic Church. We are a congregation of Catholics who have chosen as our
priority to follow Catholic doctrine as rigorously as we can in our own
daily lives."
"Does God's Work necessarily include vows of chastity, tithing, and
atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the cilice?"
"You are describing only a small portion of the Opus Dei population,"
Aringarosa said. "There are many levels of involvement. Thousands of Opus
Dei members are married, have families, and do God's Work in their own
communities. Others choose lives of asceticism within our cloistered
residence halls. These choices are personal, but everyone in Opus Dei shares
the goal of bettering the world by doing the Work of God. Surely this is an
admirable quest."
Reason seldom worked, though. The media always gravitated toward
scandal, and Opus Dei, like most large organizations, had within its
membership a few misguided souls who cast a shadow over the entire group.
Two months ago, an Opus Dei group at a midwestern university had been
caught drugging new recruits with mescaline in an effort to induce a
euphoric state that neophytes would perceive as a religious experience.
Another university student had used his barbed cilice belt more often than
the recommended two hours a day and had given himself a near lethal
infection. In Boston not long ago, a disillusioned young investment banker
had signed over his entire life savings to Opus Dei before attempting
suicide.
Misguided sheep, Aringarosa thought, his heart going out to them.
Of course the ultimate embarrassment had been the widely publicized
trial of FBI spy Robert Hanssen, who, in addition to being a prominent
member of Opus Dei, had turned out to be a sexual deviant, his trial
uncovering evidence that he had rigged hidden video cameras in his own
bedroom so his friends could watch him having sex with his wife. "Hardly the
pastime of a devout Catholic," the judge had noted.
Sadly, all of these events had helped spawn the new watch group known
as the Opus Dei Awareness Network (ODAN). The group's popular
website--www.odan.org--relayed frightening stories from former Opus Dei
members who warned of the dangers of joining. The media was now referring to
Opus Dei as "God's Mafia" and "the Cult of Christ."
We fear what we do not understand, Aringarosa thought, wondering if
these critics had any idea how many lives Opus Dei had enriched. The group
enjoyed the full endorsement and blessing of the Vatican. Opus Dei is a
personal prelature of the Pope himself.
Recently, however, Opus Dei had found itself threatened by a force
infinitely more powerful than the media... an unexpected foe from which
Aringarosa could not possibly hide. Five months ago, the kaleidoscope of
power had been shaken, and Aringarosa was still reeling from the blow.
"They know not the war they have begun," Aringarosa whispered to
himself, staring out the plane's window at the darkness of the ocean below.
For an instant, his eyes refocused, lingering on the reflection of his
awkward face--dark and oblong, dominated by a flat, crooked nose that had
been shattered by a fist in Spain when he was a young missionary. The
physical flaw barely registered now. Aringarosa's was a world of the soul,
not of the flesh.
As the jet passed over the coast of Portugal, the cell phone in
Aringarosa's cassock began vibrating in silent ring mode. Despite airline
regulations prohibiting the use of cell phones during flights, Aringarosa
knew this was a call he could not miss. Only one man possessed this number,
the man who had mailed Aringarosa the phone.
Excited, the bishop answered quietly. "Yes?"
"Silas has located the keystone," the caller said. "It is in Paris.
Within the Church of Saint-Sulpice."
Bishop Aringarosa smiled. "Then we are close."
"We can obtain it immediately. But we need your influence."
"Of course. Tell me what to do."
When Aringarosa switched off the phone, his heart was pounding. He
gazed once again into the void of night, feeling dwarfed by the events he
had put into motion.
Five hundred miles away, the albino named Silas stood over a small
basin of water and dabbed the blood from his back, watching the patterns of
red spinning in the water. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean, he
prayed, quoting Psalms. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Silas was feeling an aroused anticipation that he had not felt since
his previous life. It both surprised and electrified him. For the last
decade, he had been following The Way, cleansing himself of sins...
rebuilding his life... erasing the violence in his past. Tonight, however,
it had all come rushing back. The hatred he had fought so hard to bury had
been summoned. He had been startled how quickly his past had resurfaced. And
with it, of course, had come his skills. Rusty but serviceable.
Jesus' message is one of peace... of nonviolence... of love. This was
the message Silas had been taught from the beginning, and the message he
held in his heart. And yet this was the message the enemies of Christ now
threatened to destroy. Those who threaten God with force will be met with
force. Immovable and steadfast.
For two millennia, Christian soldiers had defended their faith against
those who tried to displace it. Tonight, Silas had been called to battle.
Drying his wounds, he donned his ankle-length, hooded robe. It was
plain, made of dark wool, accentuating the whiteness of his skin and hair.
Tightening the rope-tie around his waist, he raised the hood over his head
and allowed his red eyes to admire his reflection in the mirror. The wheels
are in motion.
CHAPTER 6
Having squeezed beneath the security gate, Robert Langdon now stood
just inside the entrance to the Grand Gallery. He was staring into the mouth
of a long, deep canyon. On either side of the gallery, stark walls rose
thirty feet, evaporating into the darkness above. The reddish glow of the
service lighting sifted upward, casting an unnatural smolder across a
staggering collection of Da Vincis, Titians, and Caravaggios that hung
suspended from ceiling cables. Still lifes, religious scenes, and landscapes
accompanied portraits of nobility and politicians.
Although the Grand Gallery housed the Louvre's most famous Italian art,
many visitors felt the wing's most stunning offering was actually its famous
parquet floor. Laid out in a dazzling geometric design of diagonal oak
slats, the floor produced an ephemeral optical illusion--a multi-dimensional
network that gave visitors the sense they were floating through the gallery
on a surface that changed with every step.
As Langdon's gaze began to trace the inlay, his eyes stopped short on
an unexpected object lying on the floor just a few yards to his left,
surrounded by police tape. He spun toward Fache. "Is that... a Caravaggio on
the floor?"
Fache nodded without even looking.
The painting, Langdon guessed, was worth upward of two million dollars,
and yet it was lying on the floor like a discarded poster. "What the devil
is it doing on the floor!"
Fache glowered, clearly unmoved. "This is a crime scene, Mr. Langdon.
We have touched nothing. That canvas was pulled from the wall by the
curator. It was how he activated the security system."
Langdon looked back at the gate, trying to picture what had happened.
"The curator was attacked in his office, fled into the Grand Gallery,
and activated the security gate by pulling that painting from the wall. The
gate fell immediately, sealing off all access. This is the only door in or
out of this gallery."
Langdon felt confused. "So the curator actually captured his attacker
inside the Grand Gallery?"
Fache shook his head. "The security gate separated Sauniure from his
attacker. The killer was locked out there in the hallway and shot Sauniure
through this gate." Fache pointed toward an orange tag hanging from one of
the bars on the gate under which they had just passed. "The PTS team found
flashback residue from a gun. He fired through the bars. Sauniure died in
here alone."
Langdon pictured the photograph of Sauniure's body. They said he did
that to himself. Langdon looked out at the enormous corridor before them.
"So where is his body?"
Fache straightened his cruciform tie clip and began to walk. "As you
probably know, the Grand Gallery is quite long."
The exact length, if Langdon recalled correctly, was around fifteen
hundred feet, the length of three Washington Monuments laid end to end.
Equally breathtaking was the corridor's width, which easily could have
accommodated a pair of side-by-side passenger trains. The center of the
hallway was dotted by the occasional statue or colossal porcelain urn, which
served as a tasteful divider and kept the flow of traffic moving down one
wall and up the other.
Fache was silent now, striding briskly up the right side of the
corridor with his gaze dead ahead. Langdon felt almost disrespectful to be
racing past so many masterpieces without pausing for so much as a glance.
Not that I could see anything in this lighting, he thought.
The muted crimson lighting unfortunately conjured memories of Langdon's
last experience in noninvasive lighting in the Vatican Secret Archives. This
was tonight's second unsettling parallel with his near-death in Rome. He
flashed on Vittoria again. She had been absent from his dreams for months.
Langdon could not believe Rome had been only a year ago; it felt like
decades. Another life. His last correspondence from Vittoria had been in
December--a postcard saying she was headed to the Java Sea to continue her
research in entanglement physics... something about using satellites to
track manta ray migrations. Langdon had never harbored delusions that a
woman like Vittoria Vetra could have been happy living with him on a college
campus, but their encounter in Rome had unlocked in him a longing he never
imagined he could feel. His lifelong affinity for bachelorhood and the
simple freedoms it allowed had been shaken somehow... replaced by an
unexpected emptiness that seemed to have grown over the past year.
They continued walking briskly, yet Langdon still saw no corpse.
"Jacques Sauniure went this far?"
"Mr. Sauniure suffered a bullet wound to his stomach. He died very
slowly. Perhaps over fifteen or twenty minutes. He was obviously a man of
great personal strength."
Langdon turned, appalled. "Security took fifteen minutes to get here?"
"Of course not. Louvre security responded immediately to the alarm and
found the Grand Gallery sealed. Through the gate, they could hear someone
moving around at the far end of the corridor, but they could not see who it
was. They shouted, but they got no answer. Assuming it could only be a
criminal, they followed protocol and called in the Judicial Police. We took
up positions within fifteen minutes. When we arrived, we raised the
barricade enough to slip underneath, and I sent a dozen armed agents inside.
They swept the length of the gallery to corner the intruder."
"And?"
"They found no one inside. Except..." He pointed farther down the hall.
"Him."
Langdon lifted his gaze and followed Fache's outstretched finger. At
first he thought Fache was pointing to a large marble statue in the middle
of the hallway. As they continued, though, Langdon began to see past the
statue. Thirty yards down the hall, a single spotlight on a portable pole
stand shone down on the floor, creating a stark island of white light in the
dark crimson gallery. In the center of the light, like an insect under a
microscope, the corpse of the curator lay naked on the parquet floor.
"You saw the photograph," Fache said, "so this should be of no
surprise."
Langdon felt a deep chill as they approached the body. Before him was
one of the strangest images he had ever seen.
The pallid corpse of Jacques Sauniure lay on the parquet floor exactly
as it appeared in the photograph. As Langdon stood over the body and
squinted in the harsh light, he reminded himself to his amazement that
Sauniure had spent his last minutes of life arranging his own body in this
strange fashion.
Sauniure looked remarkably fit for a man of his years... and all of his
musculature was in plain view. He had stripped off every shred of clothing,
placed it neatly on the floor, and laid down on his back in the center of
the wide corridor, perfectly aligned with the long axis of the room. His
arms and legs were sprawled outward in a wide spread eagle, like those of a
child making a snow angel... or, perhaps more appropriately, like a man
being drawn and quartered by some invisible force.
Just below Sauniure's breastbone, a bloody smear marked the spot where
the bullet had pierced his flesh. The wound had bled surprisingly little,
leaving only a small pool of blackened blood.
Sauniure's left index finger was also bloody, apparently having been
dipped into the wound to create the most unsettling aspect of his own
macabre deathbed; using his own blood as ink, and employing his own naked
abdomen as a canvas, Sauniure had drawn a simple symbol on his flesh--five
straight lines that intersected to form a five-pointed star.
The pentacle.
The bloody star, centered on Sauniure's navel, gave his corpse a
distinctly ghoulish aura. The photo Langdon had seen was chilling enough,
but now, witnessing the scene in person, Langdon felt a deepening
uneasiness.
He did this to himself.
"Mr. Langdon?" Fache's dark eyes settled on him again.
"It's a pentacle," Langdon offered, his voice feeling hollow in the
huge space. "One of the oldest symbols on earth. Used over four thousand
years before Christ."
"And what does it mean?"
Langdon always hesitated when he got this question. Telling someone
what a symbol "meant" was like telling them how a song should make them
feel--it was different for all people. A white Ku Klux Klan headpiece
conjured images of hatred and racism in the United States, and yet the same
costume carried a meaning of religious faith in Spain.
"Symbols carry different meanings in different settings," Langdon said.
"Primarily, the pentacle is a pagan religious symbol."
Fache nodded. "Devil worship."
"No," Langdon corrected, immediately realizing his choice of vocabulary
should have been clearer.
Nowadays, the term pagan had become almost synonymous with devil
worship--a gross misconception. The word's roots actually reached back to
the Latin paganus, meaning country-dwellers. "Pagans" were literally
unindoctrinated country-folk who clung to the old, rural religions of Nature
worship. In fact, so strong was the Church's fear of those who lived in the
rural villes that the once innocuous word for "villager"--villain--came to
mean a wicked soul.
"The pentacle," Langdon clarified, "is a pre-Christian symbol that
relates to Nature worship. The ancients envisioned their world in two
halves--masculine and feminine. Their gods and goddesses worked to keep a
balance of power. Yin and yang. When male and female were balanced, there
was harmony in the world. When they were unbalanced, there was chaos."
Langdon motioned to Sauniure's stomach. "This pentacle is representative of
the female half of all things--a concept religious historians call the
'sacred feminine' or the 'divine goddess.' Sauniure, of all people, would
know this."
"Sauniure drew a goddess symbol on his stomach?"
Langdon had to admit, it seemed odd. "In its most specific
interpretation, the pentacle symbolizes Venus--the goddess of female sexual
love and beauty."
Fache eyed the naked man, and grunted.
"Early religion was based on the divine order of Nature. The goddess
Venus and the planet Venus were one and the same. The goddess had a place in
the nighttime sky and was known by many names--Venus, the Eastern Star,
Ishtar, Astarte--all of them powerful female concepts with ties to Nature
and Mother Earth."
Fache looked more troubled now, as if he somehow preferred the idea of
devil worship.
Langdon decided not to share the pentacle's most astonishing
property--the graphic origin of its ties to Venus. As a young astronomy
student, Langdon had been stunned to learn the planet Venus traced a perfect
pentacle across the ecliptic sky every four years. So astonished were the
ancients to observe this phenomenon, that Venus and her pentacle became
symbols of perfection, beauty, and the cyclic qualities of sexual love. As a
tribute to the magic of Venus, the Greeks used her four-year cycle to
organize their Olympiads. Nowadays, few people realized that the four-year
schedule of modern Olympic Games still followed the cycles of Venus. Even
fewer people knew that the five-pointed star had almost become the official
Olympic seal but was modified at the last moment--its five points exchanged
for five intersecting rings to better reflect the games' spirit of inclusion
and harmony.
"Mr. Langdon," Fache said abruptly. "Obviously, the pentacle must also
relate to the devil. Your American horror movies make that point clearly."
Langdon frowned. Thank you, Hollywood. The five-pointed star was now a
virtual clichu in Satanic serial killer movies, usually scrawled on the wall
of some Satanist's apartment along with other alleged demonic symbology.
Langdon was always frustrated when he saw the symbol in this context; the
pentacle's true origins were actually quite godly.
"I assure you," Langdon said, "despite what you see in the movies, the
pentacle's demonic interpretation is historically inaccurate. The original
feminine meaning is correct, but the symbolism of the pentacle has been
distorted over the millennia. In this case, through bloodshed."
"I'm not sure I follow."
Langdon glanced at Fache's crucifix, uncertain how to phrase his next
point. "The Church, sir. Symbols are very resilient, but the pentacle was
altered by the early Roman Catholic Church. As part of the Vatican's
campaign to eradicate pagan religions and convert the masses to
Christianity, the Church launched a smear campaign against the pagan gods
and goddesses, recasting their divine symbols as evil."
"Go on."
"This is very common in times of turmoil," Langdon continued. "A newly
emerging power will take over the existing symbols and degrade them over
time in an attempt to erase their meaning. In the battle between the pagan
symbols and Christian symbols, the pagans lost; Poseidon's trident became
the devil's pitchfork, the wise crone's pointed hat became the symbol of a
witch, and Venus's pentacle became a sign of the devil." Langdon paused.
"Unfortunately, the United States military has also perverted the pentacle;
it's now our foremost symbol of war. We paint it on all our fighter jets and
hang it on the shoulders of all our generals." So much for the goddess of
love and beauty.
"Interesting." Fache nodded toward the spread-eagle corpse. "And the
positioning of the body? What do you make of that?"
Langdon shrugged. "The position simply reinforces the reference to the
pentacle and sacred feminine."
Fache's expression clouded. "I beg your pardon?"
"Replication. Repeating a symbol is the simplest way to strengthen its
meaning. Jacques Sauniure positioned himself in the shape of a five-pointed
star." If one pentacle is good, two is better.
Fache's eyes followed the five points of Sauniure's arms, legs, and
head as he again ran a hand across his slick hair. "Interesting analysis."
He paused. "And the nudity?" He grumbled as he spoke the word, sounding
repulsed by the sight of an aging male body. "Why did he remove his
clothing?"
Damned good question, Langdon thought. He'd been wondering the same
thing ever since he first saw the Polaroid. His best guess was that a naked
human form was yet another endorsement of Venus--the goddess of human
sexuality. Although modern culture had erased much of Venus's association
with the male/female physical union, a sharp etymological eye could still
spot a vestige of Venus's original meaning in the word "venereal." Langdon
decided not to go there.
"Mr. Fache, I obviously can't tell you why Mr. Sauniure drew that
symbol on himself or placed himself in this way, but I can tell you that a
man like Jacques Sauniure would consider the pentacle a sign of the female
deity. The correlation between this symbol and the sacred feminine is widely
known by art historians and symbologists."
"Fine. And the use of his own blood as ink?"
"Obviously he had nothing else to write with."
Fache was silent a moment. "Actually, I believe he used blood such that
the police would follow certain forensic procedures."
"I'm sorry?"
"Look at his left hand."
Langdon's eyes traced the length of the curator's pale arm to his left
hand but saw nothing. Uncertain, he circled the corpse and crouched down,
now noting with surprise that the curator was clutching a large, felt-tipped
marker.
"Sauniure was holding it when we found him," Fache said, leaving
Langdon and moving several yards to a portable table covered with
investigation tools, cables, and assorted electronic gear. "As I told you,"
he said, rummaging around the table, "we have touched nothing. Are you
familiar with this kind of pen?"
Langdon knelt down farther to see the pen's label.
STYLO DE LUMIERE NOIRE.
He glanced up in surprise.
The black-light pen or watermark stylus was a specialized felt-tipped
marker originally designed by museums, restorers, and forgery police to
place invisible marks on items. The stylus wrote in a noncorrosive,
alcohol-based fluorescent ink that was visible only under black light.
Nowadays, museum maintenance staffs carried these markers on their daily
rounds to place invisible "tick marks" on the frames of paintings that
needed restoration.
As Langdon stood up, Fache walked over to the spotlight and turned it
off. The gallery plunged into sudden darkness.
Momentarily blinded, Langdon felt a rising uncertainty. Fache's
silhouette appeared, illuminated in bright purple. He approached carrying a
portable light source, which shrouded him in a violet haze.
"As you may know," Fache said, his eyes luminescing in the violet glow,
"police use black-light illumination to search crime scenes for blood and
other forensic evidence. So you can imagine our surprise..." Abruptly, he
pointed the light down at the corpse.
Langdon looked down and jumped back in shock.
His heart pounded as he took in the bizarre sight now glowing before
him on the parquet floor. Scrawled in luminescent handwriting, the curator's
final words glowed purple beside his corpse. As Langdon stared at the
shimmering text, he felt the fog that had surrounded this entire night
growing thicker.
Langdon read the message again and looked up at Fache. "What the hell
does this mean!"
Fache's eyes shone white. "That, monsieur, is precisely the question
you are here to answer."
Not far away, inside Sauniure's office, Lieutenant Collet had returned
to the Louvre and was huddled over an audio console set up on the curator's
enormous desk. With the exception of the eerie, robot-like doll of a
medieval knight that seemed to be staring at him from the corner of
Sauniure's desk, Collet was comfortable. He adjusted his AKG headphones and
checked the input levels on the hard-disk recording system. All systems were
go. The microphones were functioning flawlessly, and the audio feed was
crystal clear.
Le moment de vuritu, he mused.
Smiling, he closed his eyes and settled in to enjoy the rest of the
conversation now being taped inside the Grand Gallery.
CHAPTER 7
The modest dwelling within the Church of Saint-Sulpice was located on
the second floor of the church itself, to the left of the choir balcony. A
two-room suite with a stone floor and minimal furnishings, it had been home
to Sister Sandrine Bieil for over a decade. The nearby convent was her
formal residence, if anyone asked, but she preferred the quiet of the church
and had made herself quite comfortable upstairs with a bed, phone, and hot
plate.
As the church's conservatrice d'affaires, Sister Sandrine was
responsible for overseeing all nonreligious aspects of church
operations--general maintenance, hiring support staff and guides, securing
the building after hours, and ordering supplies like communion wine and
wafers.
Tonight, asleep in her small bed, she awoke to the shrill of her
telephone. Tiredly, she lifted the receiver.
"Soeur Sandrine. Eglise Saint-Sulpice."
"Hello, Sister," the man said in French.
Sister Sandrine sat up. What time is it? Although she recognized her
boss's voice, in fifteen years she had never been awoken by him. The abbu
was a deeply pious man who went home to bed immediately after mass.
"I apologize if I have awoken you, Sister," the abbu said, his own
voice sounding groggy and on edge. "I have a favor to ask of you. I just
received a call from an influential American bishop. Perhaps you know him?
Manuel Aringarosa?"
"The head of Opus Dei?" Of course I know of him. Who in the Church
doesn't? Aringarosa's conservative prelature had grown powerful in recent
years. Their ascension to grace was jump-started in 1982 when Pope John Paul
II unexpectedly elevated them to a "personal prelature of the Pope,"
officially sanctioning all of their practices. Suspiciously, Opus Dei's
elevation occurred the same year the wealthy sect allegedly had transferred
almost one billion dollars into the Vatican's Institute for Religious
Works--commonly known as the Vatican Bank--bailing it out of an embarrassing
bankruptcy. In a second maneuver that raised eyebrows, the Pope placed the
founder of Opus Dei on the "fast track" for sainthood, accelerating an often
century-long waiting period for canonization to a mere twenty years. Sister
Sandrine could not help but feel that Opus Dei's good standing in Rome was
suspect, but one did not argue with the Holy See.
"Bishop Aringarosa called to ask me a favor," the abbu told her, his
voice nervous. "One of his numeraries is in Paris tonight...."
As Sister Sandrine listened to the odd request, she felt a deepening
confusion. "I'm sorry, you say this visiting Opus Dei numerary cannot wait
until morning?"
"I'm afraid not. His plane leaves very early. He has always dreamed of
seeing Saint-Sulpice."
"But the church is far more interesting by day. The sun's rays through
the oculus, the graduated shadows on the gnomon, this is what makes
Saint-Sulpice unique."
"Sister, I agree, and yet I would consider it a personal favor if you
could let him in tonight. He can be there at... say one o'clock? That's in
twenty minutes."
Sister Sandrine frowned. "Of course. It would be my pleasure."
The abbu thanked her and hung up.
Puzzled, Sister Sandrine remained a moment in the warmth of her bed,
trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. Her sixty-year-old body did not
awake as fast as it used to, although tonight's phone call had certainly
roused her senses. Opus Dei had always made her uneasy. Beyond the
prelature's adherence to the arcane ritual of corporal mortification, their
views on women were medieval at best. She had been shocked to learn that
female numeraries were forced to clean the men's residence halls for no pay
while the men were at mass; women slept on hardwood floors, while the men
had straw mats; and women were forced to endure additional requirements of
corporal mortification... all as added penance for original sin. It seemed
Eve's bite from the apple of knowledge was a debt women were doomed to pay
for eternity. Sadly, while most of the Catholic Church was gradually moving
in the right direction with respect to women's rights, Opus Dei threatened
to reverse the progress. Even so, Sister Sandrine had her orders.
Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood slowly, chilled by the cold
stone on the soles of her bare feet. As the chill rose through her flesh,
she felt an unexpected apprehension.
Women's intuition?
A follower of God, Sister Sandrine had learned to find peace in the
calming voices of her own soul. Tonight, however, those voices were as
silent as the empty church around her.
CHAPTER 8
Langdon couldn't tear his eyes from the glowing purple text scrawled
across the parquet floor. Jacques Sauniure's final communication seemed as
unlikely a departing message as any Langdon could imagine.
The message read:
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
Although Langdon had not the slightest idea what it meant, he did
understand Fache's instinct that the pentacle had something to do with devil
worship.
O, Draconian devil!
Sauniure had left a literal reference to the devil. Equally as bizarre
was the series of numbers. "Part of it looks like a numeric cipher."
"Yes," Fache said. "Our cryptographers are already working on it. We
believe these numbers may be the key to who killed him. Maybe a telephone
exchange or some kind of social identification. Do the numbers have any
symbolic meaning to you?"
Langdon looked again at the digits, sensing it would take him hours to
extract any symbolic meaning. If Sauniure had even intended any. To Langdon,
the numbers looked totally random. He was accustomed to symbolic
progressions that made some semblance of sense, but everything here--the
pentacle, the text, the numbers--seemed disparate at the most fundamental
level.
"You alleged earlier," Fache said, "that Sauniure's actions here were
all in an effort to send some sort of message... goddess worship or
something in that vein? How does this message fit in?"
Langdon knew the question was rhetorical. This bizarre communiquu
obviously did not fit Langdon's scenario of goddess worship at all.
O, Draconian devil? Oh, lame saint?
Fache said, "This text appears to be an accusation of some sort.
Wouldn't you agree?"
Langdon tried to imagine the curator's final minutes trapped alone in
the Grand Gallery, knowing he was about to die. It seemed logical. "An
accusation against his murderer makes sense, I suppose."
"My job, of course, is to put a name to that person. Let me ask you
this, Mr. Langdon. To your eye, beyond the numbers, what about this message
is most strange?"
Most strange? A dying man had barricaded himself in the gallery, drawn
a pentacle on himself, and scrawled a mysterious accusation on the floor.
What about the scenario wasn't strange?
"The word 'Draconian'?" he ventured, offering the first thing that came
to mind. Langdon was fairly certain that a reference to Draco--the ruthless
seventh-century B.C. politician--was an unlikely dying thought. " 'Draconian
devil' seems an odd choice of vocabulary."
"Draconian?" Fache's tone came with a tinge of impatience now.
"Sauniure's choice of vocabulary hardly seems the primary issue here."
Langdon wasn't sure what issue Fache had in mind, but he was starting
to suspect that Draco and Fache would have gotten along well.
"Sauniure was a Frenchman," Fache said flatly. "He lived in Paris. And
yet he chose to write this message..."
"In English," Langdon said, now realizing the captain's meaning.
Fache nodded. "Prucisument. Any idea why?"
Langdon knew Sauniure spoke impeccable English, and yet the reason he
had chosen English as the language in which to write his final words escaped
Langdon. He shrugged.
Fache motioned back to the pentacle on Sauniure's abdomen. "Nothing to
do with devil worship? Are you still certain?"
Langdon was certain of nothing anymore. "The symbology and text don't
seem to coincide. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
"Perhaps this will clarify." Fache backed away from the body and raised
the black light again, letting the beam spread out in a wider angle. "And
now?"
To Langdon's amazement, a rudimentary circle glowed around the
curator's body. Sauniure had apparently lay down and swung the pen around
himself in several long arcs, essentially inscribing himself inside a
circle.
In a flash, the meaning became clear.
"The Vitruvian Man," Langdon gasped. Sauniure had created a life-sized
replica of Leonardo da Vinci's most famous sketch.
Considered the most anatomically correct drawing of its day, Da Vinci's
The Vitruvian Man had become a modern-day icon of culture, appearing on
posters, mouse pads, and T-shirts around the world. The celebrated sketch
consisted of a perfect circle in which was inscribed a nude male... his arms
and legs outstretched in a naked spread eagle.
Da Vinci. Langdon felt a shiver of amazement. The clarity of Sauniure's
intentions could not be denied. In his final moments of life, the curator
had stripped off his clothing and arranged his body in a clear image of
Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man.
The circle had been the missing critical element. A feminine symbol of
protection, the circle around the naked man's body completed Da Vinci's
intended message--male and female harmony. The question now, though, was why
Sauniure would imitate a famous drawing.
"Mr. Langdon," Fache said, "certainly a man like yourself is aware that
Leonardo da Vinci had a tendency toward the darker arts."
Langdon was surprised by Fache's knowledge of Da Vinci, and it
certainly went a long way toward explaining the captain's suspicions about
devil worship. Da Vinci had always been an awkward subject for historians,
especially in the Christian tradition. Despite the visionary's genius, he
was a flamboyant homosexual and worshipper of Nature's divine order, both of
which placed him in a perpetual state of sin against God. Moreover, the
artist's eerie eccentricities projected an admittedly demonic aura: Da Vinci
exhumed corpses to study human anatomy; he kept mysterious journals in
illegible reverse handwriting; he believed he possessed the alchemic power
to turn lead into gold and even cheat God by creating an elixir to postpone
death; and his inventions included horrific, never-before-imagined weapons
of war and torture.
Misunderstanding breeds distrust, Langdon thought.
Even Da Vinci's enormous output of breathtaking Christian art only
furthered the artist's reputation for spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting
hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da Vinci painted Christian themes
not as an expression of his own beliefs but rather as a commercial
venture--a means of funding a lavish lifestyle. Unfortunately, Da Vinci was
a prankster who often amused himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed
him. He incorporated in many of his Christian paintings hidden symbolism
that was anything but Christian--tributes to his own beliefs and a subtle
thumbing of his nose at the Church. Langdon had even given a lecture once at
the National Gallery in London entitled: "The Secret Life of Leonardo: Pagan
Symbolism in Christian Art."
"I understand your concerns," Langdon now said, "but Da Vinci never
really practiced any dark arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man,
albeit one in constant conflict with the Church." As Langdon said this, an
odd thought popped into his mind. He glanced down at the message on the
floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
"Yes?" Fache said.
Langdon weighed his words carefully. "I was just thinking that Sauniure
shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da Vinci, including a concern over
the Church's elimination of the sacred feminine from modern religion. Maybe,
by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Sauniure was simply echoing some of
their shared frustrations with the modern Church's demonization of the
goddess."
Fache's eyes hardened. "You think Sauniure is calling the Church a lame
saint and a Draconian devil?"
Langdon had to admit it seemed far-fetched, and yet the pentacle seemed
to endorse the idea on some level. "All I am saying is that Mr. Sauniure
dedicated his life to studying the history of the goddess, and nothing has
done more to erase that history than the Catholic Church. It seems
reasonable that Sauniure might have chosen to express his disappointment in
his final good-bye."
"Disappointment?" Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. "This message
sounds more enraged than disappointed, wouldn't you say?"
Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. "Captain, you asked for
my instincts as to what Sauniure is trying to say here, and that's what I'm
giving you."
"That this is an indictment of the Church?" Fache's jaw tightened as he
spoke through clenched teeth. "Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my
work, and let me tell you something. When a man is murdered by another man,
I do not believe his final thoughts are to write an obscure spiritual
statement that no one will understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing
only." Fache's whispery voice sliced the air. "La vengeance. I believe
Sauniure wrote this note to tell us who killed him." Langdon stared. "But
that makes no sense whatsoever."
"No?"
"No," he fired back, tired and frustrated. "You told me Sauniure was
attacked in his office by someone he had apparently invited in."
"Yes."
"So it seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his
attacker."
Fache nodded. "Go on."
"So if Sauniure knew the person who killed him, what kind of indictment
is this?" He pointed at the floor. "Numeric codes? Lame saints? Draconian
devils? Pentacles on his stomach? It's all too cryptic."
Fache frowned as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You have a
point."
"Considering the circumstances," Langdon said, "I would assume that if
Sauniure wanted to tell you who killed him, he would have written down
somebody's name."
As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Fache's lips for the
first time all night. "Prucisument," Fache said. "Prucisument."I am witnessing the work of a master, mused Lieutenant Collet as he
tweaked his audio gear and listened to Fache's voice coming through the
headphones. The agent supurieur knew it was moments like these that had
lifted the captain to the pinnacle of French law enforcement.
Fache will do what no one else dares.
The delicate art of cajoler was a lost skill in modern law enforcement,
one that required exceptional poise under pressure. Few men possessed the
necessary sangfroid for this kind of operation, but Fache seemed born for
it. His restraint and patience bordered on the robotic.
Fache's sole emotion this evening seemed to be one of intense resolve,
as if this arrest were somehow personal to him. Fache's briefing of his
agents an hour ago had been unusually succinct and assured. I know who
murdered Jacques Sauniure, Fache had said. You know what to do. No mistakes
tonight.
And so far, no mistakes had been made.
Collet was not yet privy to the evidence that had cemented Fache's
certainty of their suspect's guilt, but he knew better than to question the
instincts of the Bull. Fache's intuition seemed almost supernatural at
times. God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly
impressive display of Fache's sixth sense. Collet had to admit, if there was
a God, Bezu Fache would be on His A-list. The captain attended mass and
confession with zealous regularity--far more than the requisite holiday
attendance fulfilled by other officials in the name of good public
relations. When the Pope visited Paris a few years back, Fache had used all
his muscle to obtain the honor of an audience. A photo of Fache with the
Pope now hung in his office. The Papal Bull, the agents secretly called it.
Collet found it ironic that one of Fache's rare popular public stances
in recent years had been his outspoken reaction to the Catholic pedophilia
scandal. These priests should be hanged twice! Fache had declared. Once for
their crimes against children. And once for shaming the good name of the
Catholic Church. Collet had the odd sense it was the latter that angered
Fache more.
Turning now to his laptop computer, Collet attended to the other half
of his responsibilities here tonight--the GPS tracking system. The image
onscreen revealed a detailed floor plan of the Denon Wing, a structural
schematic uploaded from the Louvre Security Office. Letting his eyes trace
the maze of galleries and hallways, Collet found what he was looking for.
Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery blinked a tiny red dot.
La marque.
Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so.
Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer.
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 cachue--especially at
this critical juncture.
He gave Langdon a calm look of apology. "One moment please." He pulled
the phone from his belt and pressed the radio transmission button. "Oui?""Capitaine, un agent du Dupartement de Cryptographie est arrivu."
Fache's anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy
timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Sauniure's cryptic
text on the floor, had uploaded photographs of the entire crime scene to the
Cryptography Department in hopes someone there could tell him what the hell
Sauniure was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most
likely meant someone had decrypted Sauniure's message.
"I'm busy at the moment," Fache radioed back, leaving no doubt in his
tone that a line had been crossed. "Ask the cryptographer to wait at the
command post. I'll speak to him when I'm done."
"Her," the voice corrected. "It's Agent Neveu."
Fache was becoming less amused with this call every passing moment.
Sophie Neveu was one of DCPJ's biggest mistakes. A young Parisian
duchiffreuse who had studied cryptography in England at the Royal Holloway,
Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part of the
ministry's attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The
ministry's ongoing foray into political correctness, Fache argued, was
weakening the department. Women not only lacked the physicality necessary
for police work, but their mere presence posed a dangerous distraction to
the men in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving far more
distracting than most.
At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination that bordered
on obstinate. Her eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic methodology
continually exasperated the veteran French cryptographers above her. And by
far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable universal truth that in
an office of middle-aged men, an attractive young woman always drew eyes
away from the work at hand.
The man on the radio said, "Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you
immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the
gallery."
Fache recoiled in disbelief. "Unacceptable! I made it very clear--"
For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke.
The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes
bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's
shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's
voice chime out behind him.
"Excusez-moi, messieurs."
Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down
the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides... a haunting certainty to
her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater
over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her
thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of
her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard
dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and
genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence.
To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended
a polite hand. "Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology
Department." Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent.
"It is a pleasure to meet you."
Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in
her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green--incisive and clear.
Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a
reprimand.
"Captain," she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch,
"please excuse the interruption, but--"
"Ce n'est pas le moment!" Fache sputtered.
"I tried to phone you." Sophie continued in English, as if out of
courtesy to Langdon. "But your cell phone was turned off."
"I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am speaking to Mr.
Langdon."
"I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code?
Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
"Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for Mr.
Langdon."
Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr.
Langdon?"
She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S.
Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States."
Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way
to a sudden ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to
imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew
he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he
demanded, sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon
here?"
Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the
concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent."
Fache looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?"
"No, sir," Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the DCPJ
switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr.
Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you."
Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to
speak, but Sophie had already turned back to Langdon.
"Mr. Langdon," she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her
pocket, "this is the number for your embassy's messaging service. They asked
that you phone in as soon as possible." She handed him the paper with an
intent gaze. "While I explain the code to Captain Fache, you need to make
this call."
Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on
it. "Thank you," he said, feeling worried now. "Where do I find a phone?"
Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache
waved her off. He now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without
taking his eyes off Sophie, he produced his own cell phone and held it out.
"This line is secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it."
Langdon felt mystified by Fache's anger with the young woman. Feeling
uneasy, he accepted the captain's phone. Fache immediately marched Sophie
several steps away and began chastising her in hushed tones. Disliking the
captain more and more, Langdon turned away from the odd confrontation and
switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of paper Sophie had given him,
Langdon dialed the number.
The line began to ring.
One ring... two rings... three rings...
Finally the call connected.
Langdon expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself
instead listening to an answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was
familiar. It was that of Sophie Neveu.
"Bonjour, vous utes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the woman's voice said.
"Je suis absenle pour le moment, mais..."
Confused, Langdon turned back toward Sophie. "I'm sorry, Ms. Neveu? I
think you may have given me--"
"No, that's the right number," Sophie interjected quickly, as if
anticipating Langdon's confusion. "The embassy has an automated message
system. You have to dial an access code to pick up your messages."
Langdon stared. "But--"
"It's the three-digit code on the paper I gave you."
Langdon opened his mouth to explain the bizarre error, but Sophie
flashed him a silencing glare that lasted only an instant. Her green eyes
sent a crystal-clear message.
Don't ask questions. Just do it.
Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the slip of paper: 454.
Sophie's outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon heard an
electronic voice announce in French: "You have one new message." Apparently,
454 was Sophie's remote access code for picking up her messages while away
from home.
I'm picking up this woman's messages?
Langdon could hear the tape rewinding now. Finally, it stopped, and the
machine engaged. Langdon listened as the message began to play. Again, the
voice on the line was Sophie's.
"Mr. Langdon," the message began in a fearful whisper. "Do not react to
this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my
directions very closely."
CHAPTER 10
Silas sat behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had arranged
for him and gazed out at the great Church of Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath
by banks of floodlights, the church's two bell towers rose like stalwart
sentinels above the building's long body. On either flank, a shadowy row of
sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a beautiful beast.
The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone. Again the
brotherhood had confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion and
deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding the keystone and giving it to
the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long ago stolen
from the faithful.
How powerful that will make Opus Dei.
Parking the Audi on the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled,
telling himself to clear his mind for the task at hand. His broad back still
ached from the corporal mortification he had endured earlier today, and yet
the pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life before
Opus Dei had saved him.
Still, the memories haunted his soul.
Release your hatred, Silas commanded himself. Forgive those who
trespassed against you.
Looking up at the stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that
familiar undertow... that force that often dragged his mind back in time,
locking him once again in the prison that had been his world as a young man.
The memories of purgatory came as they always did, like a tempest to his
senses... the reek of rotting cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and
feces. The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees
and the soft sobs of forgotten men.
Andorra, he thought, feeling his muscles tighten.
Incredibly, it was in that barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain
and France, shivering in his stone cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had
been saved.
He had not realized it at the time.
The light came long after the thunder.
His name was not Silas then, although he didn't recall the name his
parents had given him. He had left home when he was seven. His drunken
father, a burly dockworker, enraged by the arrival of an albino son, beat
his mother regularly, blaming her for the boy's embarrassing condition. When
the boy tried to defend her, he too was badly beaten.
One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got up. The
boy stood over his lifeless mother and felt an unbearable up-welling of
guilt for permitting it to happen.
This is my fault!
As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to
the kitchen and grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the
bedroom where his father lay on the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word,
the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in pain and tried to
roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment
fell quiet.
The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally
unfriendly. His strange appearance made him an outcast among the other young
runaways, and he was forced to live alone in the basement of a dilapidated
factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His only companions
were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to read
them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter--a girl
twice his age--mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food.
The girl found herself pummeled to within inches of her life. When the
authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him an ultimatum--leave
Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.
The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on
the streets turned to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young
man. When people passed by, he could hear them whispering to one another. A
ghost, they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they stared at his
white skin. A ghost with the eyes of a devil!
And he felt like a ghost... transparent... floating from seaport to
seaport.
People seemed to look right through him.
At eighteen, in a port town, while attempting to steal a case of cured
ham from a cargo ship, he was caught by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors
who began to beat him smelled of beer, just as his father had. The memories
of fear and hatred surfaced like a monster from the deep. The young man
broke the first sailor's neck with his bare hands, and only the arrival of
the police saved the second sailor from a similar fate.
Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in Andorra.
You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards
marched him in, naked and cold. Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will
pass right through these walls!
Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he
knew he had become transparent.
I am a ghost.I am weightless.Yo soy un espectro... palido coma una fantasma... caminando este mundo
a solas.
One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn't
know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor what
mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to
his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been
sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in
the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten
years. The moon.
Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling
through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and
tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always
downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.
Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a
clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the
rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled
in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving. How long? How
far? A pain was growing in his gut. Am I dying? He slept again. This time he
awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car.
Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for
food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the
side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.
The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been
dead. A day? Three days? It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud,
and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring
down at him. I am here, Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you
are born again.
He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in
heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed,
and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his
bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down,
speaking. You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path.
Again, he slept.
It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber.
His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of
shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller
man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him
backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the
body of a young man in priest's robes. The priest had a badly shattered
nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.
"Thank you, my friend," the priest said in awkward French. "The
offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do
you also speak Spanish?"
The ghost shook his head.
"What is your name?" he continued in broken French.
The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he
heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.
The priest smiled. "No hay problema. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am
a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de
Dios."
"Where am I?" His voice sounded hollow.
"Oviedo. In the north of Spain."
"How did I get here?"
"Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You've been
here many days."
The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone
had shown any kindness. "Thank you, Father."
The priest touched his bloody lip. "It is I who am thankful, my
friend."
When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed
up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to
him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised
to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in
French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of
an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many
dangerous criminals.
His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The emotion he
felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied
by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I run?
"The Book of Acts," a voice said from the door.
The ghost turned, frightened.
The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly
bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. "I found one in French for
you. The chapter is marked."
Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the chapter the
priest had marked.
Acts 16.
The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in
his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped
in shock.
"...And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations
of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open."
His eyes shot up at the priest.
The priest smiled warmly. "From now on, my friend, if you have no other
name, I shall call you Silas."
The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is
Silas.
"It's time for breakfast," the priest said. "You will need your
strength if you are to help me build this church."
Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618
bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop
Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei.
Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone
Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.
"It is for your own safety," the Teacher had explained, speaking in
English with a French accent. "I am familiar enough with electronic
communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be
disastrous for you."
Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally
careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he
had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow
obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood's four top
members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the
Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he
could unearth.
"Bishop," the Teacher had told him, "I have made all the arrangements.
For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to me for
several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him
through secure channels."
"You will treat him with respect?"
"A man of faith deserves the highest."
"Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this
is over."
"I do this to protect your identity, Silas's identity, and my
investment."
"Your investment?"
"Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in
jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee."
The bishop smiled. "A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed."
Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane's
window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A
pittance for something so powerful.
He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail.
Money and faith were powerful motivators.
CHAPTER 11
"Une plaisanterie numurique?" Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie
Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? "Your professional assessment of
Sauniure's code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?"
Fache was in utter incomprehension of this woman's gall. Not only had
she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying to
convince him that Sauniure, in his final moments of life, had been inspired
to leave a mathematical gag?
"This code," Sophie explained in rapid French, "is simplistic to the
point of absurdity. Jacques Sauniure must have known we would see through it
immediately." She pulled a scrap of paper from her sweater pocket and handed
it to Fache. "Here is the decryption."
Fache looked at the card.
1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21
"This is it?" he snapped. "All you did was put the numbers in
increasing order!"
Sophie actually had the nerve to give a satisfied smile. "Exactly."
Fache's tone lowered to a guttural rumble. "Agent Neveu, I have no idea
where the hell you're going with this, but I suggest you get there fast." He
shot an anxious glance at Langdon, who stood nearby with the phone pressed
to his ear, apparently still listening to his phone message from the U.S.
Embassy. From Langdon's ashen expression, Fache sensed the news was bad.
"Captain," Sophie said, her tone dangerously defiant, "the sequence of
numbers you have in your hand happens to be one of the most famous
mathematical progressions in history."
Fache was not aware there even existed a mathematical progression that
qualified as famous, and he certainly didn't appreciate Sophie's off-handed
tone.
"This is the Fibonacci sequence," she declared, nodding toward the
piece of paper in Fache's hand. "A progression in which each term is equal
to the sum of the two preceding terms."
Fache studied the numbers. Each term was indeed the sum of the two
previous, and yet Fache could not imagine what the relevance of all this was
to Sauniure's death.
"Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of numbers in
the thirteenth-century. Obviously there can be no coincidence that all of
the numbers Sauniure wrote on the floor belong to Fibonacci's famous
sequence."
Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. "Fine, if there is
no coincidence, would you tell me why Jacques Sauniure chose to do this.
What is he saying? What does this mean?"
She shrugged. "Absolutely nothing. That's the point. It's a simplistic
cryptographic joke. Like taking the words of a famous poem and shuffling
them at random to see if anyone recognizes what all the words have in
common."
Fache took a menacing step forward, placing his face only inches from
Sophie's. "I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying explanation than
that."
Sophie's soft features grew surprisingly stern as she leaned in.
"Captain, considering what you have at stake here tonight, I thought you
might appreciate knowing that Jacques Sauniure might be playing games with
you. Apparently not. I'll inform the director of Cryptography you no longer
need our services."
With that, she turned on her heel, and marched off the way she had
come.
Stunned, Fache watched her disappear into the darkness. Is she out of
her mind? Sophie Neveu had just redefined le suicide professionnel.
Fache turned to Langdon, who was still on the phone, looking more
concerned than before, listening intently to his phone message. The U.S.
Embassy. Bezu Fache despised many things... but few drew more wrath than the
U.S. Embassy.
Fache and the ambassador locked horns regularly over shared affairs of
state--their most common battleground being law enforcement for visiting
Americans. Almost daily, DCPJ arrested American exchange students in
possession of drugs, U.S. businessmen for soliciting underage Prostitutes,
American tourists for shoplifting or destruction of property. Legally, the
U.S. Embassy could intervene and extradite guilty citizens back to the
United States, where they received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
And the embassy invariably did just that.
L'umasculation de la Police Judiciaire, Fache called it. Paris Match
had run a cartoon recently depicting Fache as a police dog, trying to bite
an American criminal, but unable to reach because it was chained to the U.S.
Embassy.
Not tonight, Fache told himself. There is far too much at stake.
By the time Robert Langdon hung up the phone, he looked ill.
"Is everything all right?" Fache asked.
Weakly, Langdon shook his head.
Bad news from home, Fache sensed, noticing Langdon was sweating
slightly as Fache took back his cell phone.
"An accident," Langdon stammered, looking at Fache with a strange
expression. "A friend..." He hesitated. "I'll need to fly home first thing
in the morning."
Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdon's face was genuine, and yet he
sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant fear were suddenly
simmering in the American's eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," Fache said,
watching Langdon closely. "Would you like to sit down?" He motioned toward
one of the viewing benches in the gallery.
Langdon nodded absently and took a few steps toward the bench. He
paused, looking more confused with every moment. "Actually, I think I'd like
to use the rest room."
Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. "The rest room. Of course. Let's
take a break for a few minutes." He motioned back down the long hallway in
the direction they had come from. "The rest rooms are back toward the
curator's office."
Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward the far end
of the Grand Gallery corridor. "I believe there's a much closer rest room at
the end."
Fache realized Langdon was right. They were two thirds of the way down,
and the Grand Gallery dead-ended at a pair of rest rooms. "Shall I accompany
you?"
Langdon shook his head, already moving deeper into the gallery. "Not
necessary. I think I'd like a few minutes alone."
Fache was not wild about the idea of Langdon wandering alone down the
remaining length of corridor, but he took comfort in knowing the Grand
Gallery was a dead end whose only exit was at the other end--the gate under
which they had entered. Although Fre
