Chapter 8

   Langdon couldn’t tear his eyes from the glowing purple text scrawled across the parquet floor. Jacques Saunière’s final communication seemed as unlikely a departing message as any Langdon could imagine.
   The message read:
   1332211185

   O, Draconian devil!
   Oh, lame saint!


* * *

   Although Langdon had not the slightest idea what it meant, he did understand Fache’s instinct that the pentacle had something to do with devil worship.
   O, Draconian devil!
   Saunière had left a literal reference to the devil. Equally as bizarre was the series of numbers. “Part of it looks like a numeric cipher.”
   “Yes,” Fache said. “Our cryptographers are already working on it. We believe these numbers may be the key to who killed him. Maybe a telephone exchange or some kind of social identification. Do the numbers have any symbolic meaning to you?”
   Langdon looked again at the digits, sensing it would take him hours to extract any symbolic meaning. If Saunière had even intended any. To Langdon, the numbers looked totally random. He was accustomed to symbolic progressions that made some semblance of sense, but everything here—the pentacle, the text, the numbers—seemed disparate at the most fundamental level.
   “You alleged earlier,” Fache said, “that Saunière’s actions here were all in an effort to send some sort of message… goddess worship or something in that vein? How does this message fit in?”
   Langdon knew the question was rhetorical. This bizarre communiqué obviously did not fit Langdon’s scenario of goddess worship at all.
   O, Draconian devil? Oh, lame saint?
   Fache said, “This text appears to be an accusation of some sort. Wouldn’t you agree?”
   Langdon tried to imagine the curator’s final minutes trapped alone in the Grand Gallery, knowing he was about to die. It seemed logical. “An accusation against his murderer makes sense, I suppose.”
   “My job, of course, is to put a name to that person. Let me ask you this, Mr. Langdon. To your eye, beyond the numbers, what about this message is most strange?”
   Most strange? A dying man had barricaded himself in the gallery, drawn a pentacle on himself, and scrawled a mysterious accusation on the floor. What about the scenario wasn’t strange?
   “The word ‘Draconian’?” he ventured, offering the first thing that came to mind. Langdon was fairly certain that a reference to Draco—the ruthless seventhcentury B.C. politician—was an unlikely dying thought. “ ‘Draconian devil’ seems an odd choice of vocabulary.”
   “Draconian?” Fache’s tone came with a tinge of impatience now. “Saunière’s choice of vocabulary hardly seems the primary issue here.”
   Langdon wasn’t sure what issue Fache had in mind, but he was starting to suspect that Draco and Fache would have gotten along well.
   “Saunière was a Frenchman,” Fache said flatly. “He lived in Paris. And yet he chose to write this message…”
   “In English,” Langdon said, now realizing the captain’s meaning.
   Fache nodded. “Précisement. Any idea why?”
   Langdon knew Saunière spoke impeccable English, and yet the reason he had chosen English as the language in which to write his final words escaped Langdon. He shrugged.
   Fache motioned back to the pentacle on Saunière’s abdomen. “Nothing to do with devil worship? Are you still certain?”
   Langdon was certain of nothing anymore. “The symbology and text don’t seem to coincide. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
   “Perhaps this will clarify.” Fache backed away from the body and raised the black light again, letting the beam spread out in a wider angle. “And now?”
   To Langdon’s amazement, a rudimentary circle glowed around the curator’s body. Saunière had apparently lay down and swung the pen around himself in several long arcs, essentially inscribing himself inside a circle.
   In a flash, the meaning became clear.
   “The Vitruvian Man,” Langdon gasped. Saunière had created a lifesized 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 modernday icon of culture, appearing on posters, mouse pads, and Tshirts around the world. The celebrated sketch consisted of a perfect circle in which was inscribed a nude male… his arms and legs outstretched in a naked spread eagle.
   Da Vinci. Langdon felt a shiver of amazement. The clarity of Saunière’s intentions could not be denied. In his final moments of life, the curator had stripped off his clothing and arranged his body in a clear image of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.
   The circle had been the missing critical element. A feminine symbol of protection, the circle around the naked man’s body completed Da Vinci’s intended message—male and female harmony. The question now, though, was why Saunière would imitate a famous drawing.
   “Mr. Langdon,” Fache said, “certainly a man like yourself is aware that Leonardo da Vinci had a tendency toward the darker arts.”
   Langdon was surprised by Fache’s knowledge of Da Vinci, and it certainly went a long way toward explaining the captain’s suspicions about devil worship. Da Vinci had always been an awkward subject for historians, especially in the Christian tradition. Despite the visionary’s genius, he was a flamboyant homosexual and worshipper of Nature’s divine order, both of which placed him in a perpetual state of sin against God. Moreover, the artist’s eerie eccentricities projected an admittedly demonic aura: Da Vinci exhumed corpses to study human anatomy; he kept mysterious journals in illegible reverse handwriting; he believed he possessed the alchemic power to turn lead into gold and even cheat God by creating an elixir to postpone death; and his inventions included horrific, neverbeforeimagined weapons of war and torture.
   Misunderstanding breeds distrust, Langdon thought.
   Even Da Vinci’s enormous output of breathtaking Christian art only furthered the artist’s reputation for spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da Vinci painted Christian themes not as an expression of his own beliefs but rather as a commercial venture—a means of funding a lavish lifestyle. Unfortunately, Da Vinci was a prankster who often amused himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed him. He incorporated in many of his Christian paintings hidden symbolism that was anything but Christian—tributes to his own beliefs and a subtle thumbing of his nose at the Church. Langdon had even given a lecture once at the National Gallery in London entitled: “The Secret Life of Leonardo: Pagan Symbolism in Christian Art.”
   “I understand your concerns,” Langdon now said, “but Da Vinci never really practiced any dark arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man, albeit one in constant conflict with the Church.” As Langdon said this, an odd thought popped into his mind. He glanced down at the message on the floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
   “Yes?” Fache said.
   Langdon weighed his words carefully. “I was just thinking that Saunière shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da Vinci, including a concern over the Church’s elimination of the sacred feminine from modern religion. Maybe, by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Saunière was simply echoing some of their shared frustrations with the modern Church’s demonization of the goddess.”
   Fache’s eyes hardened. “You think Saunière is calling the Church a lame saint and a Draconian devil?”
   Langdon had to admit it seemed farfetched, and yet the pentacle seemed to endorse the idea on some level. “All I am saying is that Mr. Saunière dedicated his life to studying the history of the goddess, and nothing has done more to erase that history than the Catholic Church. It seems reasonable that Saunière might have chosen to express his disappointment in his final goodbye.”
   “Disappointment?” Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. “This message sounds more enraged than disappointed, wouldn’t you say?”
   Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. “Captain, you asked for my instincts as to what Saunière is trying to say here, and that’s what I’m giving you.”
   “That this is an indictment of the Church?” Fache’s jaw tightened as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my work, and let me tell you something. When a man is murdered by another man, I do not believe his final thoughts are to write an obscure spiritual statement that no one will understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing only.” Fache’s whispery voice sliced the air. “La vengeance. I believe Saunière wrote this note to tell us who killed him.” Langdon stared. “But that makes no sense whatsoever.”
   “No?”
   “No,” he fired back, tired and frustrated. “You told me Saunière was attacked in his office by someone he had apparently invited in.”
   “Yes.”
   “So it seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his attacker.”
   Fache nodded. “Go on.”
   “So if Saunière knew the person who killed him, what kind of indictment is this?” He pointed at the floor. “Numeric codes? Lame saints? Draconian devils? Pentacles on his stomach? It’s all too cryptic.”
   Fache frowned as if the idea had never occurred to him. “You have a point.”
   “Considering the circumstances,” Langdon said, “I would assume that if Saunière wanted to tell you who killed him, he would have written down somebody’s name.”
   As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Fache’s lips for the first time all night. “Précisement,” Fache said. “Précisement.”


* * *

   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 superieur knew it was moments like these that had lifted the captain to the pinnacle of French law enforcement.
   Fache will do what no one else dares.
   The delicate art of cajoler was a lost skill in modern law enforcement, one that required exceptional poise under pressure. Few men possessed the necessary sangfroid for this kind of operation, but Fache seemed born for it. His restraint and patience bordered on the robotic.
   Fache’s sole emotion this evening seemed to be one of intense resolve, as if this arrest were somehow personal to him. Fache’s briefing of his agents an hour ago had been unusually succinct and assured. I know who murdered Jacques Saunière, Fache had said. You know what to do. No mistakes tonight.
   And so far, no mistakes had been made.
   Collet was not yet privy to the evidence that had cemented Fache’s certainty of their suspect’s guilt, but he knew better than to question the instincts of the Bull. Fache’s intuition seemed almost supernatural at times. God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly impressive display of Fache’s sixth sense. Collet had to admit, if there was a God, Bezu Fache would be on His Alist. 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 twoway 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 walkietalkie.
   Fache felt his teeth clench in rage. He could imagine nothing important enough that Collet would interrupt this surveillance cachée —especially at this critical juncture.
   He gave Langdon a calm look of apology. “One moment please.” He pulled the phone from his belt and pressed the radio transmission button. “Oui?”
   “Capitaine, un agent du Département de Cryptographie est arrive.”
   Fache’s anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Saunière’s cryptic text on the floor, had uploaded photographs of the entire crime scene to the Cryptography Department in hopes someone there could tell him what the hell Saunière was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most likely meant someone had decrypted Saunière’s message.
   “I’m busy at the moment,” Fache radioed back, leaving no doubt in his tone that a line had been crossed. “Ask the cryptographer to wait at the command post. I’ll speak to him when I’m done.”
   “Her,” the voice corrected. “It’s Agent Neveu.”
   Fache was becoming less amused with this call every passing moment. Sophie Neveu was one of DCPJ’s biggest mistakes. A young Parisian déchiffreuse who had studied cryptography in England at the Royal Holloway, Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part of the ministry’s attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The ministry’s ongoing foray into political correctness, Fache argued, was weakening the department. Women not only lacked the physicality necessary for police work, but their mere presence posed a dangerous distraction to the men in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving far more distracting than most.
   At thirtytwo 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 middleaged 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 midsentence 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.
   “Excusezmoi, 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 kneelength, creamcolored 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, cookiecutter 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 AngloFranco 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 olivegreen—incisive and clear.
   Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand.
   “Captain,” she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch, “please excuse the interruption, but—“
   “Ce n’est pas le moment!” Fache sputtered.
   “I tried to phone you.” Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. “But your cell phone was turned off.”
   “I turned it off for a reason,” Fache hissed. “I am speaking to Mr. Langdon.”
   “I’ve deciphered the numeric code,” she said flatly.
   Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code?
   Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
   “Before I explain,” Sophie said, “I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon.”
   Fache’s expression turned to one of deepening concern. “For Mr. Langdon?”
   She nodded, turning back to Langdon. “You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States.”
   Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris.
   Fache’s broad jaw had tightened with the news. “The U.S. Embassy?” he demanded, sounding suspicious. “How would they know to find Mr. Langdon here?”
   Sophie shrugged. “Apparently they called Mr. Langdon’s hotel, and the concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent.”
   Fache looked troubled. “And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?”
   “No, sir,” Sophie said, her voice firm. “When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you.”
   Fache’s brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sophie had already turned back to Langdon.
   “Mr. Langdon,” she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her pocket, “this is the number for your embassy’s messaging service. They asked that you phone in as soon as possible.” She handed him the paper with an intent gaze. “While I explain the code to Captain Fache, you need to make this call.”
   Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on it. “Thank you,” he said, feeling worried now. “Where do I find a phone?”
   Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache waved her off. He now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without taking his eyes off Sophie, he produced his own cell phone and held it out. “This line is secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it.”
   Langdon felt mystified by Fache’s anger with the young woman. Feeling uneasy, he accepted the captain’s phone. Fache immediately marched Sophie several steps away and began chastising her in hushed tones. Disliking the captain more and more, Langdon turned away from the odd confrontation and switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of paper Sophie had given him, Langdon dialed the number.
   The line began to ring.
   One ring… two rings… three rings…
   Finally the call connected.
   Langdon expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself instead listening to an answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was familiar. It was that of Sophie Neveu.
   “Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Sophie Neveu,” the woman’s voice said. “Je suis absente 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 threedigit 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 crystalclear 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 SaintSulpice. 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 SaintSulpice, 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 SaintSulpice, 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 upwelling of guilt for permitting it to happen.
   This is my fault!
   As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to the kitchen and grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the bedroom where his father lay on the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word, the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in pain and tried to roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment fell quiet.
   The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally unfriendly. His strange appearance made him an outcast among the other young runaways, and he was forced to live alone in the basement of a dilapidated factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His only companions were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to read them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter—a girl twice his age—mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food. The girl found herself pummeled to within inches of her life. When the authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him an ultimatum—leave Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.
   The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on the streets turned to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young man. When people passed by, he could hear them whispering to one another. A ghost, they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they stared at his white skin. A ghost with the eyes of a devil!
   And he felt like a ghost… transparent… floating from seaport to seaport.
   People seemed to look right through him.
   At eighteen, in a port town, while attempting to steal a case of cured ham from a cargo ship, he was caught by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors who began to beat him smelled of beer, just as his father had. The memories of fear and hatred surfaced like a monster from the deep. The young man broke the first sailor’s neck with his bare hands, and only the arrival of the police saved the second sailor from a similar fate.
   Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in Andorra.
   You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards marched him in, naked and cold. Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will pass right through these walls!
   Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he knew he had become transparent.
   I am a ghost.
   I am weightless.
   Yo soy un espectro… palido coma una fantasma… caminando este mundo a solas.
   One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn’t know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor what mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten years. The moon.
   Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.
   Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving. How long? How far? A pain was growing in his gut. Am I dying? He slept again. This time he awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car. Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.
   The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been dead. A day? Three days? It didn’t matter. His bed was soft like a cloud, and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring down at him. I am here, Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you are born again.
   He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed, and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down, speaking. You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path.
   Again, he slept.
   It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber. His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the body of a young man in priest’s robes. The priest had a badly shattered nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.
   “Thank you, my friend,” the priest said in awkward French. “The offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do you also speak Spanish?”
   The ghost shook his head.
   “What is your name?” he continued in broken French.
   The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.
   The priest smiled. “No hay problema. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de Dios.”
   “Where am I?” His voice sounded hollow.
   “Oviedo. In the north of Spain.”
   “How did I get here?”
   “Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You’ve been here many days.”
   The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone had shown any kindness. “Thank you, Father.”
   The priest touched his bloody lip. “It is I who am thankful, my friend.”
   When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many dangerous criminals.
   His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The emotion he felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I run?
   “The Book of Acts,” a voice said from the door.
   The ghost turned, frightened.
   The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. “I found one in French for you. The Chapter is marked.”
   Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the Chapter the priest had marked.
   Acts 16.
   The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped in shock.
   “…And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open.”
   His eyes shot up at the priest.
   The priest smiled warmly. “From now on, my friend, if you have no other name, I shall call you Silas.”
   The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is Silas.
   “It’s time for breakfast,” the priest said. “You will need your strength if you are to help me build this church.”


* * *

   Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618 bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei. Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.
   “It is for your own safety,” the Teacher had explained, speaking in English with a French accent. “I am familiar enough with electronic communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be disastrous for you.”
   Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood’s four top members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he could unearth.
   “Bishop,” the Teacher had told him, “I have made all the arrangements. For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to me for several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him through secure channels.”
   “You will treat him with respect?”
   “A man of faith deserves the highest.”
   “Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this is over.”
   “I do this to protect your identity, Silas’s identity, and my investment.”
   “Your investment?”
   “Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee.”
   The bishop smiled. “A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed.”
   Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane’s window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A pittance for something so powerful.
   He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators.

Chapter 11

   “Une plaisanterie numérique?” Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? “Your professional assessment of Saunière’s code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?”
   Fache was in utter incomprehension of this woman’s gall. Not only had she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying to convince him that Saunière, in his final moments of life, had been inspired to leave a mathematical gag?
   “This code,” Sophie explained in rapid French, “is simplistic to the point of absurdity. Jacques Saunière must have known we would see through it immediately.” She pulled a scrap of paper from her sweater pocket and handed it to Fache. “Here is the decryption.”
   Fache looked at the card.
   1123581321


* * *

   “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 offhanded tone.
   “This is the Fibonacci sequence,” she declared, nodding toward the piece of paper in Fache’s hand. “A progression in which each term is equal to the sum of the two preceding terms.”
   Fache studied the numbers. Each term was indeed the sum of the two previous, and yet Fache could not imagine what the relevance of all this was to Saunière’s death.
   “Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of numbers in the thirteenthcentury. Obviously there can be no coincidence that all of the numbers Saunière wrote on the floor belong to Fibonacci’s famous sequence.”
   Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. “Fine, if there is no coincidence, would you tell me why Jacques Saunière chose to do this. What is he saying? What does this mean?”
   She shrugged. “Absolutely nothing. That’s the point. It’s a simplistic cryptographic joke. Like taking the words of a famous poem and shuffling them at random to see if anyone recognizes what all the words have in common.”
   Fache took a menacing step forward, placing his face only inches from Sophie’s. “I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying explanation than that.”
   Sophie’s soft features grew surprisingly stern as she leaned in. “Captain, considering what you have at stake here tonight, I thought you might appreciate knowing that Jacques Saunière might be playing games with you. Apparently not. I’ll inform the director of Cryptography you no longer need our services.”
   With that, she turned on her heel, and marched off the way she had come.
   Stunned, Fache watched her disappear into the darkness. Is she out of her mind? Sophie Neveu had just redefined le suicide professionnel.
   Fache turned to Langdon, who was still on the phone, looking more concerned than before, listening intently to his phone message. The U.S. Embassy. Bezu Fache despised many things… but few drew more wrath than the U.S. Embassy.
   Fache and the ambassador locked horns regularly over shared affairs of state—their most common battleground being law enforcement for visiting Americans. Almost daily, DCPJ arrested American exchange students in possession of drugs, U.S. businessmen for soliciting underage Prostitutes, American tourists for shoplifting or destruction of property. Legally, the U.S. Embassy could intervene and extradite guilty citizens back to the United States, where they received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
   And the embassy invariably did just that.
   L’émasculation de la Police Judiciaire, Fache called it. Paris Match had run a cartoon recently depicting Fache as a police dog, trying to bite an American criminal, but unable to reach because it was chained to the U.S. Embassy.
   Not tonight, Fache told himself. There is far too much at stake.
   By the time Robert Langdon hung up the phone, he looked ill.
   “Is everything all right?” Fache asked.
   Weakly, Langdon shook his head.
   Bad news from home, Fache sensed, noticing Langdon was sweating slightly as Fache took back his cell phone.
   “An accident,” Langdon stammered, looking at Fache with a strange expression. “A friend…” He hesitated. “I’ll need to fly home first thing in the morning.”
   Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdon’s face was genuine, and yet he sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant fear were suddenly simmering in the American’s eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Fache said, watching Langdon closely. “Would you like to sit down?” He motioned toward one of the viewing benches in the gallery.
   Langdon nodded absently and took a few steps toward the bench. He paused, looking more confused with every moment. “Actually, I think I’d like to use the rest room.”
   Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. “The rest room. Of course. Let’s take a break for a few minutes.” He motioned back down the long hallway in the direction they had come from. “The rest rooms are back toward the curator’s office.”
   Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward the far end of the Grand Gallery corridor. “I believe there’s a much closer rest room at the end.”
   Fache realized Langdon was right. They were two thirds of the way down, and the Grand Gallery deadended at a pair of rest rooms. “Shall I accompany you?”
   Langdon shook his head, already moving deeper into the gallery. “Not necessary. I think I’d like a few minutes alone.”
   Fache was not wild about the idea of Langdon wandering alone down the remaining length of corridor, but he took comfort in knowing the Grand Gallery was a dead end whose only exit was at the other end—the gate under which they had entered. Although French fire regulations required several emergency stairwells for a space this large, those stairwells had been sealed automatically when Saunière tripped the security system. Granted, that system had now been reset, unlocking the stairwells, but it didn’t matter—the external doors, if opened, would set off fire alarms and were guarded outside by DCPJ agents. Langdon could not possibly leave without Fache knowing about it.
   “I need to return to Mr. Saunière’s office for a moment,” Fache said. “Please come find me directly, Mr. Langdon. There is more we need to discuss.”
   Langdon gave a quiet wave as he disappeared into the darkness.
   Turning, Fache marched angrily in the opposite direction. Arriving at the gate, he slid under, exited the Grand Gallery, marched down the hall, and stormed into the command center at Saunière’s office.
   “Who gave the approval to let Sophie Neveu into this building!” Fache bellowed.
   Collet was the first to answer. “She told the guards outside she’d broken the code.”
   Fache looked around. “Is she gone?”
   “She’s not with you?”
   “She left.” Fache glanced out at the darkened hallway. Apparently Sophie had been in no mood to stop by and chat with the other officers on her way out.
   For a moment, Fache considered radioing the guards in the entresol and telling them to stop Sophie and drag her back up here before she could leave the premises. He thought better of it. That was only his pride talking… wanting the last word. He’d had enough distractions tonight.
   Deal with Agent Neveu later, he told himself, already looking forward to firing her.
   Pushing Sophie from his mind, Fache stared for a moment at the miniature knight standing on Saunière’s desk. Then he turned back to Collet. “Do you have him?”
   Collet gave a curt nod and spun the laptop toward Fache. The red dot was clearly visible on the floor plan overlay, blinking methodically in a room marked


TOILETTES PUBLIQUES

   “Good,” Fache said, lighting a cigarette and stalking into the hall. I’ve got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the only place Langdon goes.”

Chapter 12

   Robert Langdon felt lightheaded as he trudged toward the end of the Grand Gallery. Sophie’s phone message played over and over in his mind. At the end of the corridor, illuminated signs bearing the international stickfigure symbols for rest rooms guided him through a mazelike series of dividers displaying Italian drawings and hiding the rest rooms from sight.
   Finding the men’s room door, Langdon entered and turned on the lights.
   The room was empty.
   Walking to the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and tried to wake up. Harsh fluorescent lights glared off the stark tile, and the room smelled of ammonia. As he toweled off, the rest room’s door creaked open behind him. He spun.
   Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing fear. “Thank God you came. We don’t have much time.”
   Langdon stood beside the sinks, staring in bewilderment at DCPJ cryptographer Sophie Neveu. Only minutes ago, Langdon had listened to her phone message, thinking the newly arrived cryptographer must be insane. And yet, the more he listened, the more he sensed Sophie Neveu was speaking in earnest. Do not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely. Filled with uncertainty, Langdon had decided to do exactly as Sophie advised. He told Fache that the phone message was regarding an injured friend back home. Then he had asked to use the rest room at the end of the Grand Gallery.
   Sophie stood before him now, still catching her breath after doubling back to the rest room. In the fluorescent lights, Langdon was surprised to see that her strong air actually radiated from unexpectedly soft features. Only her gaze was sharp, and the juxtaposition conjured images of a multilayered Renoir portrait… veiled but distinct, with a boldness that somehow retained its shroud of mystery.
   “I wanted to warn you, Mr. Langdon…” Sophie began, still catching her breath, “that you are sous surveillance cachée. Under a guarded observation.” As she spoke, her accented English resonated off the tile walls, giving her voice a hollow quality.
   “But… why?” Langdon demanded. Sophie had already given him an explanation on the phone, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
   “Because,” she said, stepping toward him, “Fache’s primary suspect in this murder is you.”
   Langdon was braced for the words, and yet they still sounded utterly ridiculous. According to Sophie, Langdon had been called to the Louvre tonight not as a symbologist but rather as a suspect and was currently the unwitting target of one of DCPJ’s favorite interrogation methods—surveillance cachée —a deft deception in which the police calmly invited a suspect to a crime scene and interviewed him in hopes he would get nervous and mistakenly incriminate himself.
   “Look in your jacket’s left pocket,” Sophie said. “You’ll find proof they are watching you.”
   Langdon felt his apprehension rising. Look in my pocket? It sounded like some kind of cheap magic trick.
   “Just look.”
   Bewildered, Langdon reached his hand into his tweed jacket’s left pocket—one he never used. Feeling around inside, he found nothing. What the devil did you expect? He began wondering if Sophie might just be insane after all. Then his fingers brushed something unexpected. Small and hard. Pinching the tiny object between his fingers, Langdon pulled it out and stared in astonishment. It was a metallic, buttonshaped disk, about the size of a watch battery. He had never seen it before. “What the…?”
   “GPS tracking dot,” Sophie said. “Continuously transmits its location to a Global Positioning System satellite that DCPJ can monitor. We use them to monitor people’s locations. It’s accurate within two feet anywhere on the globe. They have you on an electronic leash. The agent who picked you up at the hotel slipped it inside your pocket before you left your room.”
   Langdon flashed back to the hotel room… his quick shower, getting dressed, the DCPJ agent politely holding out Langdon’s tweed coat as they left the room. It’s cool outside, Mr. Langdon, the agent had said. Spring in Paris is not all your song boasts. Langdon had thanked him and donned the jacket.
   Sophie’s olive gaze was keen. “I didn’t tell you about the tracking dot earlier because I didn’t want you checking your pocket in front of Fache. He can’t know you’ve found it.”
   Langdon had no idea how to respond.
   “They tagged you with GPS because they thought you might run.” She paused. “In fact, they hoped you would run; it would make their case stronger.”
   “Why would I run!” Langdon demanded. “I’m innocent!”
   “Fache feels otherwise.”
   Angrily, Langdon stalked toward the trash receptacle to dispose of the tracking dot.
   “No!” Sophie grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Leave it in your pocket. If you throw it out, the signal will stop moving, and they’ll know you found the dot. The only reason Fache left you alone is because he can monitor where you are. If he thinks you’ve discovered what he’s doing…” Sophie did not finish the thought. Instead, she pried the metallic disk from Langdon’s hand and slid it back into the pocket of his tweed coat. “The dot stays with you. At least for the moment.”
   Langdon felt lost. “How the hell could Fache actually believe I killed Jacques Saunière!”
   “He has some fairly persuasive reasons to suspect you.” Sophie’s expression was grim. “There is a piece of evidence here that you have not yet seen. Fache has kept it carefully hidden from you.”
   Langdon could only stare.
   “Do you recall the three lines of text that Saunière wrote on the floor?”
   Langdon nodded. The numbers and words were imprinted on Langdon’s mind.
   Sophie’s voice dropped to a whisper now. “Unfortunately, what you saw was not the entire message. There was a fourth line that Fache photographed and then wiped clean before you arrived.”
   Although Langdon knew the soluble ink of a watermark stylus could easily be wiped away, he could not imagine why Fache would erase evidence.
   “The last line of the message,” Sophie said, “was something Fache did not want you to know about.” She paused. “At least not until he was done with you.”
   Sophie produced a computer printout of a photo from her sweater pocket and began unfolding it. “Fache uploaded images of the crime scene to the Cryptology Department earlier tonight in hopes we could figure out what Saunière’s message was trying to say. This is a photo of the complete message.” She handed the page to Langdon.
   Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image. The closeup photo revealed the glowing message on the parquet floor. The final line hit Langdon like a kick in the gut.
   1332211185
   O, Draconian devil!
   Oh, lame saint!
   P.S. Find Robert Langdon

Chapter 13

   For several seconds, Langdon stared in wonder at the photograph of Saunière’s postscript. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. He felt as if the floor were tilting beneath his feet. Saunière left a postscript with my name on it? In his wildest dreams, Langdon could not fathom why.
   “Now do you understand,” Sophie said, her eyes urgent, “why Fache ordered you here tonight, and why you are his primary suspect?”
   The only thing Langdon understood at the moment was why Fache had looked so smug when Langdon suggested Saunière would have accused his killer by name.
   Find Robert Langdon.
   “Why would Saunière write this?” Langdon demanded, his confusion now giving way to anger. “Why would I want to kill Jacques Saunière?”
   “Fache has yet to uncover a motive, but he has been recording his entire conversation with you tonight in hopes you might reveal one.”
   Langdon opened his mouth, but still no words came.
   “He’s fitted with a miniature microphone,” Sophie explained. “It’s connected to a transmitter in his pocket that radios the signal back to the command post.”
   “This is impossible,” Langdon stammered. “I have an alibi. I went directly back to my hotel after my lecture. You can ask the hotel desk.”
   “Fache already did. His report shows you retrieving your room key from the concierge at about tenthirty. Unfortunately, the time of the murder was closer to eleven. You easily could have left your hotel room unseen.”
   “This is insanity! Fache has no evidence!”
   Sophie’s eyes widened as if to say: No evidence? “Mr. Langdon, your name is written on the floor beside the body, and Saunière’s date book says you were with him at approximately the time of the murder.” She paused. “Fache has more than enough evidence to take you into custody for questioning.”
   Langdon suddenly sensed that he needed a lawyer. “I didn’t do this.”
   Sophie sighed. “This is not American television, Mr. Langdon. In France, the laws protect the police, not criminals. Unfortunately, in this case, there is also the media consideration. Jacques Saunière was a very prominent and wellloved figure in Paris, and his murder will be news in the morning. Fache will be under immediate pressure to make a statement, and he looks a lot better having a suspect in custody already. Whether or not you are guilty, you most certainly will be held by DCPJ until they can figure out what really happened.”
   Langdon felt like a caged animal. “Why are you telling me all this?”
   “Because, Mr. Langdon, I believe you are innocent.” Sophie looked away for a moment and then back into his eyes. “And also because it is partially my fault that you’re in trouble.”
   “I’m sorry? It’s your fault Saunière is trying to frame me?”
   “Saunière wasn’t trying to frame you. It was a mistake. That message on the floor was meant for me.”
   Langdon needed a minute to process that one. “I beg your pardon?”
   “That message wasn’t for the police. He wrote it for me. I think he was forced to do everything in such a hurry that he just didn’t realize how it would look to the police.” She paused. “The numbered code is meaningless. Saunière wrote it to make sure the investigation included cryptographers, ensuring that I would know as soon as possible what had happened to him.”
   Langdon felt himself losing touch fast. Whether or not Sophie Neveu had lost her mind was at this point up for grabs, but at least Langdon now understood why she was trying to help him. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. She apparently believed the curator had left her a cryptic postscript telling her to find Langdon. “But why do you think his message was for you?”
   “The Vitruvian Man,” she said flatly. “That particular sketch has always been my favorite Da Vinci work. Tonight he used it to catch my attention.”
   “Hold on. You’re saying the curator knew your favorite piece of art?” She nodded. “I’m sorry. This is all coming out of order. Jacques Saunière and I…”
   Sophie’s voice caught, and Langdon heard a sudden melancholy there, a painful past, simmering just below the surface. Sophie and Jacques Saunière apparently had some kind of special relationship. Langdon studied the beautiful young woman before him, well aware that aging men in France often took young mistresses. Even so, Sophie Neveu as a “kept woman” somehow didn’t seem to fit.
   “We had a fallingout ten years ago,” Sophie said, her voice a whisper now. “We’ve barely spoken since. Tonight, when Crypto got the call that he had been murdered, and I saw the images of his body and text on the floor, I realized he was trying to send me a message.”
   “Because of The Vitruvian Man?”
   “Yes. And the letters P.S.”
   “Post Script?”
   She shook her head. “P.S. are my initials.”
   “But your name is Sophie Neveu.”
   She looked away. “P.S. is the nickname he called me when I lived with him.” She blushed. “It stood for Princesse Sophie”
   Langdon had no response.
   “Silly, I know,” she said. “But it was years ago. When I was a little girl.”
   “You knew him when you were a little girl?”
   “Quite well,” she said, her eyes welling now with emotion. “Jacques Saunière was my grandfather.”

Chapter 14

   “Where’s Langdon?” Fache demanded, exhaling the last of a cigarette as he paced back into the command post.
   “Still in the men’s room, sir.” Lieutenant Collet had been expecting the question.
   Fache grumbled, “Taking his time, I see.”
   The captain eyed the GPS dot over Collet’s shoulder, and Collet could almost hear the wheels turning. Fache was fighting the urge to go check on Langdon. Ideally, the subject of an observation was allowed the most time and freedom possible, lulling him into a false sense of security. Langdon needed to return of his own volition. Still, it had been almost ten minutes.
   Too long.
   “Any chance Langdon is onto us?” Fache asked.
   Collet shook his head. “We’re still seeing small movements inside the men’s room, so the GPS dot is obviously still on him. Perhaps he feels ill? If he had found the dot, he would have removed it and tried to run.”
   Fache checked his watch. “Fine.”
   Still Fache seemed preoccupied. All evening, Collet had sensed an atypical intensity in his captain. Usually detached and cool under pressure, Fache tonight seemed emotionally engaged, as if this were somehow a personal matter for him.
   Not surprising, Collet thought. Fache needs this arrest desperately. Recently the Board of Ministers and the media had become more openly critical of Fache’s aggressive tactics, his clashes with powerful foreign embassies, and his gross over budgeting on new technologies. Tonight, a hightech, highprofile arrest of an American would go a long way to silence Fache’s critics, helping him secure the job a few more years until he could retire with the lucrative pension. God knows he needs the pension, Collet thought. Fache’s zeal for technology had hurt him both professionally and personally. Fache was rumored to have invested his entire savings in the technology craze a few years back and lost his shirt. And Fache is a man who wears only the finest shirts.
   Tonight, there was still plenty of time. Sophie Neveu’s odd interruption, though unfortunate, had been only a minor wrinkle. She was gone now, and Fache still had cards to play. He had yet to inform Langdon that his name had been scrawled on the floor by the victim. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. The American’s reaction to that little bit of evidence would be telling indeed.
   “Captain?” one of the DCPJ agents now called from across the office. “I think you better take this call.” He was holding out a telephone receiver, looking concerned.
   “Who is it?” Fache said.
   The agent frowned. “It’s the director of our Cryptology Department.”
   “And?”
   “It’s about Sophie Neveu, sir. Something is not quite right.”

Chapter 15

   It was time.
   Silas felt strong as he stepped from the black Audi, the nighttime breeze rustling his loosefitting robe. The winds of change are in the air. He knew the task before him would require more finesse than force, and he left his handgun in the car. The thirteenround Heckler Koch USP 40 had been provided by the Teacher.
   A weapon of death has no place in a house of God.
   The plaza before the great church was deserted at this hour, the only visible souls on the far side of Place SaintSulpice a couple of teenage hookers showing their wares to the late night tourist traffic. Their nubile bodies sent a familiar longing to Silas’s loins. His thigh flexed instinctively, causing the barbed cilice belt to cut painfully into his flesh.
   The lust evaporated instantly. For ten years now, Silas had faithfully denied himself all sexual indulgence, even selfadministered. It was The Way. He knew he had sacrificed much to follow Opus Dei, but he had received much more in return. A vow of celibacy and the relinquishment of all personal assets hardly seemed a sacrifice. Considering the poverty from which he had come and the sexual horrors he had endured in prison, celibacy was a welcome change.
   Now, having returned to France for the first time since being arrested and shipped to prison in Andorra, Silas could feel his homeland testing him, dragging violent memories from his redeemed soul. You have been reborn, he reminded himself. His service to God today had required the sin of murder, and it was a sacrifice Silas knew he would have to hold silently in his heart for all eternity.
   The measure of your faith is the measure of the pain you can endure, the Teacher had told him. Silas was no stranger to pain and felt eager to prove himself to the Teacher, the one who had assured him his actions were ordained by a higher power.
   “Hago la obra de Dios,” Silas whispered, moving now toward the church entrance.
   Pausing in the shadow of the massive doorway, he took a deep breath. It was not until this instant that he truly realized what he was about to do, and what awaited him inside.
   The keystone. It will lead us to our final goal.
   He raised his ghostwhite fist and banged three times on the door.
   Moments later, the bolts of the enormous wooden portal began to move.

Chapter 16

   Sophie wondered how long it would take Fache to figure out she had not left the building. Seeing that Langdon was clearly overwhelmed, Sophie questioned whether she had done the right thing by cornering him here in the men’s room.
   What else was I supposed to do?
   She pictured her grandfather’s body, naked and spreadeagle on the floor. There was a time when he had meant the world to her, yet tonight, Sophie was surprised to feel almost no sadness for the man. Jacques Saunière was a stranger to her now. Their relationship had evaporated in a single instant one March night when she was twentytwo. Ten years ago. Sophie had come home a few days early from graduate university in England and mistakenly witnessed her grandfather engaged in something Sophie was obviously not supposed to see. It was an image she barely could believe to this day.
   If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes…
   Too ashamed and stunned to endure her grandfather’s pained attempts to explain, Sophie immediately moved out on her own, taking money she had saved, and getting a small flat with some roommates. She vowed never to speak to anyone about what she had seen. Her grandfather tried desperately to reach her, sending cards and letters, begging Sophie to meet him so he could explain. Explain how!? Sophie never responded except once—to forbid him ever to call her or try to meet her in public. She was afraid his explanation would be more terrifying than the incident itself.
   Incredibly, Saunière had never given up on her, and Sophie now possessed a decade’s worth of correspondence unopened in a dresser drawer. To her grandfather’s credit, he had never once disobeyed her request and phoned her.
   Until this afternoon.
   “Sophie?” His voice had sounded startlingly old on her answering machine. “I have abided by your wishes for so long… and it pains me to call, but I must speak to you. Something terrible has happened.”
   Standing in the kitchen of her Paris flat, Sophie felt a chill to hear him again after all these years. His gentle voice brought back a flood of fond childhood memories.
   “Sophie, please listen.” He was speaking English to her, as he always did when she was a little girl. Practice French at school. Practice English at home. “You cannot be mad forever. Have you not read the letters that I’ve sent all these years? Do you not yet understand?” He paused. “We must speak at once. Please grant your grandfather this one wish. Call me at the Louvre. Right away. I believe you and I are in grave danger.” Sophie stared at the answering machine. Danger? What was he talking about?
   “Princess…” Her grandfather’s voice cracked with an emotion Sophie could not place. “I know I’ve kept things from you, and I know it has cost me your love. But it was for your own safety. Now you must know the truth. Please, I must tell you the truth about your family.”
   Sophie suddenly could hear her own heart. My family? Sophie’s parents had died when she was only four. Their car went off a bridge into fastmoving water. Her grandmother and younger brother had also been in the car, and Sophie’s entire family had been erased in an instant. She had a box of newspaper clippings to confirm it.
   His words had sent an unexpected surge of longing through her bones. My family! In that fleeting instant, Sophie saw images from the dream that had awoken her countless times when she was a little girl: My family is alive! They are coming home! But, as in her dream, the pictures evaporated into oblivion.
   Your family is dead, Sophie. They are not coming home.
   “Sophie…” her grandfather said on the machine. “I have been waiting for years to tell you. Waiting for the right moment, but now time has run out. Call me at the Louvre. As soon as you get this. I’ll wait here all night. I fear we both may be in danger. There’s so much you need to know.”
   The message ended.
   In the silence, Sophie stood trembling for what felt like minutes. As she considered her grandfather’s message, only one possibility made sense, and his true intent dawned.
   It was bait.
   Obviously, her grandfather wanted desperately to see her. He was trying anything. Her disgust for the man deepened. Sophie wondered if maybe he had fallen terminally ill and had decided to attempt any ploy he could think of to get Sophie to visit him one last time. If so, he had chosen wisely.
   My family.
   Now, standing in the darkness of the Louvre men’s room, Sophie could hear the echoes of this afternoon’s phone message. Sophie, we both may be in danger. Call me.
   She had not called him. Nor had she planned to. Now, however, her skepticism had been deeply challenged. Her grandfather lay murdered inside his own museum. And he had written a code on the floor.
   A code for her. Of this, she was certain.
   Despite not understanding the meaning of his message, Sophie was certain its cryptic nature was additional proof that the words were intended for her. Sophie’s passion and aptitude for cryptography were a product of growing up with Jacques Saunière—a fanatic himself for codes, word games, and puzzles. How many Sundays did we spend doing the cryptograms and crosswords in the newspaper?
   At the age of twelve, Sophie could finish the Le Monde crossword without any help, and her grandfather graduated her to crosswords in English, mathematical puzzles, and substitution ciphers. Sophie devoured them all. Eventually she turned her passion into a profession by becoming a codebreaker for the Judicial Police.
   Tonight, the cryptographer in Sophie was forced to respect the efficiency with which her grandfather had used a simple code to unite two total strangers—Sophie Neveu and Robert Langdon.
   The question was why?
   Unfortunately, from the bewildered look in Langdon’s eyes, Sophie sensed the American had no more idea than she did why her grandfather had thrown them together.
   She pressed again. “You and my grandfather had planned to meet tonight. What about?”
   Langdon looked truly perplexed. “His secretary set the meeting and didn’t offer any specific reason, and I didn’t ask. I assumed he’d heard I would be lecturing on the pagan iconography of French cathedrals, was interested in the topic, and thought it would be fun to meet for drinks after the talk.”
   Sophie didn’t buy it. The connection was flimsy. Her grandfather knew more about pagan iconography than anyone else on earth. Moreover, he an exceptionally private man, not someone prone to chatting with random American professors unless there were an important reason.
   Sophie took a deep breath and probed further. “My grandfather called me this afternoon and told me he and I were in grave danger. Does that mean anything to you?”
   Langdon’s blue eyes now clouded with concern. “No, but considering what just happened…”
   Sophie nodded. Considering tonight’s events, she would be a fool not to be frightened. Feeling drained, she walked to the small plateglass window at the far end of the bathroom and gazed out in silence through the mesh of alarm tape embedded in the glass. They were high up—forty feet at least.
   Sighing, she raised her eyes and gazed out at Paris’s dazzling landscape. On her left, across the Seine, the illuminated Eiffel Tower. Straight ahead, the Arc de Triomphe. And to the right, high atop the sloping rise of Montmartre, the graceful arabesque dome of SacréCoeur, its polished stone glowing white like a resplendent sanctuary.
   Here at the westernmost tip of the Denon Wing, the northsouth thoroughfare of Place du Carrousel ran almost flush with the building with only a narrow sidewalk separating it from the Louvre’s outer wall. Far below, the usual caravan of the city’s nighttime delivery trucks sat idling, waiting for the signals to change, their running lights seeming to twinkle mockingly up at Sophie.
   “I don’t know what to say,” Langdon said, coming up behind her. “Your grandfather is obviously trying to tell us something. I’m sorry I’m so little help.”
   Sophie turned from the window, sensing a sincere regret in Langdon’s deep voice. Even with all the trouble around him, he obviously wanted to help her. The teacher in him, she thought, having read DCPJ’s workup on their suspect. This was an academic who clearly despised not understanding.
   We have that in common, she thought.
   As a codebreaker, Sophie made her living extracting meaning from seemingly senseless data. Tonight, her best guess was that Robert Langdon, whether he knew it or not, possessed information that she desperately needed. Princesse Sophie, Find Robert Langdon. How much clearer could her grandfather’s message be? Sophie needed more time with Langdon. Time to think. Time to sort out this mystery together. Unfortunately, time was running out.
   Gazing up at Langdon, Sophie made the only play she could think of. “Bezu Fache will be taking you into custody at any minute. I can get you out of this museum. But we need to act now.”
   Langdon’s eyes went wide. “You want me to run?”
   “It’s the smartest thing you could do. If you let Fache take you into custody now, you’ll spend weeks in a French jail while DCPJ and the U.S. Embassy fight over which courts try your case. But if we get you out of here, and make it to your embassy, then your government will protect your rights while you and I prove you had nothing to do with this murder.”
   Langdon looked not even vaguely convinced. “Forget it! Fache has armed guards on every single exit! Even if we escape without being shot, running away only makes me look guilty. You need to tell Fache that the message on the floor was for you, and that my name is not there as an accusation.”
   “I will do that,” Sophie said, speaking hurriedly, “but after you’re safely inside the U.S. Embassy. It’s only about a mile from here, and my car is parked just outside the museum. Dealing with Fache from here is too much of a gamble. Don’t you see? Fache has made it his mission tonight to prove you are guilty. The only reason he postponed your arrest was to run this observance in hopes you did something that made his case stronger.”
   “Exactly. Like running!”
   The cell phone in Sophie’s sweater pocket suddenly began ringing. Fache probably. She reached in her sweater and turned off the phone.
   “Mr. Langdon,” she said hurriedly, “I need to ask you one last question.” And your entire future may depend on it. “The writing on the floor is obviously not proof of your guilt, and yet Fache told our team he is certain you are his man. Can you think of any other reason he might be convinced you’re guilty?”
   Langdon was silent for several seconds. “None whatsoever.”
   Sophie sighed. Which means Fache is lying. Why, Sophie could not begin to imagine, but that was hardly the issue at this point. The fact remained that Bezu Fache was determined to put Robert Langdon behind bars tonight, at any cost. Sophie needed Langdon for herself, and it was this dilemma that left Sophie only one logical conclusion.
   I need to get Langdon to the U.S. Embassy.
   Turning toward the window, Sophie gazed through the alarm mesh embedded in the plate glass, down the dizzying forty feet to the pavement below. A leap from this height would leave Langdon with a couple of broken legs. At best.
   Nonetheless, Sophie made her decision.
   Robert Langdon was about to escape the Louvre, whether he wanted to or not.

Chapter 17

   “What do you mean she’s not answering?” Fache looked incredulous. “You’re calling her cell phone, right? I know she’s carrying it.”
   Collet had been trying to reach Sophie now for several minutes. “Maybe her batteries are dead. Or her ringer’s off.”
   Fache had looked distressed ever since talking to the director of Cryptology on the phone. After hanging up, he had marched over to Collet and demanded he get Agent Neveu on the line. Now Collet had failed, and Fache was pacing like a caged lion.
   “Why did Crypto call?” Collet now ventured.
   Fache turned. “To tell us they found no references to Draconian devils and lame saints.”
   “That’s all?”
   “No, also to tell us that they had just identified the numerics as Fibonacci numbers, but they suspected the series was meaningless.”
   Collet was confused. “But they already sent Agent Neveu to tell us that.”
   Fache shook his head. “They didn’t send Neveu.”
   “What?”
   “According to the director, at my orders he paged his entire team to look at the images I’d wired him. When Agent Neveu arrived, she took one look at the photos of Saunière and the code and left the office without a word. The director said he didn’t question her behavior because she was understandably upset by the photos.”
   “Upset? She’s never seen a picture of a dead body?”
   Fache was silent a moment. “I was not aware of this, and it seems neither was the director until a coworker informed him, but apparently Sophie Neveu is Jacques Saunière’s granddaughter.”
   Collet was speechless.
   “The director said she never once mentioned Saunière to him, and he assumed it was because she probably didn’t want preferential treatment for having a famous grandfather.”
   No wonder she was upset by the pictures. Collet could barely conceive of the unfortunate coincidence that called in a young woman to decipher a code written by a dead family member. Still, her actions made no sense. “But she obviously recognized the numbers as Fibonacci numbers because she came here and told us. I don’t understand why she would leave the office without telling anyone she had figured it out.”
   Collet could think of only one scenario to explain the troubling developments: Saunière had written a numeric code on the floor in hopes Fache would involve cryptographers in the investigation, and therefore involve his own granddaughter. As for the rest of the message, was Saunière communicating in some way with his granddaughter? If so, what did the message tell her? And how did Langdon fit in?
   Before Collet could ponder it any further, the silence of the deserted museum was shattered by an alarm. The bell sounded like it was coming from inside the Grand Gallery.
   “Alarme!” one of the agents yelled, eyeing his feed from the Louvre security center. “Grande Galerie! Toilettes Messieurs!”
   Fache wheeled to Collet. “Where’s Langdon?”
   “Still in the men’s room!” Collet pointed to the blinking red dot on his laptop schematic. “He must have broken the window!” Collet knew Langdon wouldn’t get far. Although Paris fire codes required windows above fifteen meters in public buildings be breakable in case of fire, exiting a Louvre secondstory window without the help of a hook and ladder would be suicide. Furthermore, there were no trees or grass on the western end of the Denon Wing to cushion a fall. Directly beneath that rest room window, the twolane Place du Carrousel ran within a few feet of the outer wall. “My God,” Collet exclaimed, eyeing the screen. “Langdon’s moving to the window ledge!”
   But Fache was already in motion. Yanking his Manurhin MR93 revolver from his shoulder holster, the captain dashed out of the office.
   Collet watched the screen in bewilderment as the blinking dot arrived at the window ledge and then did something utterly unexpected. The dot moved outside the perimeter of the building.
   What’s going on? he wondered. Is Langdon out on a ledge or —
   “Jesu!” Collet jumped to his feet as the dot shot farther outside the wall. The signal seemed to shudder for a moment, and then the blinking dot came to an abrupt stop about ten yards outside the perimeter of the building.
   Fumbling with the controls, Collet called up a Paris street map and recalibrated the GPS. Zooming in, he could now see the exact location of the signal.
   It was no longer moving.
   It lay at a dead stop in the middle of Place du Carrousel.
   Langdon had jumped.