Chapter 18

   Fache sprinted down the Grand Gallery as Collet’s radio blared over the distant sound of the alarm.
   “He jumped!” Collet was yelling. “I’m showing the signal out on Place du Carrousel! Outside the bathroom window! And it’s not moving at all! Jesus, I think Langdon has just committed suicide!”
   Fache heard the words, but they made no sense. He kept running. The hallway seemed neverending. As he sprinted past Saunière’s body, he set his sights on the partitions at the far end of the Denon Wing. The alarm was getting louder now.
   “Wait!” Collet’s voice blared again over the radio. “He’s moving! My God, he’s alive. Langdon’s moving!”
   Fache kept running, cursing the length of the hallway with every step.
   “Langdon’s moving faster!” Collet was still yelling on the radio. “He’s running down Carrousel. Wait… he’s picking up speed. He’s moving too fast!”
   Arriving at the partitions, Fache snaked his way through them, saw the rest room door, and ran for it.
   The walkietalkie was barely audible now over the alarm. “He must be in a car! I think he’s in a car! I can’t—“
   Collet’s words were swallowed by the alarm as Fache finally burst into the men’s room with his gun drawn. Wincing against the piercing shrill, he scanned the area.
   The stalls were empty. The bathroom deserted. Fache’s eyes moved immediately to the shattered window at the far end of the room. He ran to the opening and looked over the edge. Langdon was nowhere to be seen. Fache could not imagine anyone risking a stunt like this. Certainly if he had dropped that far, he would be badly injured.
   The alarm cut off finally, and Collet’s voice became audible again over the walkietalkie.
   “…moving south… faster… crossing the Seine on Pont du Carrousel!”
   Fache turned to his left. The only vehicle on Pont du Carrousel was an enormous twinbed Trailor delivery truck moving southward away from the Louvre. The truck’s openair bed was covered with a vinyl tarp, roughly resembling a giant hammock. Fache felt a shiver of apprehension. That truck, only moments ago, had probably been stopped at a red light directly beneath the rest room window.
   An insane risk, Fache told himself. Langdon had no way of knowing what the truck was carrying beneath that tarp. What if the truck were carrying steel? Or cement? Or even garbage? A fortyfoot leap? It was madness.
   “The dot is turning!” Collet called. “He’s turning right on Pont des SaintsPeres!”
   Sure enough, the Trailor truck that had crossed the bridge was slowing down and making a right turn onto Pont des SaintsPeres. So be it, Fache thought. Amazed, he watched the truck disappear around the corner. Collet was already radioing the agents outside, pulling them off the Louvre perimeter and sending them to their patrol cars in pursuit, all the while broadcasting the truck’s changing location like some kind of bizarre playbyplay.
   It’s over, Fache knew. His men would have the truck surrounded within minutes. Langdon was not going anywhere.
   Stowing his weapon, Fache exited the rest room and radioed Collet. “Bring my car around. I want to be there when we make the arrest.”
   As Fache jogged back down the length of the Grand Gallery, he wondered if Langdon had even survived the fall.
   Not that it mattered.
   Langdon ran. Guilty as charged.


* * *

   Only fifteen yards from the rest room, Langdon and Sophie stood in the darkness of the Grand Gallery, their backs pressed to one of the large partitions that hid the bathrooms from the gallery. They had barely managed to hide themselves before Fache had darted past them, gun drawn, and disappeared into the bathroom.
   The last sixty seconds had been a blur.
   Langdon had been standing inside the men’s room refusing to run from a crime he didn’t commit, when Sophie began eyeing the plateglass window and examining the alarm mesh running through it. Then she peered downward into the street, as if measuring the drop.
   “With a little aim, you can get out of here,” she said.
   Aim? Uneasy, he peered out the rest room window.
   Up the street, an enormous twinbed eighteenwheeler was headed for the stoplight beneath the window. Stretched across the truck’s massive cargo bay was a blue vinyl tarp, loosely covering the truck’s load. Langdon hoped Sophie was not thinking what she seemed to be thinking.
   “Sophie, there’s no way I’m jump—“
   “Take out the tracking dot.”
   Bewildered, Langdon fumbled in his pocket until he found the tiny metallic disk. Sophie took it from him and strode immediately to the sink. She grabbed a thick bar of soap, placed the tracking dot on top of it, and used her thumb to push the disk down hard into the bar. As the disk sank into the soft surface, she pinched the hole closed, firmly embedding the device in the bar.
   Handing the bar to Langdon, Sophie retrieved a heavy, cylindrical trash can from under the sinks. Before Langdon could protest, Sophie ran at the window, holding the can before her like a battering ram. Driving the bottom of the trash can into the center of the window, she shattered the glass.
   Alarms erupted overhead at earsplitting decibel levels.
   “Give me the soap!” Sophie yelled, barely audible over the alarm.
   Langdon thrust the bar into her hand.
   Palming the soap, she peered out the shattered window at the eighteenwheeler idling below. The target was plenty big—an expansive, stationary tarp—and it was less than ten feet from the side of the building. As the traffic lights prepared to change, Sophie took a deep breath and lobbed the bar of soap out into the night.
   The soap plummeted downward toward the truck, landing on the edge of the tarp, and sliding downward into the cargo bay just as the traffic light turned green.
   “Congratulations,” Sophie said, dragging him toward the door. “You just escaped from the Louvre.”
   Fleeing the men’s room, they moved into the shadows just as Fache rushed past.


* * *

   Now, with the fire alarm silenced, Langdon could hear the sounds of DCPJ sirens tearing away from the Louvre. A police exodus. Fache had hurried off as well, leaving the Grand Gallery deserted.
   “There’s an emergency stairwell about fifty meters back into the Grand Gallery,” Sophie said. “Now that the guards are leaving the perimeter, we can get out of here.”
   Langdon decided not to say another word all evening. Sophie Neveu was clearly a hell of a lot smarter than he was.

Chapter 19

   The Church of SaintSulpice, it is said, has the most eccentric history of any building in Paris. Built over the ruins of an ancient temple to the Egyptian goddess Isis, the church possesses an architectural footprint matching that of Notre Dame to within inches. The sanctuary has played host to the baptisms of the Marquis de Sade and Baudelaire, as well as the marriage of Victor Hugo. The attached seminary has a welldocumented history of unorthodoxy and was once the clandestine meeting hall for numerous secret societies.
   Tonight, the cavernous nave of SaintSulpice was as silent as a tomb, the only hint of life the faint smell of incense from mass earlier that evening. Silas sensed an uneasiness in Sister Sandrine’s demeanor as she led him into the sanctuary. He was not surprised by this. Silas was accustomed to people being uncomfortable with his appearance.
   “You’re an American,” she said.
   “French by birth,” Silas responded. “I had my calling in Spain, and I now study in the United States.”
   Sister Sandrine nodded. She was a small woman with quiet eyes. “And you have never seen SaintSulpice?”
   “I realize this is almost a sin in itself.”
   “She is more beautiful by day.”
   “I am certain. Nonetheless, I am grateful that you would provide me this opportunity tonight.”
   “The abbé requested it. You obviously have powerful friends.”
   You have no idea, Silas thought.
   As he followed Sister Sandrine down the main aisle, Silas was surprised by the austerity of the sanctuary. Unlike Notre Dame with its colorful frescoes, gilded altarwork, and warm wood, SaintSulpice was stark and cold, conveying an almost barren quality reminiscent of the ascetic cathedrals of Spain. The lack of decor made the interior look even more expansive, and as Silas gazed up into the soaring ribbed vault of the ceiling, he imagined he was standing beneath the hull of an enormous overturned ship.
   A fitting image, he thought. The brotherhood’s ship was about to be capsized forever. Feeling eager to get to work, Silas wished Sister Sandrine would leave him. She was a small woman whom Silas could incapacitate easily, but he had vowed not to use force unless absolutely necessary. She is a woman of the cloth, and it is not her fault the brotherhood chose her church as a hiding place for their keystone. She should not be punished for the sins of others.
   “I am embarrassed, Sister, that you were awoken on my behalf.”
   “Not at all. You are in Paris a short time. You should not miss SaintSulpice. Are your interests in the church more architectural or historical?”
   “Actually, Sister, my interests are spiritual.”
   She gave a pleasant laugh. “That goes without saying. I simply wondered where to begin your tour.”
   Silas felt his eyes focus on the altar. “A tour is unnecessary. You have been more than kind. I can show myself around.”
   “It is no trouble,” she said. “After all, I am awake.”
   Silas stopped walking. They had reached the front pew now, and the altar was only fifteen yards away. He turned his massive body fully toward the small woman, and he could sense her recoil as she gazed up into his red eyes. “If it does not seem too rude, Sister, I am not accustomed to simply walking into a house of God and taking a tour. Would you mind if I took some time alone to pray before I look around?”
   Sister Sandrine hesitated. “Oh, of course. I shall wait in the rear of the church for you.”
   Silas put a soft but heavy hand on her shoulder and peered down. “Sister, I feel guilty already for having awoken you. To ask you to stay awake is too much. Please, you should return to bed. I can enjoy your sanctuary and then let myself out.”
   She looked uneasy. “Are you sure you won’t feel abandoned?”
   “Not at all. Prayer is a solitary joy.”
   “As you wish.”
   Silas took his hand from her shoulder. “Sleep well, Sister. May the peace of the Lord be with you.”
   “And also with you.” Sister Sandrine headed for the stairs. “Please be sure the door closes tightly on your way out.”
   “I will be sure of it.” Silas watched her climb out of sight. Then he turned and knelt in the front pew, feeling the cilice cut into his leg.
   Dear God, I offer up to you this work I do today….


* * *

   Crouching in the shadows of the choir balcony high above the altar, Sister Sandrine peered silently through the balustrade at the cloaked monk kneeling alone. The sudden dread in her soul made it hard to stay still. For a fleeting instant, she wondered if this mysterious visitor could be the enemy they had warned her about, and if tonight she would have to carry out the orders she had been holding all these years. She decided to stay there in the darkness and watch his every move.

Chapter 20

   Emerging from the shadows, Langdon and Sophie moved stealthily up the deserted Grand Gallery corridor toward the emergency exit stairwell.
   As he moved, Langdon felt like he was trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark. The newest aspect of this mystery was a deeply troubling one: The captain of the Judicial Police is trying to frame me for murder
   “Do you think,” he whispered, “that maybe Fache wrote that message on the floor?”
   Sophie didn’t even turn. “Impossible.”
   Langdon wasn’t so sure. “He seems pretty intent on making me look guilty. Maybe he thought writing my name on the floor would help his case?”
   “The Fibonacci sequence? The P.S.? All the Da Vinci and goddess symbolism? That had to be my grandfather.”
   Langdon knew she was right. The symbolism of the clues meshed too perfectly—the pentacle, The Vitruvian Man, Da Vinci, the goddess, and even the Fibonacci sequence. A coherent symbolic set, as iconographers would call it. All inextricably tied.
   “And his phone call to me this afternoon,” Sophie added. “He said he had to tell me something. I’m certain his message at the Louvre was his final effort to tell me something important, something he thought you could help me understand.”
   Langdon frowned. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint.! He wished he could comprehend the message, both for Sophie’s wellbeing and for his own. Things had definitely gotten worse since he first laid eyes on the cryptic words. His fake leap out the bathroom window was not going to help Langdon’s popularity with Fache one bit. Somehow he doubted the captain of the French police would see the humor in chasing down and arresting a bar of soap.
   “The doorway isn’t much farther,” Sophie said.
   “Do you think there’s a possibility that the numbers in your grandfather’s message hold the key to understanding the other lines?” Langdon had once worked on a series of Baconian manuscripts that contained epigraphical ciphers in which certain lines of code were clues as to how to decipher the other lines.
   “I’ve been thinking about the numbers all night. Sums, quotients, products. I don’t see anything. Mathematically, they’re arranged at random. Cryptographic gibberish.”
   “And yet they’re all part of the Fibonacci sequence. That can’t be coincidence.”
   “It’s not. Using Fibonacci numbers was my grandfather’s way of waving another flag at me—like writing the message in English, or arranging himself like my favorite piece of art, or drawing a pentacle on himself. All of it was to catch my attention.”
   “The pentacle has meaning to you?”
   “Yes. I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but the pentacle was a special symbol between my grandfather and me when I was growing up. We used to play Tarot cards for fun, and my indicator card always turned out to be from the suit of pentacles. I’m sure he stacked the deck, but pentacles got to be our little joke.”
   Langdon felt a chill. They played Tarot? The medieval Italian card game was so replete with hidden heretical symbolism that Langdon had dedicated an entire Chapter in his new manuscript to the Tarot. The game’s twentytwo cards bore names like The Female Pope, The Empress, and The Star. Originally, Tarot had been devised as a secret means to pass along ideologies banned by the Church. Now, Tarot’s mystical qualities were passed on by modern fortunetellers.
   The Tarot indicator suit for feminine divinity is pentacles, Langdon thought, realizing that if Saunière had been stacking his granddaughter’s deck for fun, pentacles was an apropos inside joke.
   They arrived at the emergency stairwell, and Sophie carefully pulled open the door. No alarm sounded. Only the doors to the outside were wired. Sophie led Langdon down a tight set of switchback stairs toward the ground level, picking up speed as they went.
   “Your grandfather,” Langdon said, hurrying behind her, “when he told you about the pentacle, did he mention goddess worship or any resentment of the Catholic Church?”
   Sophie shook her head. “I was more interested in the mathematics of it—the Divine Proportion, PHI, Fibonacci sequences, that sort of thing.”
   Langdon was surprised. “Your grandfather taught you about the number PHI?”
   “Of course. The Divine Proportion.” Her expression turned sheepish. “In fact, he used to joke that I was half divine… you know, because of the letters in my name.”
   Langdon considered it a moment and then groaned.
   soPHIe.
   Still descending, Langdon refocused on PHI. He was starting to realize that Saunière’s clues were even more consistent than he had first imagined.
   Da Vinci… Fibonacci numbers… the pentacle.
   Incredibly, all of these things were connected by a single concept so fundamental to art history that Langdon often spent several class periods on the topic.
   PHI.
   He felt himself suddenly reeling back to Harvard, standing in front of his “Symbolism in Art” class, writing his favorite number on the chalkboard.
   1.618
   Langdon turned to face his sea of eager students. “Who can tell me what this number is?”
   A longlegged math major in back raised his hand. “That’s the number PHI.” He pronounced it fee.
   “Nice job, Stettner,” Langdon said. “Everyone, meet PHI.”
   “Not to be confused with PI,” Stettner added, grinning. “As we mathematicians like to say: PHI is one H of a lot cooler than PI!”
   Langdon laughed, but nobody else seemed to get the joke.
   Stettner slumped.
   “This number PHI,” Langdon continued, “onepointsixoneeight, is a very important number in art. Who can tell me why?”
   Stettner tried to redeem himself. “Because it’s so pretty?”
   Everyone laughed.
   “Actually,” Langdon said, “Stettner’s right again. PHI is generally considered the most beautiful number in the universe.”
   The laughter abruptly stopped, and Stettner gloated.
   As Langdon loaded his slide projector, he explained that the number PHI was derived from the Fibonacci sequence—a progression famous not only because the sum of adjacent terms equaled the next term, but because the quotients of adjacent terms possessed the astonishing property of approaching the number 1.618—PHI!
   Despite PHI’s seemingly mystical mathematical origins, Langdon explained, the truly mindboggling aspect of PHI was its role as a fundamental building block in nature. Plants, animals, and even human beings all possessed dimensional properties that adhered with eerie exactitude to the ratio of PHI to 1.
   “PHI’s ubiquity in nature,” Langdon said, killing the lights, “clearly exceeds coincidence, and so the ancients assumed the number PHI must have been preordained by the Creator of the universe. Early scientists heralded onepointsixoneeight as the Divine Proportion.”
   “Hold on,” said a young woman in the front row. “I’m a bio major and I’ve never seen this Divine Proportion in nature.”
   “No?” Langdon grinned. “Ever study the relationship between females and males in a honeybee community?”
   “Sure. The female bees always outnumber the male bees.”
   “Correct. And did you know that if you divide the number of female bees by the number of male bees in any beehive in the world, you always get the same number?”
   “You do?”
   “Yup. PHI.”
   The girl gaped. “NO WAY!”
   “Way!” Langdon fired back, smiling as he projected a slide of a spiral seashell. “Recognize this?”
   “It’s a nautilus,” the bio major said. “A cephalopod mollusk that pumps gas into its chambered shell to adjust its buoyancy.”
   “Correct. And can you guess what the ratio is of each spiral’s diameter to the next?”
   The girl looked uncertain as she eyed the concentric arcs of the nautilus spiral.
   Langdon nodded. “PHI. The Divine Proportion. Onepointsixoneeight to one.”
   The girl looked amazed.
   Langdon advanced to the next slide—a closeup of a sunflower’s seed head. “Sunflower seeds grow in opposing spirals. Can you guess the ratio of each rotation’s diameter to the next?”
   “PHI?” everyone said.
   “Bingo.” Langdon began racing through slides now—spiraled pinecone petals, leaf arrangement on plant stalks, insect segmentation—all displaying astonishing obedience to the Divine Proportion.
   “This is amazing!” someone cried out.
   “Yeah,” someone else said, “but what does it have to do with art?”
   “Aha!” Langdon said. “Glad you asked.” He pulled up another slide—a pale yellow parchment displaying Leonardo da Vinci’s famous male nude—The Vitruvian Man —named for Marcus Vitruvius, the brilliant Roman architect who praised the Divine Proportion in his text De Architectura.
   “Nobody understood better than Da Vinci the divine structure of the human body. Da Vinci actually exhumed corpses to measure the exact proportions of human bone structure. He was the first to show that the human body is literally made of building blocks whose proportional ratios always equal PHI.”
   Everyone in class gave him a dubious look.
   “Don’t believe me?” Langdon challenged. “Next time you’re in the shower, take a tape measure.”
   A couple of football players snickered.
   “Not just you insecure jocks,” Langdon prompted. “All of you. Guys and girls. Try it. Measure the distance from the tip of your head to the floor. Then divide that by the distance from your belly button to the floor. Guess what number you get.”
   “Not PHI!” one of the jocks blurted out in disbelief.
   “Yes, PHI,” Langdon replied. “Onepointsixoneeight. Want another example? Measure the distance from your shoulder to your fingertips, and then divide it by the distance from your elbow to your fingertips. PHI again. Another? Hip to floor divided by knee to floor. PHI again. Finger joints. Toes. Spinal divisions. PHI. PHI. PHI. My friends, each of you is a walking tribute to the Divine Proportion.”
   Even in the darkness, Langdon could see they were all astounded. He felt a familiar warmth inside. This is why he taught. “My friends, as you can see, the chaos of the world has an underlying order. When the ancients discovered PHI, they were certain they had stumbled across God’s building block for the world, and they worshipped Nature because of that. And one can understand why. God’s hand is evident in Nature, and even to this day there exist pagan, Mother Earthrevering religions. Many of us celebrate nature the way the pagans did, and don’t even know it. May Day is a perfect example, the celebration of spring… the earth coming back to life to produce her bounty. The mysterious magic inherent in the Divine Proportion was written at the beginning of time. Man is simply playing by Nature’s rules, and because art is man’s attempt to imitate the beauty of the Creator’s hand, you can imagine we might be seeing a lot of instances of the Divine Proportion in art this semester.”
   Over the next half hour, Langdon showed them slides of artwork by Michelangelo, Albrecht Dürer, Da Vinci, and many others, demonstrating each artist’s intentional and rigorous adherence to the Divine Proportion in the layout of his compositions. Langdon unveiled PHI in the architectural dimensions of the Greek Parthenon, the pyramids of Egypt, and even the United Nations Building in New York. PHI appeared in the organizational structures of Mozart’s sonatas, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, as well as the works of Bartók, Debussy, and Schubert. The number PHI, Langdon told them, was even used by Stradivarius to calculate the exact placement of the fholes in the construction of his famous violins.
   “In closing,” Langdon said, walking to the chalkboard, “we return to symbols” He drew five intersecting lines that formed a fivepointed star. “This symbol is one of the most powerful images you will see this term. Formally known as a pentagram—or pentacle, as the ancients called it—this symbol is considered both divine and magical by many cultures. Can anyone tell me why that might be?”
   Stettner, the math major, raised his hand. “Because if you draw a pentagram, the lines automatically divide themselves into segments according to the Divine Proportion.”
   Langdon gave the kid a proud nod. “Nice job. Yes, the ratios of line segments in a pentacle all equal PHI, making this symbol the ultimate expression of the Divine Proportion. For this reason, the fivepointed star has always been the symbol for beauty and perfection associated with the goddess and the sacred feminine.”
   The girls in class beamed.
   “One note, folks. We’ve only touched on Da Vinci today, but we’ll be seeing a lot more of him this semester. Leonardo was a welldocumented devotee of the ancient ways of the goddess. Tomorrow, I’ll show you his fresco The Last Supper, which is one of the most astonishing tributes to the sacred feminine you will ever see.”
   “You’re kidding, right?” somebody said. “I thought The Last Supper was about Jesus!”
   Langdon winked. “There are symbols hidden in places you would never imagine.”


* * *

   “Come on,” Sophie whispered. “What’s wrong? We’re almost there. Hurry!”
   Langdon glanced up, feeling himself return from faraway thoughts. He realized he was standing at a dead stop on the stairs, paralyzed by sudden revelation.
   O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
   Sophie was looking back at him.
   It can’t be that simple, Langdon thought.
   But he knew of course that it was.
   There in the bowels of the Louvre… with images of PHI and Da Vinci swirling through his mind, Robert Langdon suddenly and unexpectedly deciphered Saunière’s code.
   “O, Draconian devil!” he said. “Oh, lame saint! It’s the simplest kind of code!”


* * *

   Sophie was stopped on the stairs below him, staring up in confusion. A code? She had been pondering the words all night and had not seen a code. Especially a simple one.
   “You said it yourself.” Langdon’s voice reverberated with excitement. “Fibonacci numbers only have meaning in their proper order. Otherwise they’re mathematical gibberish.”
   Sophie had no idea what he was talking about. The Fibonacci numbers? She was certain they had been intended as nothing more than a means to get the Cryptography Department involved tonight. They have another purpose? She plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out the printout, studying her grandfather’s message again.

   1332211185
   O, Draconian devil!
   Oh, lame saint!


* * *

   What about the numbers?
   “The scrambled Fibonacci sequence is a clue,” Langdon said, taking the printout. “The numbers are a hint as to how to decipher the rest of the message. He wrote the sequence out of order to tell us to apply the same concept to the text. O, Draconian devil? Oh, lame saint? Those lines mean nothing. They are simply letters written out of order.”
   Sophie needed only an instant to process Langdon’s implication, and it seemed laughably simple. “You think this message is… une anagramme?” She stared at him. “Like a word jumble from a newspaper?”
   Langdon could see the skepticism on Sophie’s face and certainly understood. Few people realized that anagrams, despite being a trite modern amusement, had a rich history of sacred symbolism.
   The mystical teachings of the Kabbala drew heavily on anagrams—rearranging the letters of Hebrew words to derive new meanings. French kings throughout the Renaissance were so convinced that anagrams held magic power that they appointed royal anagrammatists to help them make better decisions by analyzing words in important documents. The Romans actually referred to the study of anagrams as ars magna —“the great art.”
   Langdon looked up at Sophie, locking eyes with her now. “Your grandfather’s meaning was right in front of us all along, and he left us more than enough clues to see it.”
   Without another word, Langdon pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and rearranged the letters in each line.
   O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
   was a perfect anagram of…
   Leonardo da Vinci! The Mona Lisa!

Chapter 21

   The Mona Lisa.
   For an instant, standing in the exit stairwell, Sophie forgot all about trying to leave the Louvre.
   Her shock over the anagram was matched only by her embarrassment at not having deciphered the message herself. Sophie’s expertise in complex cryptanalysis had caused her to overlook simplistic word games, and yet she knew she should have seen it. After all, she was no stranger to anagrams—especially in English.
   When she was young, often her grandfather would use anagram games to hone her English spelling. Once he had written the English word “planets” and told Sophie that an astonishing sixtytwo other English words of varying lengths could be formed using those same letters. Sophie had spent three days with an English dictionary until she found them all.
   “I can’t imagine,” Langdon said, staring at the printout, “how your grandfather created such an intricate anagram in the minutes before he died.”
   Sophie knew the explanation, and the realization made her feel even worse. I should have seen this! She now recalled that her grandfather—a wordplay aficionado and art lover—had entertained himself as a young man by creating anagrams of famous works of art. In fact, one of his anagrams had gotten him in trouble once when Sophie was a little girl. While being interviewed by an American art magazine, Saunière had expressed his distaste for the modernist Cubist movement by noting that Picasso’s masterpiece Les Demoiselles d’Avignon was a perfect anagram of vile meaningless doodles. Picasso fans were not amused.
   “My grandfather probably created this Mona Lisa anagram long ago,” Sophie said, glancing up at Langdon. And tonight he was forced to use it as a makeshift code. Her grandfather’s voice had called out from beyond with chilling precision.
   Leonardo da Vinci!
   The Mona Lisa!
   Why his final words to her referenced the famous painting, Sophie had no idea, but she could think of only one possibility. A disturbing one.
   Those were not his final words….
   Was she supposed to visit the Mona Lisa? Had her grandfather left her a message there? The idea seemed perfectly plausible. After all, the famous painting hung in the Salle des États—a private viewing chamber accessible only from the Grand Gallery. In fact, Sophie now realized, the doors that opened into the chamber were situated only twenty meters from where her grandfather had been found dead.
   He easily could have visited the Mona Lisa before he died.
   Sophie gazed back up the emergency stairwell and felt torn. She knew she should usher Langdon from the museum immediately, and yet instinct urged her to the contrary. As Sophie recalled her first childhood visit to the Denon Wing, she realized that if her grandfather had a secret to tell her, few places on earth made a more apt rendezvous than Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.


* * *

   “She’s just a little bit farther,” her grandfather had whispered, clutching Sophie’s tiny hand as he led her through the deserted museum after hours.
   Sophie was six years old. She felt small and insignificant as she gazed up at the enormous ceilings and down at the dizzying floor. The empty museum frightened her, although she was not about to let her grandfather know that. She set her jaw firmly and let go of his hand.
   “Up ahead is the Salle des États,” her grandfather said as they approached the Louvre’s most famous room. Despite her grandfather’s obvious excitement, Sophie wanted to go home. She had seen pictures of the Mona Lisa in books and didn’t like it at all. She couldn’t understand why everyone made such a fuss.
   “C’est ennuyeux,” Sophie grumbled.
   “Boring,” he corrected. “French at school. English at home.”
   “Le Louvre, c’est pas chez moi!” she challenged.
   He gave her a tired laugh. “Right you are. Then let’s speak English just for fun.”
   Sophie pouted and kept walking. As they entered the Salle des États, her eyes scanned the narrow room and settled on the obvious spot of honor—the center of the righthand wall, where a lone portrait hung behind a protective Plexiglas wall. Her grandfather paused in the doorway and motioned toward the painting.
   “Go ahead, Sophie. Not many people get a chance to visit her alone.”
   Swallowing her apprehension, Sophie moved slowly across the room. After everything she’d heard about the Mona Lisa, she felt as if she were approaching royalty. Arriving in front of the protective Plexiglas, Sophie held her breath and looked up, taking it in all at once.
   Sophie was not sure what she had expected to feel, but it most certainly was not this. No jolt of amazement. No instant of wonder. The famous face looked as it did in books. She stood in silence for what felt like forever, waiting for something to happen.
   “So what do you think?” her grandfather whispered, arriving behind her. “Beautiful, yes?”
   “She’s too little.”
   Saunière smiled. “You’re little and you’re beautiful.”
   I am not beautiful, she thought. Sophie hated her red hair and freckles, and she was bigger than all the boys in her class. She looked back at the Mona Lisa and shook her head. “She’s even worse than in the books. Her face is… brumeux.”
   “Foggy,” her grandfather tutored.
   “Foggy,” Sophie repeated, knowing the conversation would not continue until she repeated her new vocabulary word.
   “That’s called the sfumato style of painting,” he told her, “and it’s very hard to do. Leonardo da Vinci was better at it than anyone.”
   Sophie still didn’t like the painting. “She looks like she knows something… like when kids at school have a secret.”
   Her grandfather laughed. “That’s part of why she is so famous. People like to guess why she is smiling.”
   “Do you know why she’s smiling?”
   “Maybe.” Her grandfather winked. “Someday I’ll tell you all about it.”
   Sophie stamped her foot. “I told you I don’t like secrets!”
   “Princess,” he smiled. “Life is filled with secrets. You can’t learn them all at once.”


* * *

   “I’m going back up,” Sophie declared, her voice hollow in the stairwell.
   “To the Mona Lisa?” Langdon recoiled. “Now?”
   Sophie considered the risk. “I’m not a murder suspect. I’ll take my chances. I need to understand what my grandfather was trying to tell me.”
   “What about the embassy?”
   Sophie felt guilty turning Langdon into a fugitive only to abandon him, but she saw no other option. She pointed down the stairs to a metal door. “Go through that door, and follow the illuminated exit signs. My grandfather used to bring me down here. The signs will lead you to a security turnstile. It’s monodirectional and opens out.” She handed Langdon her car keys. “Mine is the red SmartCar in the employee lot. Directly outside this bulkhead. Do you know how to get to the embassy?”
   Langdon nodded, eyeing the keys in his hand.
   “Listen,” Sophie said, her voice softening. “I think my grandfather may have left me a message at the Mona Lisa —some kind of clue as to who killed him. Or why I’m in danger.” Or what happened to my family. “I have to go see.”
   “But if he wanted to tell you why you were in danger, why wouldn’t he simply write it on the floor where he died? Why this complicated word game?”
   “Whatever my grandfather was trying to tell me, I don’t think he wanted anyone else to hear it. Not even the police.” Clearly, her grandfather had done everything in his power to send a confidential transmission directly to her. He had written it in code, included her secret initials, and told her to find Robert Langdon—a wise command, considering the American symbologist had deciphered his code. “As strange as it may sound,” Sophie said, “I think he wants me to get to the Mona Lisa before anyone else does.”
   “I’ll come.”
   “No! We don’t know how long the Grand Gallery will stay empty. You have to go.”
   Langdon seemed hesitant, as if his own academic curiosity were threatening to override sound judgment and drag him back into Fache’s hands.
   “Go. Now.” Sophie gave him a grateful smile. “I’ll see you at the embassy, Mr. Langdon.”
   Langdon looked displeased. “I’ll meet you there on one condition,” he replied, his voice stern.
   She paused, startled. “What’s that?”
   “That you stop calling me Mr. Langdon.”
   Sophie detected the faint hint of a lopsided grin growing across Langdon’s face, and she felt herself smile back. “Good luck, Robert.”


* * *

   When Langdon reached the landing at the bottom of the stairs, the unmistakable smell of linseed oil and plaster dust assaulted his nostrils. Ahead, an illuminated SORTIE/EXIT displayed an arrow pointing down a long corridor.
   Langdon stepped into the hallway.
   To the right gaped a murky restoration studio out of which peered an army of statues in various states of repair. To the left, Langdon saw a suite of studios that resembled Harvard art classrooms—rows of easels, paintings, palettes, framing tools—an art assembly line.
   As he moved down the hallway, Langdon wondered if at any moment he might awake with a start in his bed in Cambridge. The entire evening had felt like a bizarre dream. I’m about to dash out of the Louvre… a fugitive.
   Saunière’s clever anagrammatic message was still on his mind, and Langdon wondered what Sophie would find at the Mona Lisa… if anything. She had seemed certain her grandfather meant for her to visit the famous painting one more time. As plausible an interpretation as this seemed, Langdon felt haunted now by a troubling paradox.
   P.S. Find Robert Langdon.
   Saunière had written Langdon’s name on the floor, commanding Sophie to find him. But why? Merely so Langdon could help her break an anagram?
   It seemed quite unlikely.
   After all, Saunière had no reason to think Langdon was especially skilled at anagrams. We’ve never even met. More important, Sophie had stated flat out that she should have broken the anagram on her own. It had been Sophie who spotted the Fibonacci sequence, and, no doubt, Sophie who, if given a little more time, would have deciphered the message with no help from Langdon.
   Sophie was supposed to break that anagram on her own. Langdon was suddenly feeling more certain about this, and yet the conclusion left an obvious gaping lapse in the logic of Saunière’s actions.
   Why me? Langdon wondered, heading down the hall. Why was Saunière’s dying wish that his estranged granddaughter find me? What is it that Saunière thinks I know?
   With an unexpected jolt, Langdon stopped short. Eyes wide, he dug in his pocket and yanked out the computer printout. He stared at the last line of Saunière’s message.
   P.S. Find Robert Langdon.
   He fixated on two letters.
   P.S.
   In that instant, Langdon felt Saunière’s puzzling mix of symbolism fall into stark focus. Like a peal of thunder, a career’s worth of symbology and history came crashing down around him. Everything Jacques Saunière had done tonight suddenly made perfect sense.
   Langdon’s thoughts raced as he tried to assemble the implications of what this all meant. Wheeling, he stared back in the direction from which he had come.
   Is there time?
   He knew it didn’t matter.
   Without hesitation, Langdon broke into a sprint back toward the stairs.

Chapter 22

   Kneeling in the first pew, Silas pretended to pray as he scanned the layout of the sanctuary. SaintSulpice, like most churches, had been built in the shape of a giant Roman cross. Its long central section—the nave—led directly to the main altar, where it was transversely intersected by a shorter section, known as the transept. The intersection of nave and transept occurred directly beneath the main cupola and was considered the heart of the church… her most sacred and mystical point.
   Not tonight, Silas thought. SaintSulpice hides her secrets elsewhere.
   Turning his head to the right, he gazed into the south transept, toward the open area of floor beyond the end of the pews, to the object his victims had described.
   There it is.
   Embedded in the gray granite floor, a thin polished strip of brass glistened in the stone… a golden line slanting across the church’s floor. The line bore graduated markings, like a ruler. It was a gnomon, Silas had been told, a pagan astronomical device like a sundial. Tourists, scientists, historians, and pagans from around the world came to SaintSulpice to gaze upon this famous line.
   The Rose Line.
   Slowly, Silas let his eyes trace the path of the brass strip as it made its way across the floor from his right to left, slanting in front of him at an awkward angle, entirely at odds with the symmetry of the church. Slicing across the main altar itself, the line looked to Silas like a slash wound across a beautiful face. The strip cleaved the communion rail in two and then crossed the entire width of the church, finally reaching the corner of the north transept, where it arrived at the base of a most unexpected structure.
   A colossal Egyptian obelisk.
   Here, the glistening Rose Line took a ninetydegree vertical turn and continued directly up the face of the obelisk itself, ascending thirtythree feet to the very tip of the pyramidical apex, where it finally ceased.
   The Rose Line, Silas thought. The brotherhood hid the keystone at the Rose Line.
   Earlier tonight, when Silas told the Teacher that the Priory keystone was hidden inside SaintSulpice, the Teacher had sounded doubtful. But when Silas added that the brothers had all given him a precise location, with relation to a brass line running through SaintSulpice, the Teacher had gasped with revelation. “You speak of the Rose Line!”
   The Teacher quickly told Silas of SaintSulpice’s famed architectural oddity—a strip of brass that segmented the sanctuary on a perfect northsouth axis. It was an ancient sundial of sorts, a vestige of the pagan temple that had once stood on this very spot. The sun’s rays, shining through the oculus on the south wall, moved farther down the line every day, indicating the passage of time, from solstice to solstice.
   The northsouth stripe had been known as the Rose Line. For centuries, the symbol of the Rose had been associated with maps and guiding souls in the proper direction. The Compass Rose—drawn on almost every map—indicated North, East, South, and West. Originally known as the Wind Rose, it denoted the directions of the thirtytwo winds, blowing from the directions of eight major winds, eight halfwinds, and sixteen quarterwinds. When diagrammed inside a circle, these thirtytwo points of the compass perfectly resembled a traditional thirtytwo petal rose bloom. To this day, the fundamental navigational tool was still known as a Compass Rose, its northernmost direction still marked by an arrowhead… or, more commonly, the symbol of the fleurdelis.
   On a globe, a Rose Line—also called a meridian or longitude—was any imaginary line drawn from the North Pole to the South Pole. There were, of course, an infinite number of Rose Lines because every point on the globe could have a longitude drawn through it connecting north and south poles. The question for early navigators was which of these lines would be called the Rose Line—the zero longitude—the line from which all other longitudes on earth would be measured.
   Today that line was in Greenwich, England.
   But it had not always been.
   Long before the establishment of Greenwich as the prime meridian, the zero longitude of the entire world had passed directly through Paris, and through the Church of SaintSulpice. The brass marker in SaintSulpice was a memorial to the world’s first prime meridian, and although Greenwich had stripped Paris of the honor in 1888, the original Rose Line was still visible today.
   “And so the legend is true,” the Teacher had told Silas. “The Priory keystone has been said to lie ‘beneath the Sign of the Rose.’ “
   Now, still on his knees in a pew, Silas glanced around the church and listened to make sure no one was there. For a moment, he thought he heard a rustling in the choir balcony. He turned and gazed up for several seconds. Nothing.
   I am alone.
   Standing now, he faced the altar and genuflected three times. Then he turned left and followed the brass line due north toward the obelisk.


* * *

   At that moment, at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport in Rome, the jolt of tires hitting the runway startled Bishop Aringarosa from his slumber.
   I drifted off, he thought, impressed he was relaxed enough to sleep.
   “Benvenuto a Roma,” the intercom announced.
   Sitting up, Aringarosa straightened his black cassock and allowed himself a rare smile. This was one trip he had been happy to make. I have been on the defensive for too long. Tonight, however, the rules had changed. Only five months ago, Aringarosa had feared for the future of the Faith. Now, as if by the will of God, the solution had presented itself.
   Divine intervention.
   If all went as planned tonight in Paris, Aringarosa would soon be in possession of something that would make him the most powerful man in Christendom.

Chapter 23

   Sophie arrived breathless outside the large wooden doors of the Salle des États—the room that housed the Mona Lisa. Before entering, she gazed reluctantly farther down the hall, twenty yards or so, to the spot where her grandfather’s body still lay under the spotlight.
   The remorse that gripped her was powerful and sudden, a deep sadness laced with guilt. The man had reached out to her so many times over the past ten years, and yet Sophie had remained immovable—leaving his letters and packages unopened in a bottom drawer and denying his efforts to see her. He lied to me! Kept appalling secrets! What was I supposed to do? And so she had blocked him out. Completely.
   Now her grandfather was dead, and he was talking to her from the grave.
   The Mona Lisa.
   She reached for the huge wooden doors, and pushed. The entryway yawned open. Sophie stood on the threshold a moment, scanning the large rectangular chamber beyond. It too was bathed in a soft red light. The Salle des États was one of this museum’s rare culsdesac —a dead end and the only room off the middle of the Grand Gallery. This door, the chamber’s sole point of entry, faced a dominating fifteenfoot Botticelli on the far wall. Beneath it, centered on the parquet floor, an immense octagonal viewing divan served as a welcome respite for thousands of visitors to rest their legs while they admired the Louvre’s most valuable asset.
   Even before Sophie entered, though, she knew she was missing something. A black light. She gazed down the hall at her grandfather under the lights in the distance, surrounded by electronic gear. If he had written anything in here, he almost certainly would have written it with the watermark stylus.
   Taking a deep breath, Sophie hurried down to the welllit crime scene. Unable to look at her grandfather, she focused solely on the PTS tools. Finding a small ultraviolet penlight, she slipped it in the pocket of her sweater and hurried back up the hallway toward the open doors of the Salle des États.
   Sophie turned the corner and stepped over the threshold. Her entrance, however, was met by an unexpected sound of muffled footsteps racing toward her from inside the chamber. There’s someone in here! A ghostly figure emerged suddenly from out of the reddish haze. Sophie jumped back.
   “There you are!” Langdon’s hoarse whisper cut the air as his silhouette slid to a stop in front of her.
   Her relief was only momentary. “Robert, I told you to get out of here! If Fache—“
   “Where were you?”
   “I had to get the black light,” she whispered, holding it up. “If my grandfather left me a message—“
   “Sophie, listen.” Langdon caught his breath as his blue eyes held her firmly. “The letters P.S…. do they mean anything else to you? Anything at all?”
   Afraid their voices might echo down the hall, Sophie pulled him into the Salle des États and closed the enormous twin doors silently, sealing them inside. “I told you, the initials mean Princess Sophie.”
   “I know, but did you ever see them anywhere else? Did your grandfather ever use P.S. in any other way? As a monogram, or maybe on stationery or a personal item?”
   The question startled her. How would Robert know that? Sophie had indeed seen the initials P.S. once before, in a kind of monogram. It was the day before her ninth birthday. She was secretly combing the house, searching for hidden birthday presents. Even then, she could not bear secrets kept from her. What did Grandpère get for me this year? She dug through cupboards and drawers. Did he get me the doll I wanted? Where would he hide it?
   Finding nothing in the entire house, Sophie mustered the courage to sneak into her grandfather’s bedroom. The room was offlimits to her, but her grandfather was downstairs asleep on the couch.
   I’ll just take a fast peek!
   Tiptoeing across the creaky wood floor to his closet, Sophie peered on the shelves behind his clothing. Nothing. Next she looked under the bed. Still nothing. Moving to his bureau, she opened the drawers and one by one began pawing carefully through them. There must be something for me here! As she reached the bottom drawer, she still had not found any hint of a doll. Dejected, she opened the final drawer and pulled aside some black clothes she had never seen him wear. She was about to close the drawer when her eyes caught a glint of gold in the back of the drawer. It looked like a pocket watch chain, but she knew he didn’t wear one. Her heart raced as she realized what it must be.
   A necklace!
   Sophie carefully pulled the chain from the drawer. To her surprise, on the end was a brilliant gold key. Heavy and shimmering. Spellbound, she held it up. It looked like no key she had ever seen. Most keys were flat with jagged teeth, but this one had a triangular column with little pockmarks all over it. Its large golden head was in the shape of a cross, but not a normal cross. This was an evenarmed one, like a plus sign. Embossed in the middle of the cross was a strange symbol—two letters intertwined with some kind of flowery design.
   “P.S.,” she whispered, scowling as she read the letters. Whatever could this be?
   “Sophie?” her grandfather spoke from the doorway.
   Startled, she spun, dropping the key on the floor with a loud clang. She stared down at the key, afraid to look up at her grandfather’s face. “I… was looking for my birthday present,” she said, hanging her head, knowing she had betrayed his trust.
   For what seemed like an eternity, her grandfather stood silently in the doorway. Finally, he let out a long troubled breath. “Pick up the key, Sophie.”
   Sophie retrieved the key.
   Her grandfather walked in. “Sophie, you need to respect other people’s privacy.” Gently, he knelt down and took the key from her. “This key is very special. If you had lost it…”
   Her grandfather’s quiet voice made Sophie feel even worse. “I’m sorry, Grand-père. I really am.” She paused. “I thought it was a necklace for my birthday.”
   He gazed at her for several seconds. “I’ll say this once more, Sophie, because it’s important. You need to learn to respect other people’s privacy.”
   “Yes, Grand-père.”
   “We’ll talk about this some other time. Right now, the garden needs to be weeded.”
   Sophie hurried outside to do her chores.
   The next morning, Sophie received no birthday present from her grandfather. She hadn’t expected one, not after what she had done. But he didn’t even wish her happy birthday all day. Sadly, she trudged up to bed that night. As she climbed in, though, she found a note card lying on her pillow. On the card was written a simple riddle. Even before she solved the riddle, she was smiling. I know what this is! Her grandfather had done this for her last Christmas morning.
   A treasure hunt!
   Eagerly, she pored over the riddle until she solved it. The solution pointed her to another part of the house, where she found another card and another riddle. She solved this one too, racing on to the next card. Running wildly, she darted back and forth across the house, from clue to clue, until at last she found a clue that directed her back to her own bedroom. Sophie dashed up the stairs, rushed into her room, and stopped in her tracks. There in the middle of the room sat a shining red bicycle with a ribbon tied to the handlebars. Sophie shrieked with delight.
   “I know you asked for a doll,” her grandfather said, smiling in the corner. “I thought you might like this even better.”
   The next day, her grandfather taught her to ride, running beside her down the walkway. When Sophie steered out over the thick lawn and lost her balance, they both went tumbling onto the grass, rolling and laughing.
   “Grand-père,” Sophie said, hugging him. “I’m really sorry about the key.”
   “I know, sweetie. You’re forgiven. I can’t possibly stay mad at you. Grandfathers and granddaughters always forgive each other.”
   Sophie knew she shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t help it. “What does it open? I never saw a key like that. It was very pretty.”
   Her grandfather was silent a long moment, and Sophie could see he was uncertain how to answer. Grand-père never lies. “It opens a box,” he finally said. “Where I keep many secrets.”
   Sophie pouted. “I hate secrets!”
   “I know, but these are important secrets. And someday, you’ll learn to appreciate them as much as I do.”
   “I saw letters on the key, and a flower.”
   “Yes, that’s my favorite flower. It’s called a fleurdelis. We have them in the garden. The white ones. In English we call that kind of flower a lily.”
   “I know those! They’re my favorite too!”
   “Then I’ll make a deal with you.” Her grandfather’s eyebrows raised the way they always did when he was about to give her a challenge. “If you can keep my key a secret, and never talk about it ever again, to me or anybody, then someday I will give it to you.”
   Sophie couldn’t believe her ears. “You will?”
   “I promise. When the time comes, the key will be yours. It has your name on it.”
   Sophie scowled. “No it doesn’t. It said P.S. My name isn’t P.S.!”
   Her grandfather lowered his voice and looked around as if to make sure no one was listening. “Okay, Sophie, if you must know, P.S. is a code. It’s your secret initials.”
   Her eyes went wide. “I have secret initials?”
   “Of course. Granddaughters always have secret initials that only their grandfathers know.”
   “P.S.?”
   He tickled her. “Princesse Sophie.”
   She giggled. “I’m not a princess!”
   He winked. “You are to me.”
   From that day on, they never again spoke of the key. And she became his Princess Sophie.


* * *

   Inside the Salle des États, Sophie stood in silence and endured the sharp pang of loss.
   “The initials,” Langdon whispered, eyeing her strangely. “Have you seen them?”
   Sophie sensed her grandfather’s voice whispering in the corridors of the museum. Never speak of this key, Sophie. To me or to anyone. She knew she had failed him in forgiveness, and she wondered if she could break his trust again. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. Her grandfather wanted Langdon to help. Sophie nodded. “Yes, I saw the initials P.S. once. When I was very young.”
   “Where?”
   Sophie hesitated. “On something very important to him.”
   Langdon locked eyes with her. “Sophie, this is crucial. Can you tell me if the initials appeared with a symbol? A fleurdelis?”
   Sophie felt herself staggering backward in amazement. “But… how could you possibly know that!”
   Langdon exhaled and lowered his voice. “I’m fairly certain your grandfather was a member of a secret society. A very old covert brotherhood.”
   Sophie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She was certain of it too. For ten years she had tried to forget the incident that had confirmed that horrifying fact for her. She had witnessed something unthinkable. Unforgivable.
   “The fleurdelis,” Langdon said, “combined with the initials P.S., that is the brotherhood’s official device. Their coat of arms. Their logo.”
   “How do you know this?” Sophie was praying Langdon was not going to tell her that he himself was a member.
   “I’ve written about this group,” he said, his voice tremulous with excitement. “Researching the symbols of secret societies is a specialty of mine. They call themselves the Prieure de Sion —the Priory of Sion. They’re based here in France and attract powerful members from all over Europe. In fact, they are one of the oldest surviving secret societies on earth.”
   Sophie had never heard of them.
   Langdon was talking in rapid bursts now. “The Priory’s membership has included some of history’s most cultured individuals: men like Botticelli, Sir Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo.” He paused, his voice brimming now with academic zeal. “And, Leonardo da Vinci.”
   Sophie stared. “Da Vinci was in a secret society?”
   “Da Vinci presided over the Priory between 1510 and 1519 as the brotherhood’s Grand Master, which might help explain your grandfather’s passion for Leonardo’s work. The two men share a historical fraternal bond. And it all fits perfectly with their fascination for goddess iconology, paganism, feminine deities, and contempt for the Church. The Priory has a welldocumented history of reverence for the sacred feminine.”
   “You’re telling me this group is a pagan goddess worship cult?”
   “More like the pagan goddess worship cult. But more important, they are known as the guardians of an ancient secret. One that made them immeasurably powerful.”
   Despite the total conviction in Langdon’s eyes, Sophie’s gut reaction was one of stark disbelief. A secret pagan cult? Once headed by Leonardo da Vinci? It all sounded utterly absurd. And yet, even as she dismissed it, she felt her mind reeling back ten years—to the night she had mistakenly surprised her grandfather and witnessed what she still could not accept. Could that explain —?
   “The identities of living Priory members are kept extremely secret,” Langdon said, “but the P.S. and fleurdelis that you saw as a child are proof. It could only have been related to the Priory.”
   Sophie realized now that Langdon knew far more about her grandfather than she had previously imagined. This American obviously had volumes to share with her, but this was not the place. “I can’t afford to let them catch you, Robert. There’s a lot we need to discuss. You need to go!”


* * *

   Langdon heard only the faint murmur of her voice. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was lost in another place now. A place where ancient secrets rose to the surface. A place where forgotten histories emerged from the shadows.
   Slowly, as if moving underwater, Langdon turned his head and gazed through the reddish haze toward the Mona Lisa.
   The fleurdelis… the flower of Lisa… the Mona Lisa.
   It was all intertwined, a silent symphony echoing the deepest secrets of the Priory of Sion and Leonardo da Vinci.


* * *

   A few miles away, on the riverbank beyond Les Invalides, the bewildered driver of a twinbed Trailor truck stood at gunpoint and watched as the captain of the Judicial Police let out a guttural roar of rage and heaved a bar of soap out into the turgid waters of the Seine.

Chapter 24

   Silas gazed upward at the SaintSulpice obelisk, taking in the length of the massive marble shaft. His sinews felt taut with exhilaration. He glanced around the church one more time to make sure he was alone. Then he knelt at the base of the structure, not out of reverence, but out of necessity.
   The keystone is hidden beneath the Rose Line.
   At the base of the Sulpice obelisk.
   All the brothers had concurred.
   On his knees now, Silas ran his hands across the stone floor. He saw no cracks or markings to indicate a movable tile, so he began rapping softly with his knuckles on the floor. Following the brass line closer to the obelisk, he knocked on each tile adjacent to the brass line. Finally, one of them echoed strangely.
   There’s a hollow area beneath the floor!
   Silas smiled. His victims had spoken the truth.
   Standing, he searched the sanctuary for something with which to break the floor tile.


* * *

   High above Silas, in the balcony, Sister Sandrine stifled a gasp. Her darkest fears had just been confirmed. This visitor was not who he seemed. The mysterious Opus Dei monk had come to SaintSulpice for another purpose.
   A secret purpose.
   You are not the only one with secrets, she thought.
   Sister Sandrine Bieil was more than the keeper of this church. She was a sentry. And tonight, the ancient wheels had been set in motion. The arrival of this stranger at the base of the obelisk was a signal from the brotherhood.
   It was a silent call of distress.

Chapter 25

   The U.S. Embassy in Paris is a compact complex on Avenue Gabriel, just north of the Champs-Elysées. The threeacre compound is considered U.S. soil, meaning all those who stand on it are subject to the same laws and protections as they would encounter standing in the United States.
   The embassy’s night operator was reading Time magazine’s International Edition when the sound of her phone interrupted.
   “U.S. Embassy,” she answered.
   “Good evening.” The caller spoke English accented with French. “I need some assistance.” Despite the politeness of the man’s words, his tone sounded gruff and official. “I was told you had a phone message for me on your automated system. The name is Langdon. Unfortunately, I have forgotten my threedigit access code. If you could help me, I would be most grateful.”
   The operator paused, confused. “I’m sorry, sir. Your message must be quite old. That system was removed two years ago for security precautions. Moreover, all the access codes were fivedigit. Who told you we had a message for you?”
   “You have no automated phone system?”
   “No, sir. Any message for you would be handwritten in our services department. What was your name again?”
   But the man had hung up.


* * *

   Bezu Fache felt dumbstruck as he paced the banks of the Seine. He was certain he had seen Langdon dial a local number, enter a threedigit code, and then listen to a recording. But if Langdon didn’t phone the embassy, then who the hell did he call?
   It was at that moment, eyeing his cellular phone, that Fache realized the answers were in the palm of his hand. Langdon used my phone to place that call.
   Keying into the cell phone’s menu, Fache pulled up the list of recently dialed numbers and found the call Langdon had placed.
   A Paris exchange, followed by the threedigit code 454.
   Redialing the phone number, Fache waited as the line began ringing.
   Finally a woman’s voice answered. “Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Sophie Neveu,” the recording announced. “Je suis absente pour le moment, mais… ”
   Fache’s blood was boiling as he typed the numbers 4… 5… 4.

Chapter 26

   Despite her monumental reputation, the Mona Lisa was a mere thirtyone inches by twentyone inches—smaller even than the posters of her sold in the Louvre gift shop. She hung on the northwest wall of the Salle des États behind a twoinchthick pane of protective Plexiglas. Painted on a poplar wood panel, her ethereal, mistfilled atmosphere was attributed to Da Vinci’s mastery of the sfumato style, in which forms appear to evaporate into one another.
   Since taking up residence in the Louvre, the Mona Lisa —or La Jaconde as they call her in France—had been stolen twice, most recently in 1911, when she disappeared from the Louvre’s “salle impenetrable” —Le Salon Carré. Parisians wept in the streets and wrote newspaper articles begging the thieves for the painting’s return. Two years later, the Mona Lisa was discovered hidden in the false bottom of a trunk in a Florence hotel room.
   Langdon, now having made it clear to Sophie that he had no intention of leaving, moved with her across the Salle des États. The Mona Lisa was still twenty yards ahead when Sophie turned on the black light, and the bluish crescent of penlight fanned out on the floor in front of them. She swung the beam back and forth across the floor like a minesweeper, searching for any hint of luminescent ink.
   Walking beside her, Langdon was already feeling the tingle of anticipation that accompanied his facetoface reunions with great works of art. He strained to see beyond the cocoon of purplish light emanating from the black light in Sophie’s hand. To the left, the room’s octagonal viewing divan emerged, looking like a dark island on the empty sea of parquet.
   Langdon could now begin to see the panel of dark glass on the wall. Behind it, he knew, in the confines of her own private cell, hung the most celebrated painting in the world.
   The Mona Lisa’s status as the most famous piece of art in the world, Langdon knew, had nothing to do with her enigmatic smile. Nor was it due to the mysterious interpretations attributed her by many art historians and conspiracy buffs. Quite simply, the Mona Lisa was famous because Leonardo da Vinci claimed she was his finest accomplishment. He carried the painting with him whenever he traveled and, if asked why, would reply that he found it hard to part with his most sublime expression of female beauty.
   Even so, many art historians suspected Da Vinci’s reverence for the Mona Lisa had nothing to do with its artistic mastery. In actuality, the painting was a surprisingly ordinary sfumato portrait. Da Vinci’s veneration for this work, many claimed, stemmed from something far deeper: a hidden message in the layers of paint. The Mona Lisa was, in fact, one of the world’s most documented inside jokes. The painting’s welldocumented collage of double entendres and playful allusions had been revealed in most art history tomes, and yet, incredibly, the public at large still considered her smile a great mystery.
   No mystery at all, Langdon thought, moving forward and watching as the faint outline of the painting began to take shape. No mystery at all.
   Most recently Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa’s secret with a rather unlikely group—a dozen inmates at the Essex County Penitentiary. Langdon’s jail seminar was part of a Harvard outreach program attempting to bring education into the prison system—Culture for Convicts, as Langdon’s colleagues liked to call it.
   Standing at an overhead projector in a darkened penitentiary library, Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa’s secret with the prisoners attending class, men whom he found surprisingly engaged—rough, but sharp. “You may notice,” Langdon told them, walking up to the projected image of the Mona Lisa on the library wall, “that the background behind her face is uneven.” Langdon motioned to the glaring discrepancy. “Da Vinci painted the horizon line on the left significantly lower than the right.”
   “He screwed it up?” one of the inmates asked.
   Langdon chuckled. “No. Da Vinci didn’t do that too often. Actually, this is a little trick Da Vinci played. By lowering the countryside on the left, Da Vinci made Mona Lisa look much larger from the left side than from the right side. A little Da Vinci inside joke. Historically, the concepts of male and female have assigned sides—left is female, and right is male. Because Da Vinci was a big fan of feminine principles, he made Mona Lisa look more majestic from the left than the right.”
   “I heard he was a fag,” said a small man with a goatee.
   Langdon winced. “Historians don’t generally put it quite that way, but yes, Da Vinci was a homosexual.”
   “Is that why he was into that whole feminine thing?”
   “Actually, Da Vinci was in tune with the balance between male and female. He believed that a human soul could not be enlightened unless it had both male and female elements.”
   “You mean like chicks with dicks?” someone called.
   This elicited a hearty round of laughs. Langdon considered offering an etymological sidebar about the word hermaphrodite and its ties to Hermes and Aphrodite, but something told him it would be lost on this crowd.
   “Hey, Mr. Langford,” a musclebound man said. “Is it true that the Mona Lisa is a picture of Da Vinci in drag? I heard that was true.”
   “It’s quite possible,” Langdon said. “Da Vinci was a prankster, and computerized analysis of the Mona Lisa and Da Vinci’s selfportraits confirm some startling points of congruency in their faces. Whatever Da Vinci was up to,” Langdon said, “his Mona Lisa is neither male nor female. It carries a subtle message of androgyny. It is a fusing of both.”
   “You sure that’s not just some Harvard bullshit way of saying Mona Lisa is one ugly chick.”
   Now Langdon laughed. “You may be right. But actually Da Vinci left a big clue that the painting was supposed to be androgynous. Has anyone here ever heard of an Egyptian god named Amon?”
   “Hell yes!” the big guy said. “God of masculine fertility!”
   Langdon was stunned.
   “It says so on every box of Amon condoms.” The muscular man gave a wide grin. “It’s got a guy with a ram’s head on the front and says he’s the Egyptian god of fertility.”
   Langdon was not familiar with the brand name, but he was glad to hear the prophylactic manufacturers had gotten their hieroglyphs right. “Well done. Amon is indeed represented as a man with a ram’s head, and his promiscuity and curved horns are related to our modern sexual slang ‘horny.’ “
   “No shit!”
   “No shit,” Langdon said. “And do you know who Amon’s counterpart was? The Egyptian goddess of fertility?”
   The question met with several seconds of silence.
   “It was Isis,” Langdon told them, grabbing a grease pen. “So we have the male god, Amon.” He wrote it down. “And the female goddess, Isis, whose ancient pictogram was once called L’ISA.”
   Langdon finished writing and stepped back from the projector.


AMON L’ISA


* * *

   “Ring any bells?” he asked.
   “Mona Lisa… holy crap,” somebody gasped.
   Langdon nodded. “Gentlemen, not only does the face of Mona Lisa look androgynous, but her name is an anagram of the divine union of male and female. And that, my friends, is Da Vinci’s little secret, and the reason for Mona Lisa’s knowing smile.”


* * *

   “My grandfather was here,” Sophie said, dropping suddenly to her knees, now only ten feet from the Mona Lisa. She pointed the black light tentatively to a spot on the parquet floor.
   At first Langdon saw nothing. Then, as he knelt beside her, he saw a tiny droplet of dried liquid that was luminescing. Ink? Suddenly he recalled what black lights were actually used for. Blood. His senses tingled. Sophie was right. Jacques Saunière had indeed paid a visit to the Mona Lisa before he died.
   “He wouldn’t have come here without a reason,” Sophie whispered, standing up. “I know he left a message for me here.” Quickly striding the final few steps to the Mona Lisa, she illuminated the floor directly in front of the painting. She waved the light back and forth across the bare parquet.
   “There’s nothing here!”
   At that moment, Langdon saw a faint purple glimmer on the protective glass before the Mona Lisa. Reaching down, he took Sophie’s wrist and slowly moved the light up to the painting itself.
   They both froze.
   On the glass, six words glowed in purple, scrawled directly across the Mona Lisa’s face.

Chapter 27

   Seated at Saunière’s desk, Lieutenant Collet pressed the phone to his ear in disbelief. Did I hear Fache correctly? “A bar of soap? But how could Langdon have known about the GPS dot?”
   “Sophie Neveu,” Fache replied. “She told him.”
   “What! Why?”
   “Damned good question, but I just heard a recording that confirms she tipped him off.”
   Collet was speechless. What was Neveu thinking? Fache had proof that Sophie had interfered with a DCPJ sting operation? Sophie Neveu was not only going to be fired, she was also going to jail. “But, Captain… then where is Langdon now?”
   “Have any fire alarms gone off there?”
   “No, sir.”
   “And no one has come out under the Grand Gallery gate?”
   “No. We’ve got a Louvre security officer on the gate. Just as you requested.”
   “Okay, Langdon must still be inside the Grand Gallery.”
   “Inside? But what is he doing?”
   “Is the Louvre security guard armed?”
   “Yes, sir. He’s a senior warden.”
   “Send him in,” Fache commanded. “I can’t get my men back to the perimeter for a few minutes, and I don’t want Langdon breaking for an exit.” Fache paused. “And you’d better tell the guard Agent Neveu is probably in there with him.”
   “Agent Neveu left, I thought.”
   “Did you actually see her leave?”
   “No, sir, but—“
   “Well, nobody on the perimeter saw her leave either. They only saw her go in.”
   Collet was flabbergasted by Sophie Neveu’s bravado. She’s still inside the building?
   “Handle it,” Fache ordered. “I want Langdon and Neveu at gunpoint by the time I get back.”


* * *

   As the Trailor truck drove off, Captain Fache rounded up his men. Robert Langdon had proven an elusive quarry tonight, and with Agent Neveu now helping him, he might be far harder to corner than expected.
   Fache decided not to take any chances.
   Hedging his bets, he ordered half of his men back to the Louvre perimeter. The other half he sent to guard the only location in Paris where Robert Langdon could find safe harbor.