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Chapter 88

   Langdon felt utterly spent as he and Sophie hurdled a turnstile at the Temple tube station and dashed deep into the grimy labyrinth of tunnels and platforms. The guilt ripped through him.
   I involved Leigh, and now he’s in enormous danger.
   Remy’s involvement had been a shock, and yet it made sense. Whoever was pursuing the Grail had recruited someone on the inside. They went to Teabing’s for the same reason I did. Throughout history, those who held knowledge of the Grail had always been magnets for thieves and scholars alike. The fact that Teabing had been a target all along should have made Langdon feel less guilty about involving him. It did not. We need to find Leigh and help him. Immediately.
   Langdon followed Sophie to the westbound District and Circle Line platform, where she hurried to a pay phone to call the police, despite Remy’s warning to the contrary. Langdon sat on a grungy bench nearby, feeling remorseful.
   “The best way to help Leigh,” Sophie reiterated as she dialed, “is to involve the London authorities immediately. Trust me.”
   Langdon had not initially agreed with this idea, but as they had hatched their plan, Sophie’s logic began to make sense. Teabing was safe at the moment. Even if Remy and the others knew where the knight’s tomb was located, they still might need Teabing’s help deciphering the orb reference. What worried Langdon was what would happen after the Grail map had been found. Leigh will become a huge liability.
   If Langdon were to have any chance of helping Leigh, or of ever seeing the keystone again, it was essential that he find the tomb first. Unfortunately, Remy has a big head start.
   Slowing Remy down had become Sophie’s task.
   Finding the right tomb had become Langdon’s.
   Sophie would make Remy and Silas fugitives of the London police, forcing them into hiding or, better yet, catching them. Langdon’s plan was less certain—to take the tube to nearby King’s College, which was renowned for its electronic theological database. The ultimate research tool, Langdon had heard. Instant answers to any religious historical question. He wondered what the database would have to say about “a knight a Pope interred.”
   He stood up and paced, wishing the train would hurry.

   At the pay phone, Sophie’s call finally connected to the London police.
   “Snow Hill Division,” the dispatcher said. “How may I direct your call?”
   “I’m reporting a kidnapping.” Sophie knew to be concise.
   “Name please?”
   Sophie paused. “Agent Sophie Neveu with the French Judicial Police.”
   The title had the desired effect. “Right away, ma’am. Let me get a detective on the line for you.”
   As the call went through, Sophie began wondering if the police would even believe her description of Teabing’s captors. A man in a tuxedo. How much easier to identify could a suspect be? Even if Remy changed clothes, he was partnered with an albino monk. Impossible to miss. Moreover, they had a hostage and could not take public transportation. She wondered how many Jaguar stretch limos there could be in London.
   Sophie’s connection to the detective seemed to be taking forever. Come on! She could hear the line clicking and buzzing, as if she was being transferred.
   Fifteen seconds passed.
   Finally a man came on the line. “Agent Neveu?”
   Stunned, Sophie registered the gruff tone immediately.
   “Agent Neveu,” Bezu Fache demanded. “Where the hell are you?”
   Sophie was speechless. Captain Fache had apparently requested the London police dispatcher alert him if Sophie called in.
   “Listen,” Fache said, speaking to her in terse French. “I made a terrible mistake tonight. Robert Langdon is innocent. All charges against him have been dropped. Even so, both of you are in danger. You need to come in.”
   Sophie’s jaw fell slack. She had no idea how to respond. Fache was not a man who apologized for anything.
   “You did not tell me,” Fache continued, “that Jacques Saunière was your grandfather. I fully intend to overlook your insubordination last night on account of the emotional stress you must be under. At the moment, however, you and Langdon need to go to the nearest London police headquarters for refuge.”
   He knows I’m in London? What else does Fache know? Sophie heard what sounded like drilling or machinery in the background. She also heard an odd clicking on the line. “Are you tracing this call, Captain?”
   Fache’s voice was firm now. “You and I need to cooperate, Agent Neveu. We both have a lot to lose here. This is damage control. I made errors in judgment last night, and if those errors result in the deaths of an American professor and a DCPJ cryptologist, my career will be over. I’ve been trying to pull you back into safety for the last several hours.”
   A warm wind was now pushing through the station as a train approached with a low rumble. Sophie had every intention of being on it. Langdon apparently had the same idea; he was gathering himself together and moving toward her now.
   “The man you want is Remy Legaludec,” Sophie said. “He is Teabing’s servant. He just kidnapped Teabing inside the Temple Church and—“
   “Agent Neveu!” Fache bellowed as the train thundered into the station. “This is not something to discuss on an open line. You and Langdon will come in now. For your own wellbeing! That is a direct order!”
   Sophie hung up and dashed with Langdon onto the train.
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Chapter 89

   The immaculate cabin of Teabing’s Hawker was now covered with steel shavings and smelled of compressed air and propane. Bezu Fache had sent everyone away and sat alone with his drink and the heavy wooden box found in Teabing’s safe.
   Running his finger across the inlaid Rose, he lifted the ornate lid. Inside he found a stone cylinder with lettered dials. The five dials were arranged to spell SOFIA. Fache stared at the word a long moment and then lifted the cylinder from its padded resting place and examined every inch. Then, pulling slowly on the ends, Fache slid off one of the end caps. The cylinder was empty.
   Fache set it back in the box and gazed absently out the jet’s window at the hangar, pondering his brief conversation with Sophie, as well as the information he’d received from PTS in Chateau Villette. The sound of his phone shook him from his daydream.
   It was the DCPJ switchboard. The dispatcher was apologetic. The president of the Depository Bank of Zurich had been calling repeatedly, and although he had been told several times that the captain was in London on business, he just kept calling. Begrudgingly Fache told the operator to forward the call.
   “Monsieur Vernet,” Fache said, before the man could even speak, “I am sorry I did not call you earlier. I have been busy. As promised, the name of your bank has not appeared in the media. So what precisely is your concern?”
   Vernet’s voice was anxious as he told Fache how Langdon and Sophie had extracted a small wooden box from the bank and then persuaded Vernet to help them escape. “Then when I heard on the radio that they were criminals,” Vernet said, “I pulled over and demanded the box back, but they attacked me and stole the truck.”
   “You are concerned for a wooden box,” Fache said, eyeing the Rose inlay on the cover and again gently opening the lid to reveal the white cylinder. “Can you tell me what was in the box?”
   “The contents are immaterial,” Vernet fired back. “I am concerned with the reputation of my bank. We have never had a robbery. Ever. It will ruin us if I cannot recover this property on behalf of my client.”
   “You said Agent Neveu and Robert Langdon had a password and a key. What makes you say they stole the box?”
   “They murdered people tonight. Including Sophie Neveu’s grandfather. The key and password were obviously illgotten.”
   “Mr. Vernet, my men have done some checking into your background and your interests. You are obviously a man of great culture and refinement. I would imagine you are a man of honor, as well. As am I. That said, I give you my word as commanding officer of the Police Judiciaire that your box, along with your bank’s reputation, are in the safest of hands.”
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Apple iPhone 6s
Chapter 90

   High in the hayloft at Chateau Villette, Collet stared at the computer monitor in amazement. “This system is eavesdropping on all these locations?”
   “Yes,” the agent said. “It looks like data has been collected for over a year now.”
   Collet read the list again, speechless.
   COLBERT SOSTAQUE—Chairman of the Conseil Constitutionnel
   JEAN CHAFFÉE—Curator, Musée du Jeu de Paume
   EDOUARD DESROCHERS—Senior Archivist, Mitterrand Library
   JACQUES SAUNIÉRE—Curator, Musée du Louvre
   MICHEL BRETON—Head of DAS (French Intelligence)
   The agent pointed to the screen. “Number four is of obvious concern.”
   Collet nodded blankly. He had noticed it immediately. Jacques Saunière was being bugged. He looked at the rest of the list again. How could anyone possibly manage to bug these prominent people? “Have you heard any of the audio files?”
   “A few. Here’s one of the most recent.” The agent clicked a few computer keys. The speakers crackled to life. “Capitaine, un agent du Département de Cryptographie est arrivée.”
   Collet could not believe his ears. “That’s me! That’s my voice!” He recalled sitting at Saunière’s desk and radioing Fache in the Grand Gallery to alert him of Sophie Neveu’s arrival.
   The agent nodded. “A lot of our Louvre investigation tonight would have been audible if someone had been interested.”
   “Have you sent anyone in to sweep for the bug?”
   “No need. I know exactly where it is.” The agent went to a pile of old notes and blueprints on the worktable. He selected a page and handed it to Collet. “Look familiar?”
   Collet was amazed. He was holding a photocopy of an ancient schematic diagram, which depicted a rudimentary machine. He was unable to read the handwritten Italian labels, and yet he knew what he was looking at. A model for a fully articulated medieval French knight.
   The knight sitting on Saunière’s desk!
   Collet’s eyes moved to the margins, where someone had scribbled notes on the photocopy in red felttipped marker. The notes were in French and appeared to be ideas outlining how best to insert a listening device into the knight.
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Apple iPhone 6s
Chapter 91

   Silas sat in the passenger seat of the parked Jaguar limousine near the Temple Church. His hands felt damp on the keystone as he waited for Remy to finish tying and gagging Teabing in back with the rope they had found in the trunk.
   Finally, Remy climbed out of the rear of the limo, walked around, and slid into the driver’s seat beside Silas.
   “Secure?” Silas asked.
   Remy chuckled, shaking off the rain and glancing over his shoulder through the open partition at the crumpled form of Leigh Teabing, who was barely visible in the shadows in the rear. “He’s not going anywhere.”
   Silas could hear Teabing’s muffled cries and realized Remy had used some of the old duct tape to gag him.
   “Ferme ta gueule!” Remy shouted over his shoulder at Teabing. Reaching to a control panel on the elaborate dash, Remy pressed a button. An opaque partition raised behind them, sealing off the back. Teabing disappeared, and his voice was silenced. Remy glanced at Silas. “I’ve been listening to his miserable whimpering long enough.”

   Minutes later, as the Jaguar stretch limo powered through the streets, Silas’s cell phone rang. The Teacher. He answered excitedly. “Hello?”
   “Silas,” the Teacher’s familiar French accent said, “I am relieved to hear your voice. This means you are safe.”
   Silas was equally comforted to hear the Teacher. It had been hours, and the operation had veered wildly off course. Now, at last, it seemed to be back on track. “I have the keystone.”
   “This is superb news,” the Teacher told him. “Is Remy with you?”
   Silas was surprised to hear the Teacher use Remy’s name. “Yes. Remy freed me.”
   “As I ordered him to do. I am only sorry you had to endure captivity for so long.”
   “Physical discomfort has no meaning. The important thing is that the keystone is ours.”
   “Yes. I need it delivered to me at once. Time is of the essence.”
   Silas was eager to meet the Teacher facetoface at last. “Yes, sir, I would be honored.”
   “Silas, I would like Remy to bring it to me.”
   Remy? Silas was crestfallen. After everything Silas had done for the Teacher, he had believed he would be the one to hand over the prize. The Teacher favors Remy?
   “I sense your disappointment,” the Teacher said, “which tells me you do not understand my meaning.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You must believe that I would much prefer to receive the keystone from you —a man of God rather than a criminal—but Remy must be dealt with. He disobeyed my orders and made a grave mistake that has put our entire mission at risk.”
   Silas felt a chill and glanced over at Remy. Kidnapping Teabing had not been part of the plan, and deciding what to do with him posed a new problem.
   “You and I are men of God,” the Teacher whispered. “We cannot be deterred from our goal.” There was an ominous pause on the line. “For this reason alone, I will ask Remy to bring me the keystone. Do you understand?”
   Silas sensed anger in the Teacher’s voice and was surprised the man was not more understanding. Showing his face could not be avoided, Silas thought. Remy did what he had to do. He saved the keystone. “I understand,” Silas managed.
   “Good. For your own safety, you need to get off the street immediately. The police will be looking for the limousine soon, and I do not want you caught. Opus Dei has a residence in London, no?”
   “Of course.”
   “And you are welcome there?”
   “As a brother.”
   “Then go there and stay out of sight. I will call you the moment I am in possession of the keystone and have attended to my current problem.”
   “You are in London?”
   “Do as I say, and everything will be fine.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   The Teacher heaved a sigh, as if what he now had to do was profoundly regrettable. “It’s time I speak to Remy.”
   Silas handed Remy the phone, sensing it might be the last call Remy Legaludec ever took.

   As Remy took the phone, he knew this poor, twisted monk had no idea what fate awaited him now that he had served his purpose.
   The Teacher used you, Silas.
   And your bishop is a pawn.
   Remy still marveled at the Teacher’s powers of persuasion. Bishop Aringarosa had trusted everything. He had been blinded by his own desperation. Aringarosa was far too eager to believe. Although Remy did not particularly like the Teacher, he felt pride at having gained the man’s trust and helped him so substantially. I have earned my payday.
   “Listen carefully,” the Teacher said. “Take Silas to the Opus Dei residence hall and drop him off a few streets away. Then drive to St. James’s Park. It is adjacent to Parliament and Big Ben. You can park the limousine on Horse Guards Parade. We’ll talk there.”
   With that, the connection went dead.
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Chapter 92

   King’s College, established by King George IV in 1829, houses its Department of Theology and Religious Studies adjacent to Parliament on property granted by the Crown. King’s College Religion Department boasts not only 150 years’ experience in teaching and research, but the 1982 establishment of the Research Institute in Systematic Theology, which possesses one of the most complete and electronically advanced religious research libraries in the world.
   Langdon still felt shaky as he and Sophie came in from the rain and entered the library. The primary research room was as Teabing had described it—a dramatic octagonal chamber dominated by an enormous round table around which King Arthur and his knights might have been comfortable were it not for the presence of twelve flatscreen computer workstations. On the far side of the room, a reference librarian was just pouring a pot of tea and settling in for her day of work.
   “Lovely morning,” she said in a cheerful British accent, leaving the tea and walking over. “May I help you?”
   “Thank you, yes,” Langdon replied. “My name is—“
   “Robert Langdon.” She gave a pleasant smile. “I know who you are.”
   For an instant, he feared Fache had put him on English television as well, but the librarian’s smile suggested otherwise. Langdon still had not gotten used to these moments of unexpected celebrity. Then again, if anyone on earth were going to recognize his face, it would be a librarian in a Religious Studies reference facility.
   “Pamela Gettum,” the librarian said, offering her hand. She had a genial, erudite face and a pleasingly fluid voice. The hornrimmed glasses hanging around her neck were thick.
   “A pleasure,” Langdon said. “This is my friend Sophie Neveu.”
   The two women greeted one another, and Gettum turned immediately back to Langdon. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
   “Neither did we. If it’s not too much trouble, we could really use your help finding some information.”
   Gettum shifted, looking uncertain. “Normally our services are by petition and appointment only, unless of course you’re the guest of someone at the college?”
   Langdon shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ve come unannounced. A friend of mine speaks very highly of you. Sir Leigh Teabing?” Langdon felt a pang of gloom as he said the name. “The British Royal Historian.”
   Gettum brightened now, laughing. “Heavens, yes. What a character. Fanatical! Every time he comes in, it’s always the same search strings. Grail. Grail. Grail. I swear that man will die before he gives up on that quest.” She winked. “Time and money afford one such lovely luxuries, wouldn’t you say? A regular Don Quixote, that one.”
   “Is there any chance you can help us?” Sophie asked. “It’s quite important.”
   Gettum glanced around the deserted library and then winked at them both. “Well, I can’t very well claim I’m too busy, now can I? As long as you sign in, I can’t imagine anyone being too upset. What did you have in mind?”
   “We’re trying to find a tomb in London.”
   Gettum looked dubious. “We’ve got about twenty thousand of them. Can you be a little more specific?”
   “It’s the tomb of a knight. We don’t have a name.”
   “A knight. That tightens the net substantially. Much less common.”
   “We don’t have much information about the knight we’re looking for,” Sophie said, “but this is what we know.” She produced a slip of paper on which she had written only the first two lines of the poem.
   Hesitant to show the entire poem to an outsider, Langdon and Sophie had decided to share just the first two lines, those that identified the knight. Compartmentalized cryptography, Sophie had called it. When an intelligence agency intercepted a code containing sensitive data, cryptographers each worked on a discrete section of the code. This way, when they broke it, no single cryptographer possessed the entire deciphered message.
   In this case, the precaution was probably excessive; even if this librarian saw the entire poem, identified the knight’s tomb, and knew what orb was missing, the information was useless without the cryptex.

   Gettum sensed an urgency in the eyes of this famed American scholar, almost as if his finding this tomb quickly were a matter of critical importance. The greeneyed woman accompanying him also seemed anxious.
   Puzzled, Gettum put on her glasses and examined the paper they had just handed her.
   In London lies a knight a Pope interred.
   His labor’s fruit a Holy wrath incurred.

   She glanced at her guests. “What is this? Some kind of Harvard scavenger hunt?”
   Langdon’s laugh sounded forced. “Yeah, something like that.”
   Gettum paused, feeling she was not getting the whole story. Nonetheless, she felt intrigued and found herself pondering the verse carefully. “According to this rhyme, a knight did something that incurred displeasure with God, and yet a Pope was kind enough to bury him in London.”
   Langdon nodded. “Does it ring any bells?”
   Gettum moved toward one of the workstations. “Not offhand, but let’s see what we can pull up in the database.”
   Over the past two decades, King’s College Research Institute in Systematic Theology had used optical character recognition software in unison with linguistic translation devices to digitize and catalog an enormous collection of texts—encyclopedias of religion, religious biographies, sacred scriptures in dozens of languages, histories, Vatican letters, diaries of clerics, anything at all that qualified as writings on human spirituality. Because the massive collection was now in the form of bits and bytes rather than physical pages, the data was infinitely more accessible.
   Settling into one of the workstations, Gettum eyed the slip of paper and began typing. “To begin, we’ll run a straight Boolean with a few obvious keywords and see what happens.”
   “Thank you.”
   Gettum typed in a few words:

   London, Knight, Pope

   As she clicked the SEARCH button, she could feel the hum of the massive mainframe downstairs scanning data at a rate of 500 MB/sec. “I’m asking the system to show us any documents whose complete text contains all three of these keywords. We’ll get more hits than we want, but it’s a good place to start.”
   The screen was already showing the first of the hits now.
   Painting the Pope. The Collected Portraits of Sir Joshua Reynolds. London University Press.

   Gettum shook her head. “Obviously not what you’re looking for.” She scrolled to the next hit.
   The London Writings of Alexander Pope by G. Wilson Knight.

   Again she shook her head.
   As the system churned on, the hits came up more quickly than usual. Dozens of texts appeared, many of them referencing the eighteenthcentury British writer Alexander Pope, whose counter religious, mockepic poetry apparently contained plenty of references to knights and London.
   Gettum shot a quick glance to the numeric field at the bottom of the screen. This computer, by calculating the current number of hits and multiplying by the percentage of the database left to search, provided a rough guess of how much information would be found. This particular search looked like it was going to return an obscenely large amount of data.
   Estimated number of total hits: 2,692

   “We need to refine the parameters further,” Gettum said, stopping the search. “Is this all the information you have regarding the tomb? There’s nothing else to go on?”
   Langdon glanced at Sophie Neveu, looking uncertain.
   This is no scavenger hunt, Gettum sensed. She had heard the whisperings of Robert Langdon’s experience in Rome last year. This American had been granted access to the most secure library on earth—the Vatican Secret Archives. She wondered what kinds of secrets Langdon might have learned inside and if his current desperate hunt for a mysterious London tomb might relate to information he had gained within the Vatican. Gettum had been a librarian long enough to know the most common reason people came to London to look for knights. The Grail.
   Gettum smiled and adjusted her glasses. “You are friends with Leigh Teabing, you are in England, and you are looking for a knight.” She folded her hands. “I can only assume you are on a Grail quest.”
   Langdon and Sophie exchanged startled looks.
   Gettum laughed. “My friends, this library is a base camp for Grail seekers. Leigh Teabing among them. I wish I had a shilling for every time I’d run searches for the Rose, Mary Magdalene, Sangreal, Merovingian, Priory of Sion, et cetera, et cetera. Everyone loves a conspiracy.” She took off her glasses and eyed them. “I need more information.”
   In the silence, Gettum sensed her guests’ desire for discretion was quickly being outweighed by their eagerness for a fast result.
   “Here,” Sophie Neveu blurted. “This is everything we know.” Borrowing a pen from Langdon, she wrote two more lines on the slip of paper and handed it to Gettum.
   You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
   It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb.

   Gettum gave an inward smile. The Grail indeed, she thought, noting the references to the Rose and her seeded womb. “I can help you,” she said, looking up from the slip of paper. “Might I ask where this verse came from? And why you are seeking an orb?”
   “You might ask,” Langdon said, with a friendly smile, “but it’s a long story and we have very little time.”
   “Sounds like a polite way of saying ‘mind your own business.’ “
   “We would be forever in your debt, Pamela,” Langdon said, “if you could find out who this knight is and where he is buried.”
   “Very well,” Gettum said, typing again. “I’ll play along. If this is a Grailrelated issue, we should crossreference against Grail keywords. I’ll add a proximity parameter and remove the title weighting. That will limit our hits only to those instances of textual keywords that occur near a Grailrelated word.”
   Search for:KNIGHT, LONDON, POPE, TOMB
   Within 100 word proximity of:GRAIL, ROSE, SANGREAL, CHALICE

   “How long will this take?” Sophie asked.
   “A few hundred terabytes with multiple crossreferencing fields?” Gettum’s eyes glimmered as she clicked the SEARCH key. “A mere fifteen minutes.”
   Langdon and Sophie said nothing, but Gettum sensed this sounded like an eternity to them.
   “Tea?” Gettum asked, standing and walking toward the pot she had made earlier. “Leigh always loves my tea.”
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Apple iPhone 6s
Chapter 93

   London’s Opus Dei Centre is a modest brick building at 5 Orme Court, overlooking the North Walk at Kensington Gardens. Silas had never been here, but he felt a rising sense of refuge and asylum as he approached the building on foot. Despite the rain, Remy had dropped him off a short distance away in order to keep the limousine off the main streets. Silas didn’t mind the walk. The rain was cleansing.
   At Remy’s suggestion, Silas had wiped down his gun and disposed of it through a sewer grate. He was glad to get rid of it. He felt lighter. His legs still ached from being bound all that time, but Silas had endured far greater pain. He wondered, though, about Teabing, whom Remy had left bound in the back of the limousine. The Briton certainly had to be feeling the pain by now.
   “What will you do with him?” Silas had asked Remy as they drove over here.
   Remy had shrugged. “That is a decision for the Teacher.” There was an odd finality in his tone.
   Now, as Silas approached the Opus Dei building, the rain began to fall harder, soaking his heavy robe, stinging the wounds of the day before. He was ready to leave behind the sins of the last twentyfour hours and purge his soul. His work was done.
   Moving across a small courtyard to the front door, Silas was not surprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it and stepped into the minimalist foyer. A muted electronic chime sounded upstairs as Silas stepped onto the carpet. The bell was a common feature in these halls where the residents spent most of the day in their rooms in prayer. Silas could hear movement above on the creaky wood floors.
   A man in a cloak came downstairs. “May I help you?” He had kind eyes that seemed not even to register Silas’s startling physical appearance.
   “Thank you. My name is Silas. I am an Opus Dei numerary.”
   “American?”
   Silas nodded. “I am in town only for the day. Might I rest here?”
   “You need not even ask. There are two empty rooms on the third floor. Shall I bring you some tea and bread?”
   “Thank you.” Silas was famished.
   Silas went upstairs to a modest room with a window, where he took off his wet robe and knelt down to pray in his undergarments. He heard his host come up and lay a tray outside his door. Silas finished his prayers, ate his food, and lay down to sleep.

   Three stories below, a phone was ringing. The Opus Dei numerary who had welcomed Silas answered the line.
   “This is the London police,” the caller said. “We are trying to find an albino monk. We’ve had a tipoff that he might be there. Have you seen him?”
   The numerary was startled. “Yes, he is here. Is something wrong?”
   “He is there now?”
   “Yes, upstairs praying. What is going on?”
   “Leave him precisely where he is,” the officer commanded. “Don’t say a word to anyone. I’m sending officers over right away.”
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Poruke Odustao od brojanja
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Apple iPhone 6s
Chapter 94

   St. James’s Park is a sea of green in the middle of London, a public park bordering the palaces of Westminster, Buckingham, and St. James’s. Once enclosed by King Henry VIII and stocked with deer for the hunt, St. James’s Park is now open to the public. On sunny afternoons, Londoners picnic beneath the willows and feed the pond’s resident pelicans, whose ancestors were a gift to Charles II from the Russian ambassador.
   The Teacher saw no pelicans today. The stormy weather had brought instead seagulls from the ocean. The lawns were covered with them—hundreds of white bodies all facing the same direction, patiently riding out the damp wind. Despite the morning fog, the park afforded splendid views of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. Gazing across the sloping lawns, past the duck pond and the delicate silhouettes of the weeping willows, the Teacher could see the spires of the building that housed the knight’s tomb—the real reason he had told Remy to come to this spot.
   As the Teacher approached the front passenger door of the parked limousine, Remy leaned across and opened the door. The Teacher paused outside, taking a pull from the flask of cognac he was carrying. Then, dabbing his mouth, he slid in beside Remy and closed the door.
   Remy held up the keystone like a trophy. “It was almost lost.”
   “You have done well,” the Teacher said.
   “We have done well,” Remy replied, laying the keystone in the Teacher’s eager hands.
   The Teacher admired it a long moment, smiling. “And the gun? You wiped it down?”
   “Back in the glove box where I found it.”
   “Excellent.” The Teacher took another drink of cognac and handed the flask to Remy. “Let’s toast our success. The end is near.”

   Remy accepted the bottle gratefully. The cognac tasted salty, but Remy didn’t care. He and the Teacher were truly partners now. He could feel himself ascending to a higher station in life. I will never be a servant again. As Remy gazed down the embankment at the duck pond below, Chateau Villette seemed miles away.
   Taking another swig from the flask, Remy could feel the cognac warming his blood. The warmth in Remy’s throat, however, mutated quickly to an uncomfortable heat. Loosening his bow tie, Remy tasted an unpleasant grittiness and handed the flask back to the Teacher. “I’ve probably had enough,” he managed, weakly.
   Taking the flask, the Teacher said, “Remy, as you are aware, you are the only one who knows my face. I placed enormous trust in you.”
   “Yes,” he said, feeling feverish as he loosened his tie further. “And your identity shall go with me to the grave.”
   The Teacher was silent a long moment. “I believe you.” Pocketing the flask and the keystone, the Teacher reached for the glove box and pulled out the tiny Medusa revolver. For an instant, Remy felt a surge of fear, but the Teacher simply slipped it in his trousers pocket.
   What is he doing? Remy felt himself sweating suddenly.
   “I know I promised you freedom,” the Teacher said, his voice now sounding regretful. “But considering your circumstances, this is the best I can do.”
   The swelling in Remy’s throat came on like an earthquake, and he lurched against the steering column, grabbing his throat and tasting vomit in his narrowing esophagus. He let out a muted croak of a scream, not even loud enough to be heard outside the car. The saltiness in the cognac now registered.
   I’m being murdered!
   Incredulous, Remy turned to see the Teacher sitting calmly beside him, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Remy’s eyesight blurred, and he gasped for breath. I made everything possible for him! How could he do this! Whether the Teacher had intended to kill Remy all along or whether it had been Remy’s actions in the Temple Church that had made the Teacher lose faith, Remy would never know. Terror and rage coursed through him now. Remy tried to lunge for the Teacher, but his stiffening body could barely move. I trusted you with everything!
   Remy tried to lift his clenched fists to blow the horn, but instead he slipped sideways, rolling onto the seat, lying on his side beside the Teacher, clutching at his throat. The rain fell harder now. Remy could no longer see, but he could sense his oxygendeprived brain straining to cling to his last faint shreds of lucidity. As his world slowly went black, Remy Legaludec could have sworn he heard the sounds of the soft Riviera surf.

   The Teacher stepped from the limousine, pleased to see that nobody was looking in his direction. I had no choice, he told himself, surprised how little remorse he felt for what he had just done. Remy sealed his own fate. The Teacher had feared all along that Remy might need to be eliminated when the mission was complete, but by brazenly showing himself in the Temple Church, Remy had accelerated the necessity dramatically. Robert Langdon’s unexpected visit to Chateau Villette had brought the Teacher both a fortuitous windfall and an intricate dilemma. Langdon had delivered the keystone directly to the heart of the operation, which was a pleasant surprise, and yet he had brought the police on his tail. Remy’s prints were all over Chateau Villette, as well as in the barn’s listening post, where Remy had carried out the surveillance. The Teacher was grateful he had taken so much care in preventing any ties between Remy’s activities and his own. Nobody could implicate the Teacher unless Remy talked, and that was no longer a concern.
   One more loose end to tie up here, the Teacher thought, moving now toward the rear door of the limousine. The police will have no idea what happened… and no living witness left to tell them. Glancing around to ensure nobody was watching, he pulled open the door and climbed into the spacious rear compartment.

   Minutes later, the Teacher was crossing St. James’s Park. Only two people now remain. Langdon and Neveu. They were more complicated. But manageable. At the moment, however, the Teacher had the cryptex to attend to.
   Gazing triumphantly across the park, he could see his destination. In London lies a knight a Pope interred. As soon as the Teacher had heard the poem, he had known the answer. Even so, that the others had not figured it out was not surprising. I have an unfair advantage. Having listened to Saunière’s conversations for months now, the Teacher had heard the Grand Master mention this famous knight on occasion, expressing esteem almost matching that he held for Da Vinci. The poem’s reference to the knight was brutally simple once one saw it—a credit to Saunière’s wit—and yet how this tomb would reveal the final password was still a mystery.
   You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
   The Teacher vaguely recalled photos of the famous tomb and, in particular, its most distinguishing feature. A magnificent orb. The huge sphere mounted atop the tomb was almost as large as the tomb itself. The presence of the orb seemed both encouraging and troubling to the Teacher. On one hand, it felt like a signpost, and yet, according to the poem, the missing piece of the puzzle was an orb that ought to be on his tomb… not one that was already there. He was counting on his closer inspection of the tomb to unveil the answer.
   The rain was getting heavier now, and he tucked the cryptex deep in his righthand pocket to protect it from the dampness. He kept the tiny Medusa revolver in his left, out of sight. Within minutes, he was stepping into the quiet sanctuary of London’s grandest ninehundredyearold building.

   Just as the Teacher was stepping out of the rain, Bishop Aringarosa was stepping into it. On the rainy tarmac at Biggin Hill Executive Airport, Aringarosa emerged from his cramped plane, bundling his cassock against the cold damp. He had hoped to be greeted by Captain Fache. Instead a young British police officer approached with an umbrella.
   “Bishop Aringarosa? Captain Fache had to leave. He asked me to look after you. He suggested I take you to Scotland Yard. He thought it would be safest.”
   Safest? Aringarosa looked down at the heavy briefcase of Vatican bonds clutched in his hand. He had almost forgotten. “Yes, thank you.”
   Aringarosa climbed into the police car, wondering where Silas could be. Minutes later, the police scanner crackled with the answer.
   5 Orme Court.
   Aringarosa recognized the address instantly.
   The Opus Dei Centre in London.
   He spun to the driver. “Take me there at once!”
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Poruke Odustao od brojanja
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Apple iPhone 6s
Chapter 95

   Langdon’s eyes had not left the computer screen since the search began.
   Five minutes. Only two hits. Both irrelevant.
   He was starting to get worried.
   Pamela Gettum was in the adjoining room, preparing hot drinks. Langdon and Sophie had inquired unwisely if there might be some coffee brewing alongside the tea Gettum had offered, and from the sound of the microwave beeps in the next room, Langdon suspected their request was about to be rewarded with instant Nescafe.
   Finally, the computer pinged happily.
   “Sounds like you got another,” Gettum called from the next room. “What’s the title?”
   Langdon eyed the screen.
   Grail Allegory in Medieval Literature: A Treatise on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

   “Allegory of the Green Knight,” he called back.
   “No good,” Gettum said. “Not many mythological green giants buried in London.”
   Langdon and Sophie sat patiently in front of the screen and waited through two more dubious returns. When the computer pinged again, though, the offering was unexpected.
   DIE OPERN VON RICHARD WAGNER

   “The operas of Wagner?” Sophie asked.
   Gettum peeked back in the doorway, holding a packet of instant coffee. “That seems like a strange match. Was Wagner a knight?”
   “No,” Langdon said, feeling a sudden intrigue. “But he was a wellknown Freemason.” Along with Mozart, Beethoven, Shakespeare, Gershwin, Houdini, and Disney. Volumes had been written about the ties between the Masons and the Knights Templar, the Priory of Sion, and the Holy Grail. “I want to look at this one. How do I see the full text?”
   “You don’t want the full text,” Gettum called. “Click on the hypertext title. The computer will display your keyword hits along with mono prelogs and triple postlogs for context.”
   Langdon had no idea what she had just said, but he clicked anyway.
   A new window popped up.
   …mythological knight named parsifal who…
   …metaphorical Grail quest that arguably…
   …the London philharmonic in 1855…
   Rebecca Pope’s opera anthology “diva’s…
   …Wagner’s tomb in bayreuth, germany…

   “Wrong Pope,” Langdon said, disappointed. Even so, he was amazed by the system’s ease of use. The keywords with context were enough to remind him that Wagner’s opera Parsifal was a tribute to Mary Magdalene and the bloodline of Jesus Christ, told through the story of a young knight on a quest for truth.
   “Just be patient,” Gettum urged. “It’s a numbers game. Let the machine run.”
   Over the next few minutes, the computer returned several more Grail references, including a text about troubadours —France’s famous wandering minstrels. Langdon knew it was no coincidence that the word minstrel and minister shared an etymological root. The troubadours were the traveling servants or “ministers” of the Church of Mary Magdalene, using music to disseminate the story of the sacred feminine among the common folk. To this day, the troubadours sang songs extolling the virtues of “our Lady”—a mysterious and beautiful woman to whom they pledged themselves forever.
   Eagerly, he checked the hypertext but found nothing.
   The computer pinged again.
   KNIGHTS, KNAVES, POPES, AND PENTACLES: THE HISTORY OF THE HOLY GRAIL THROUGH TAROT

   “Not surprising,” Langdon said to Sophie. “Some of our keywords have the same names as individual cards.” He reached for the mouse to click on a hyperlink. “I’m not sure if your grandfather ever mentioned it when you played Tarot with him, Sophie, but this game is a ‘flashcard catechism’ into the story of the Lost Bride and her subjugation by the evil Church.”
   Sophie eyed him, looking incredulous. “I had no idea.”
   “That’s the point. By teaching through a metaphorical game, the followers of the Grail disguised their message from the watchful eye of the Church.” Langdon often wondered how many modern card players had any clue that their four suits—spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds—were Grailrelated symbols that came directly from Tarot’s four suits of swords, cups, scepters, and pentacles.
   Spades were Swords–The blade. Male.
   Hearts were Cups–The chalice. Feminine.
   Clubs were Scepters–The Royal Line. The flowering staff.
   Diamonds were Pentacles–The goddess. The sacred feminine.

   Four minutes later, as Langdon began feeling fearful they would not find what they had come for, the computer produced another hit.
   The Gravity of Genius: Biography of a Modern Knight.

   “Gravity of Genius?” Langdon called out to Gettum. “Bio of a modern knight?”
   Gettum stuck her head around the corner. “How modern? Please don’t tell me it’s your Sir Rudy Giuliani. Personally, I found that one a bit off the mark.”
   Langdon had his own qualms about the newly knighted Sir Mick Jagger, but this hardly seemed the moment to debate the politics of modern British knighthood. “Let’s have a look.” Langdon summoned up the hypertext keywords.
   … honorable knight, sir isaac newton…
   … in London in 1727 and…
   … his tomb in westminster abbey…
   … Alexander Pope, friend and colleague…

   “I guess ‘modern’ is a relative term,” Sophie called to Gettum. “It’s an old book. About Sir Isaac Newton.”
   Gettum shook her head in the doorway. “No good. Newton was buried in Westminster Abbey, the seat of English Protestantism. There’s no way a Catholic Pope was present. Cream and sugar?”
   Sophie nodded.
   Gettum waited. “Robert?”
   Langdon’s heart was hammering. He pulled his eyes from the screen and stood up. “Sir Isaac Newton is our knight.”
   Sophie remained seated. “What are you talking about?”
   “Newton is buried in London,” Langdon said. “His labors produced new sciences that incurred the wrath of the Church. And he was a Grand Master of the Priory of Sion. What more could we want?”
   “What more?” Sophie pointed to the poem. “How about a knight a Pope interred? You heard Ms. Gettum. Newton was not buried by a Catholic Pope.”
   Langdon reached for the mouse. “Who said anything about a Catholic Pope?” He clicked on the “Pope” hyperlink, and the complete sentence appeared.
   Sir Isaac Newton’s burial, attended by kings and nobles, was presided over by Alexander Pope, friend and colleague, who gave a stirring eulogy before sprinkling dirt on the tomb.

   Langdon looked at Sophie. “We had the correct Pope on our second hit. Alexander.” He paused. “A. Pope.”
   In London lies a knight A. Pope interred.
   Sophie stood up, looking stunned.
   Jacques Saunière, the master of doubleentendres, had proven once again that he was a frighteningly clever man.
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Poruke Odustao od brojanja
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Apple iPhone 6s
Chapter 96

   Silas awoke with a start.
   He had no idea what had awoken him or how long he had been asleep. Was I dreaming? Sitting up now on his straw mat, he listened to the quiet breathing of the Opus Dei residence hall, the stillness textured only by the soft murmurs of someone praying aloud in a room below him. These were familiar sounds and should have comforted him.
   And yet he felt a sudden and unexpected wariness.
   Standing, wearing only his undergarments, Silas walked to the window. Was I followed? The courtyard below was deserted, exactly as he had seen it when he entered. He listened. Silence. So why am I uneasy? Long ago Silas had learned to trust his intuition. Intuition had kept him alive as a child on the streets of Marseilles long before prison… long before he was born again by the hand of Bishop Aringarosa. Peering out the window, he now saw the faint outline of a car through the hedge. On the car’s roof was a police siren. A floorboard creaked in the hallway. A door latch moved.
   Silas reacted on instinct, surging across the room and sliding to a stop just behind the door as it crashed open. The first police officer stormed through, swinging his gun left then right at what appeared an empty room. Before he realized where Silas was, Silas had thrown his shoulder into the door, crushing a second officer as he came through. As the first officer wheeled to shoot, Silas dove for his legs. The gun went off, the bullet sailing above Silas’s head, just as he connected with the officer’s shins, driving his legs out from under him, and sending the man down, his head hitting the floor. The second officer staggered to his feet in the doorway, and Silas drove a knee into his groin, then went clambering over the writhing body into the hall.
   Almost naked, Silas hurled his pale body down the staircase. He knew he had been betrayed, but by whom? When he reached the foyer, more officers were surging through the front door. Silas turned the other way and dashed deeper into the residence hall. The women’s entrance. Every Opus Dei building has one. Winding down narrow hallways, Silas snaked through a kitchen, past terrified workers, who left to avoid the naked albino as he knocked over bowls and silverware, bursting into a dark hallway near the boiler room. He now saw the door he sought, an exit light gleaming at the end.
   Running full speed through the door out into the rain, Silas leapt off the low landing, not seeing the officer coming the other way until it was too late. The two men collided, Silas’s broad, naked shoulder grinding into the man’s sternum with crushing force. He drove the officer backward onto the pavement, landing hard on top of him. The officer’s gun clattered away. Silas could hear men running down the hall shouting. Rolling, he grabbed the loose gun just as the officers emerged. A shot rang out on the stairs, and Silas felt a searing pain below his ribs. Filled with rage, he opened fire at all three officers, their blood spraying.
   A dark shadow loomed behind, coming out of nowhere. The angry hands that grabbed at his bare shoulders felt as if they were infused with the power of the devil himself. The man roared in his ear. SILAS, NO!
   Silas spun and fired. Their eyes met. Silas was already screaming in horror as Bishop Aringarosa fell.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
Chapter 97

   More than three thousand people are entombed or enshrined within Westminster Abbey. The colossal stone interior burgeons with the remains of kings, statesmen, scientists, poets, and musicians. Their tombs, packed into every last niche and alcove, range in grandeur from the most regal of mausoleums—that of Queen Elizabeth I, whose canopied sarcophagus inhabits its own private, apsidal chapel—down to the most modest etched floor tiles whose inscriptions have worn away with centuries of foot traffic, leaving it to one’s imagination whose relics might lie below the tile in the undercroft.
   Designed in the style of the great cathedrals of Amiens, Chartres, and Canterbury, Westminster Abbey is considered neither cathedral nor parish church. It bears the classification of royal peculiar, subject only to the Sovereign. Since hosting the coronation of William the Conqueror on Christmas Day in 1066, the dazzling sanctuary has witnessed an endless procession of royal ceremonies and affairs of state—from the canonization of Edward the Confessor, to the marriage of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson, to the funerals of Henry V, Queen Elizabeth I, and Lady Diana.
   Even so, Robert Langdon currently felt no interest in any of the abbey’s ancient history, save one event—the funeral of the British knight Sir Isaac Newton.
   In London lies a knight a Pope interred.
   Hurrying through the grand portico on the north transept, Langdon and Sophie were met by guards who politely ushered them through the abbey’s newest addition—a large walkthrough metal detector—now present in most historic buildings in London. They both passed through without setting off the alarm and continued to the abbey entrance.
   Stepping across the threshold into Westminster Abbey, Langdon felt the outside world evaporate with a sudden hush. No rumble of traffic. No hiss of rain. Just a deafening silence, which seemed to reverberate back and forth as if the building were whispering to itself.
   Langdon’s and Sophie’s eyes, like those of almost every visitor, shifted immediately skyward, where the abbey’s great abyss seemed to explode overhead. Gray stone columns ascended like redwoods into the shadows, arching gracefully over dizzying expanses, and then shooting back down to the stone floor. Before them, the wide alley of the north transept stretched out like a deep canyon, flanked by sheer cliffs of stained glass. On sunny days, the abbey floor was a prismatic patchwork of light. Today, the rain and darkness gave this massive hollow a wraithlike aura… more like that of the crypt it truly was.
   “It’s practically empty,” Sophie whispered.
   Langdon felt disappointed. He had hoped for a lot more people. A more public place. Their earlier experience in the deserted Temple Church was not one Langdon wanted to repeat. He had been anticipating a certain feeling of security in the popular tourist destination, but Langdon’s recollections of bustling throngs in a welllit abbey had been formed during the peak summer tourist season. Today was a rainy April morning. Rather than crowds and shimmering stained glass, all Langdon saw was acres of desolate floor and shadowy, empty alcoves.
   “We passed through metal detectors,” Sophie reminded, apparently sensing Langdon’s apprehension. “If anyone is in here, they can’t be armed.”
   Langdon nodded but still felt circumspect. He had wanted to bring the London police with them, but Sophie’s fears of who might be involved put a damper on any contact with the authorities. We need to recover the cryptex, Sophie had insisted. It is the key to everything.
   She was right, of course.


The key to getting Leigh back alive.
The key to finding the Holy Grail.
The key to learning who is behind this.


   Unfortunately, their only chance to recover the keystone seemed to be here and now… at the tomb of Isaac Newton. Whoever held the cryptex would have to pay a visit to the tomb to decipher the final clue, and if they had not already come and gone, Sophie and Langdon intended to intercept them.
   Striding toward the left wall to get out of the open, they moved into an obscure side aisle behind a row of pilasters. Langdon couldn’t shake the image of Leigh Teabing being held captive, probably tied up in the back of his own limousine. Whoever had ordered the top Priory members killed would not hesitate to eliminate others who stood in the way. It seemed a cruel irony that Teabing—a modern British knight—was a hostage in the search for his own countryman, Sir Isaac Newton.
   “Which way is it?” Sophie asked, looking around.
   The tomb. Langdon had no idea. “We should find a docent and ask.”
   Langdon knew better than to wander aimlessly in here. Westminster Abbey was a tangled warren of mausoleums, perimeter chambers, and walkin burial niches. Like the Louvre’s Grand Gallery, it had a lone point of entry—the door through which they had just passed—easy to find your way in, but impossible to find your way out. A literal tourist trap, one of Langdon’s befuddled colleagues had called it. Keeping architectural tradition, the abbey was laid out in the shape of a giant crucifix. Unlike most churches, however, it had its entrance on the side, rather than the standard rear of the church via the narthex at the bottom of the nave. Moreover, the abbey had a series of sprawling cloisters attached. One false step through the wrong archway, and a visitor was lost in a labyrinth of outdoor passageways surrounded by high walls.
   “Docents wear crimson robes,” Langdon said, approaching the center of the church. Peering obliquely across the towering gilded altar to the far end of the south transept, Langdon saw several people crawling on their hands and knees. This prostrate pilgrimage was a common occurrence in Poets’ Corner, although it was far less holy than it appeared. Tourists doing grave rubbings.
   “I don’t see any docents,” Sophie said. “Maybe we can find the tomb on our own?”
   Without a word, Langdon led her another few steps to the center of the abbey and pointed to the right.
   Sophie drew a startled breath as she looked down the length of the abbey’s nave, the full magnitude of the building now visible. “Aah,” she said. “Let’s find a docent.”

   At that moment, a hundred yards down the nave, out of sight behind the choir screen, the stately tomb of Sir Isaac Newton had a lone visitor. The Teacher had been scrutinizing the monument for ten minutes now.
   Newton’s tomb consisted of a massive blackmarble sarcophagus on which reclined the sculpted form of Sir Isaac Newton, wearing classical costume, and leaning proudly against a stack of his own books—Divinity, Chronology, Opticks, and Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica. At Newton’s feet stood two winged boys holding a scroll. Behind Newton’s recumbent body rose an austere pyramid. Although the pyramid itself seemed an oddity, it was the giant shape mounted halfway up the pyramid that most intrigued the Teacher.
   An orb.
   The Teacher pondered Saunière’s beguiling riddle. You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. The massive orb protruding from the face of the pyramid was carved in bassorelievo and depicted all kinds of heavenly bodies—constellations, signs of the zodiac, comets, stars, and planets. Above it, the image of the Goddess of Astronomy beneath a field of stars.
   Countless orbs.
   The Teacher had been convinced that once he found the tomb, discerning the missing orb would be easy. Now he was not so sure. He was gazing at a complicated map of the heavens. Was there a missing planet? Had some astronomical orb been omitted from a constellation? He had no idea. Even so, the Teacher could not help but suspect that the solution would be ingeniously clean and simple—“a knight a pope interred.” What orb am I looking for? Certainly, an advanced knowledge of astrophysics was not a prerequisite for finding the Holy Grail, was it?
   It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb.
   The Teacher’s concentration was broken by several approaching tourists. He slipped the cryptex back in his pocket and watched warily as the visitors went to a nearby table, left a donation in the cup, and restocked on the complimentary graverubbing supplies set out by the abbey. Armed with fresh charcoal pencils and large sheets of heavy paper, they headed off toward the front of the abbey, probably to the popular Poets’ Corner to pay their respects to Chaucer, Tennyson, and Dickens by rubbing furiously on their graves.
   Alone again, he stepped closer to the tomb, scanning it from bottom to top. He began with the clawed feet beneath the sarcophagus, moved upward past Newton, past his books on science, past the two boys with their mathematical scroll, up the face of the pyramid to the giant orb with its constellations, and finally up to the niche’s starfilled canopy.
   What orb ought to be here… and yet is missing? He touched the cryptex in his pocket as if he could somehow divine the answer from Saunière’s crafted marble. Only five letters separate me from the Grail.
   Pacing now near the corner of the choir screen, he took a deep breath and glanced up the long nave toward the main altar in the distance. His gaze dropped from the gilded altar down to the bright crimson robe of an abbey docent who was being waved over by two very familiar individuals.
   Langdon and Neveu.
   Calmly, the Teacher moved two steps back behind the choir screen. That was fast. He had anticipated Langdon and Sophie would eventually decipher the poem’s meaning and come to Newton’s tomb, but this was sooner than he had imagined. Taking a deep breath, the Teacher considered his options. He had grown accustomed to dealing with surprises.
   I am holding the cryptex.
   Reaching down to his pocket, he touched the second object that gave him his confidence: the Medusa revolver. As expected, the abbey’s metal detectors had blared as the Teacher passed through with the concealed gun. Also as expected, the guards had backed off at once when the Teacher glared indignantly and flashed his identification card. Official rank always commanded the proper respect.
   Although initially the Teacher had hoped to solve the cryptex alone and avoid any further complications, he now sensed that the arrival of Langdon and Neveu was actually a welcome development. Considering the lack of success he was having with the “orb” reference, he might be able to use their expertise. After all, if Langdon had deciphered the poem to find the tomb, there was a reasonable chance he also knew something about the orb. And if Langdon knew the password, then it was just a matter of applying the right pressure.
   Not here, of course.
   Somewhere private.
   The Teacher recalled a small announcement sign he had seen on his way into the abbey. Immediately he knew the perfect place to lure them.
   The only question now… what to use as bait.
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