Chapter 58

   Teabing’s “study” was like no study Sophie had ever seen. Six or seven times larger than even the most luxurious of office spaces, the knight’s cabinet de travail resembled an ungainly hybrid of science laboratory, archival library, and indoor flea market. Lit by three overhead chandeliers, the boundless tile floor was dotted with clustered islands of worktables buried beneath books, artwork, artifacts, and a surprising amount of electronic gear—computers, projectors, microscopes, copy machines, and flatbed scanners.
   “I converted the ballroom,” Teabing said, looking sheepish as he shuffled into the room. “I have little occasion to dance.”
   Sophie felt as if the entire night had become some kind of twilight zone where nothing was as she expected. “This is all for your work?”
   “Learning the truth has become my life’s love,” Teabing said. “And the Sangreal is my favorite mistress.”
   The Holy Grail is a woman, Sophie thought, her mind a collage of interrelated ideas that seemed to make no sense. “You said you have a picture of this woman who you claim is the Holy Grail.”
   “Yes, but it is not I who claim she is the Grail. Christ Himself made that claim.”
   “Which one is the painting?” Sophie asked, scanning the walls.
   “Hmmm…” Teabing made a show of seeming to have forgotten. “The Holy Grail. The Sangreal. The Chalice.” He wheeled suddenly and pointed to the far wall. On it hung an eightfootlong print of The Last Supper, the same exact image Sophie had just been looking at. “There she is!”
   Sophie was certain she had missed something. “That’s the same painting you just showed me.”
   He winked. “I know, but the enlargement is so much more exciting. Don’t you think?”
   Sophie turned to Langdon for help. “I’m lost.”
   Langdon smiled. “As it turns out, the Holy Grail does indeed make an appearance in The Last Supper. Leonardo included her prominently.”
   “Hold on,” Sophie said. “You told me the Holy Grail is a woman. The Last Supper is a painting of thirteen men.”
   “Is it?” Teabing arched his eyebrows. “Take a closer look.”
   Uncertain, Sophie made her way closer to the painting, scanning the thirteen figures—Jesus Christ in the middle, six disciples on His left, and six on His right. “They’re all men,” she confirmed.
   “Oh?” Teabing said. “How about the one seated in the place of honor, at the right hand of the Lord?”
   Sophie examined the figure to Jesus’ immediate right, focusing in. As she studied the person’s face and body, a wave of astonishment rose within her. The individual had flowing red hair, delicate folded hands, and the hint of a bosom. It was, without a doubt… female.
   “That’s a woman!” Sophie exclaimed.
   Teabing was laughing. “Surprise, surprise. Believe me, it’s no mistake. Leonardo was skilled at painting the difference between the sexes.”
   Sophie could not take her eyes from the woman beside Christ. The Last Supper is supposed to be thirteen men. Who is this woman? Although Sophie had seen this classic image many times, she had not once noticed this glaring discrepancy.
   “Everyone misses it,” Teabing said. “Our preconceived notions of this scene are so powerful that our mind blocks out the incongruity and overrides our eyes.”
   “It’s known as skitoma,” Langdon added. “The brain does it sometimes with powerful symbols.”
   “Another reason you might have missed the woman,” Teabing said, “is that many of the photographs in art books were taken before 1954, when the details were still hidden beneath layers of grime and several restorative repaintings done by clumsy hands in the eighteenth century. Now, at last, the fresco has been cleaned down to Da Vinci’s original layer of paint.” He motioned to the photograph. “Et voilà!”
   Sophie moved closer to the image. The woman to Jesus’ right was young and piouslooking, with a demure face, beautiful red hair, and hands folded quietly. This is the woman who singlehandedly could crumble the Church?
   “Who is she?” Sophie asked.
   “That, my dear,” Teabing replied, “is Mary Magdalene.”
   Sophie turned. “The prostitute?”
   Teabing drew a short breath, as if the word had injured him personally. “Magdalene was no such thing. That unfortunate misconception is the legacy of a smear campaign launched by the early Church. The Church needed to defame Mary Magdalene in order to cover up her dangerous secret—her role as the Holy Grail.”
   “Her role?”
   “As I mentioned,” Teabing clarified, “the early Church needed to convince the world that the mortal prophet Jesus was a divine being. Therefore, any gospels that described earthly aspects of Jesus’ life had to be omitted from the Bible. Unfortunately for the early editors, one particularly troubling earthly theme kept recurring in the gospels. Mary Magdalene.” He paused. “More specifically, her marriage to Jesus Christ.”
   “I beg your pardon?” Sophie’s eyes moved to Langdon and then back to Teabing.
   “It’s a matter of historical record,” Teabing said, “and Da Vinci was certainly aware of that fact. The Last Supper practically shouts at the viewer that Jesus and Magdalene were a pair.”
   Sophie glanced back to the fresco.
   “Notice that Jesus and Magdalene are clothed as mirror images of one another.” Teabing pointed to the two individuals in the center of the fresco.
   Sophie was mesmerized. Sure enough, their clothes were inverse colors. Jesus wore a red robe and blue cloak; Mary Magdalene wore a blue robe and red cloak. Yin and yang.
   “Venturing into the more bizarre,” Teabing said, “note that Jesus and His bride appear to be joined at the hip and are leaning away from one another as if to create this clearly delineated negative space between them.”
   Even before Teabing traced the contour for her, Sophie saw it—the indisputable V shape at the focal point of the painting. It was the same symbol Langdon had drawn earlier for the Grail, the chalice, and the female womb.
   “Finally,” Teabing said, “if you view Jesus and Magdalene as compositional elements rather than as people, you will see another obvious shape leap out at you.” He paused. “A letter of the alphabet.”
   Sophie saw it at once. To say the letter leapt out at her was an understatement. The letter was suddenly all Sophie could see. Glaring in the center of the painting was the unquestionable outline of an enormous, flawlessly formed letter M.
   “A bit too perfect for coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” Teabing asked.
   Sophie was amazed. “Why is it there?”
   Teabing shrugged. “Conspiracy theorists will tell you it stands for Matrimonio or Mary Magdalene. To be honest, nobody is certain. The only certainty is that the hidden M is no mistake. Countless Grailrelated works contain the hidden letter M—whether as watermarks, underpaintings, or compositional allusions. The most blatant M, of course, is emblazoned on the altar at Our Lady of Paris in London, which was designed by a former Grand Master of the Priory of Sion, Jean Cocteau.”
   Sophie weighed the information. “I’ll admit, the hidden M’s are intriguing, although I assume nobody is claiming they are proof of Jesus’ marriage to Magdalene.”
   “No, no,” Teabing said, going to a nearby table of books. “As I said earlier, the marriage of Jesus and Mary Magdalene is part of the historical record.” He began pawing through his book collection. “Moreover, Jesus as a married man makes infinitely more sense than our standard biblical view of Jesus as a bachelor.”
   “Why?” Sophie asked.
   “Because Jesus was a Jew,” Langdon said, taking over while Teabing searched for his book, “and the social decorum during that time virtually forbid a Jewish man to be unmarried. According to Jewish custom, celibacy was condemned, and the obligation for a Jewish father was to find a suitable wife for his son. If Jesus were not married, at least one of the Bible’s gospels would have mentioned it and offered some explanation for His unnatural state of bachelorhood.”
   Teabing located a huge book and pulled it toward him across the table. The leatherbound edition was postersized, like a huge atlas. The cover read: The Gnostic Gospels. Teabing heaved it open, and Langdon and Sophie joined him. Sophie could see it contained photographs of what appeared to be magnified passages of ancient documents—tattered papyrus with handwritten text. She did not recognize the ancient language, but the facing pages bore typed translations.
   “These are photocopies of the Nag Hammadi and Dead Sea scrolls, which I mentioned earlier,” Teabing said. “The earliest Christian records. Troublingly, they do not match up with the gospels in the Bible.” Flipping toward the middle of the book, Teabing pointed to a passage. “The Gospel of Philip is always a good place to start.” Sophie read the passage:
   And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, “Why do you love her more than all of us?”
   The words surprised Sophie, and yet they hardly seemed conclusive. “It says nothing of marriage.”
   “Au contraire.” Teabing smiled, pointing to the first line. “As any Aramaic scholar will tell you, the word companion, in those days, literally meant spouse.”
   Langdon concurred with a nod.
   Sophie read the first line again. And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene.
   Teabing flipped through the book and pointed out several other passages that, to Sophie’s surprise, clearly suggested Magdalene and Jesus had a romantic relationship. As she read the passages, Sophie recalled an angry priest who had banged on her grandfather’s door when she was a schoolgirl.
   “Is this the home of Jacques Saunière?” the priest had demanded, glaring down at young Sophie when she pulled open the door. “I want to talk to him about this editorial he wrote.” The priest held up a newspaper.
   Sophie summoned her grandfather, and the two men disappeared into his study and closed the door. My grandfather wrote something in the paper? Sophie immediately ran to the kitchen and flipped through that morning’s paper. She found her grandfather’s name on an article on the second page. She read it. Sophie didn’t understand all of what was said, but it sounded like the French government, under pressure from priests, had agreed to ban an American movie called The Last Temptation of Christ, which was about Jesus having sex with a lady called Mary Magdalene. Her grandfather’s article said the Church was arrogant and wrong to ban it.
   No wonder the priest is mad, Sophie thought.
   “It’s pornography! Sacrilege!” the priest yelled, emerging from the study and storming to the front door. “How can you possibly endorse that! This American Martin Scorsese is a blasphemer, and the Church will permit him no pulpit in France!” The priest slammed the door on his way out.
   When her grandfather came into the kitchen, he saw Sophie with the paper and frowned. “You’re quick.”
   Sophie said, “You think Jesus Christ had a girlfriend?”
   “No, dear, I said the Church should not be allowed to tell us what notions we can and can’t entertain.”
   “Did Jesus have a girlfriend?”
   Her grandfather was silent for several moments. “Would it be so bad if He did?”
   Sophie considered it and then shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”


* * *

   Sir Leigh Teabing was still talking. “I shan’t bore you with the countless references to Jesus and Magdalene’s union. That has been explored ad nauseum by modern historians. I would, however, like to point out the following.” He motioned to another passage. “This is from the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.”
   Sophie had not known a gospel existed in Magdalene’s words. She read the text:
   And Peter said, “Did the Saviour really speak with a woman without our knowledge? Are we to turn about and all listen to her? Did he prefer her to us?”
   And Levi answered, “Peter, you have always been hottempered. Now I see you contending against the woman like an adversary. If the Saviour made her worthy, who are you indeed to reject her? Surely the Saviour knows her very well. That is why he loved her more than us.”
   “The woman they are speaking of,” Teabing explained, “is Mary Magdalene. Peter is jealous of her.”
   “Because Jesus preferred Mary?”
   “Not only that. The stakes were far greater than mere affection. At this point in the gospels, Jesus suspects He will soon be captured and crucified. So He gives Mary Magdalene instructions on how to carry on His Church after He is gone. As a result, Peter expresses his discontent over playing second fiddle to a woman. I daresay Peter was something of a sexist.”
   Sophie was trying to keep up. “This is Saint Peter. The rock on which Jesus built His Church.”
   “The same, except for one catch. According to these unaltered gospels, it was not Peter to whom Christ gave directions with which to establish the Christian Church. It was Mary Magdalene.”
   Sophie looked at him. “You’re saying the Christian Church was to be carried on by a woman?”
   “That was the plan. Jesus was the original feminist. He intended for the future of His Church to be in the hands of Mary Magdalene.”
   “And Peter had a problem with that,” Langdon said, pointing to The Last Supper. “That’s Peter there. You can see that Da Vinci was well aware of how Peter felt about Mary Magdalene.”
   Again, Sophie was speechless. In the painting, Peter was leaning menacingly toward Mary Magdalene and slicing his bladelike hand across her neck. The same threatening gesture as in Madonna of the Rocks!
   “And here too,” Langdon said, pointing now to the crowd of disciples near Peter. “A bit ominous, no?”
   Sophie squinted and saw a hand emerging from the crowd of disciples. “Is that hand wielding a dagger?”
   “Yes. Stranger still, if you count the arms, you’ll see that this hand belongs to… no one at all. It’s disembodied. Anonymous.”
   Sophie was starting to feel overwhelmed. “I’m sorry, I still don’t understand how all of this makes Mary Magdalene the Holy Grail.”
   “Aha!” Teabing exclaimed again. “Therein lies the rub!” He turned once more to the table and pulled out a large chart, spreading it out for her. It was an elaborate genealogy. “Few people realize that Mary Magdalene, in addition to being Christ’s right hand, was a powerful woman already.”
   Sophie could now see the title of the family tree.


The Tribe of Benjamin


* * *

   “Mary Magdalene is here,” Teabing said, pointing near the top of the genealogy.
   Sophie was surprised. “She was of the House of Benjamin?”
   “Indeed,” Teabing said. “Mary Magdalene was of royal descent.”
   “But I was under the impression Magdalene was poor.”
   Teabing shook his head. “Magdalene was recast as a whore in order to erase evidence of her powerful family ties.”
   Sophie found herself again glancing at Langdon, who again nodded. She turned back to Teabing. “But why would the early Church care if Magdalene had royal blood?”
   The Briton smiled. “My dear child, it was not Mary Magdalene’s royal blood that concerned the Church so much as it was her consorting with Christ, who also had royal blood. As you know, the Book of Matthew tells us that Jesus was of the House of David. A descendant of King Solomon—King of the Jews. By marrying into the powerful House of Benjamin, Jesus fused two royal bloodlines, creating a potent political union with the potential of making a legitimate claim to the throne and restoring the line of kings as it was under Solomon.”
   Sophie sensed he was at last coming to his point.
   Teabing looked excited now. “The legend of the Holy Grail is a legend about royal blood. When Grail legend speaks of ‘the chalice that held the blood of Christ’… it speaks, in fact, of Mary Magdalene—the female womb that carried Jesus’ royal bloodline.”
   The words seemed to echo across the ballroom and back before they fully registered in Sophie’s mind. Mary Magdalene carried the royal bloodline of Jesus Christ? “But how could Christ have a bloodline unless…?” She paused and looked at Langdon.
   Langdon smiled softly. “Unless they had a child.”
   Sophie stood transfixed.
   “Behold,” Teabing proclaimed, “the greatest coverup in human history. Not only was Jesus Christ married, but He was a father. My dear, Mary Magdalene was the Holy Vessel. She was the chalice that bore the royal bloodline of Jesus Christ. She was the womb that bore the lineage, and the vine from which the sacred fruit sprang forth!”
   Sophie felt the hairs stand up on her arms. “But how could a secret that big be kept quiet all of these years?”
   “Heavens!” Teabing said. “It has been anything but quiet! The royal bloodline of Jesus Christ is the source of the most enduring legend of all time—the Holy Grail. Magdalene’s story has been shouted from the rooftops for centuries in all kinds of metaphors and languages. Her story is everywhere once you open your eyes.”
   “And the Sangreal documents?” Sophie said. “They allegedly contain proof that Jesus had a royal bloodline?”
   “They do.”
   “So the entire Holy Grail legend is all about royal blood?”
   “Quite literally,” Teabing said. “The word Sangreal derives from San Greal —or Holy Grail. But in its most ancient form, the word Sangreal was divided in a different spot.” Teabing wrote on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to her.
   She read what he had written.


Sang Real


* * *

   Instantly, Sophie recognized the translation. Sang Real literally meant Royal Blood.

Chapter 59

   The male receptionist in the lobby of the Opus Dei headquarters on Lexington Avenue in New York City was surprised to hear Bishop Aringarosa’s voice on the line. “Good evening, sir.”
   “Have I had any messages?” the bishop demanded, sounding unusually anxious.
   “Yes, sir. I’m very glad you called in. I couldn’t reach you in your apartment. You had an urgent phone message about half an hour ago.”
   “Yes?” He sounded relieved by the news. “Did the caller leave a name?”
   “No, sir, just a number.” The operator relayed the number.
   “Prefix thirtythree? That’s France, am I right?”
   “Yes, sir. Paris. The caller said it was critical you contact him immediately.”
   “Thank you. I have been waiting for that call.” Aringarosa quickly severed the connection.
   As the receptionist hung up the receiver, he wondered why Aringarosa’s phone connection sounded so crackly. The bishop’s daily schedule showed him in New York this weekend, and yet he sounded a world away. The receptionist shrugged it off. Bishop Aringarosa had been acting very strangely the last few months.


* * *

   My cellular phone must not have been receiving, Aringarosa thought as the Fiat approached the exit for Rome’s Ciampino Charter Airport. The Teacher was trying to reach me. Despite Aringarosa’s concern at having missed the call, he felt encouraged that the Teacher felt confident enough to call Opus Dei headquarters directly.
   Things must have gone well in Paris tonight.
   As Aringarosa began dialing the number, he felt excited to know he would soon be in Paris. I’ll be on the ground before dawn. Aringarosa had a chartered turbo prop awaiting him here for the short flight to France. Commercial carriers were not an option at this hour, especially considering the contents of his briefcase.
   The line began to ring.
   A female voice answered. “Direction Centrale Police Judidaire.”
   Aringarosa felt himself hesitate. This was unexpected. “Ah, yes… I was asked to call this number?”
   “Qui êtesvous?” the woman said. “Your name?”
   Aringarosa was uncertain if he should reveal it. The French Judicial Police?
   “Your name, monsieur?” the woman pressed.
   “Bishop Manuel Aringarosa.”
   “Un moment.” There was a click on the line.
   After a long wait, another man came on, his tone gruff and concerned. “Bishop, I am glad I finally reached you. You and I have much to discuss.”

Chapter 60

   Sangreal… Sang Real… San Greal… Royal Blood… Holy Grail.
   It was all intertwined.
   The Holy Grail is Mary Magdalene… the mother of the royal bloodline of Jesus Christ. Sophie felt a new wave of disorientation as she stood in the silence of the ballroom and stared at Robert Langdon. The more pieces Langdon and Teabing laid on the table tonight, the more unpredictable this puzzle became.
   “As you can see, my dear,” Teabing said, hobbling toward a bookshelf, “Leonardo is not the only one who has been trying to tell the world the truth about the Holy Grail. The royal bloodline of Jesus Christ has been chronicled in exhaustive detail by scores of historians.” He ran a finger down a row of several dozen books.
   Sophie tilted her head and scanned the list of titles:


The Templar Revelation:
Secret Guardians of the True Identity of Christ


* * *


The Woman with the alabaster Jar:
Mary Magdalene and the Holy Grail


THE GODDESS IN THE GOSPELS
Reclaiming the Sacred Feminine

   “Here is perhaps the bestknown tome,” Teabing said, pulling a tattered hardcover from the stack and handing it to her. The cover read:


HOLY BLOOD, HOLY GRAIL
The Acclaimed International Bestseller

   Sophie glanced up. “An international bestseller? I’ve never heard of it.”
   “You were young. This caused quite a stir back in the nineteen eighties. To my taste, the authors made some dubious leaps of faith in their analysis, but their fundamental premise is sound, and to their credit, they finally brought the idea of Christ’s bloodline into the mainstream.”
   “What was the Church’s reaction to the book?”
   “Outrage, of course. But that was to be expected. After all, this was a secret the Vatican had tried to bury in the fourth century. That’s part of what the Crusades were about. Gathering and destroying information. The threat Mary Magdalene posed to the men of the early Church was potentially ruinous. Not only was she the woman to whom Jesus had assigned the task of founding the Church, but she also had physical proof that the Church’s newly proclaimed deity had spawned a mortal bloodline. The Church, in order to defend itself against the Magdalene’s power, perpetuated her image as a whore and buried evidence of Christ’s marriage to her, thereby defusing any potential claims that Christ had a surviving bloodline and was a mortal prophet.”
   Sophie glanced at Langdon, who nodded. “Sophie, the historical evidence supporting this is substantial.”
   “I admit,” Teabing said, “the assertions are dire, but you must understand the Church’s powerful motivations to conduct such a coverup. They could never have survived public knowledge of a bloodline. A child of Jesus would undermine the critical notion of Christ’s divinity and therefore the Christian Church, which declared itself the sole vessel through which humanity could access the divine and gain entrance to the kingdom of heaven.”
   “The fivepetal rose,” Sophie said, pointing suddenly to the spine of one of Teabing’s books. The same exact design inlaid on the rosewood box.
   Teabing glanced at Langdon and grinned. “She has a good eye.” He turned back to Sophie. “That is the Priory symbol for the Grail. Mary Magdalene. Because her name was forbidden by the Church, Mary Magdalene became secretly known by many pseudonyms—the Chalice, the Holy Grail, and the Rose.” He paused. “The Rose has ties to the fivepointed pentacle of Venus and the guiding Compass Rose. By the way, the word rose is identical in English, French, German, and many other languages.”
   “Rose,” Langdon added, “is also an anagram of Eros, the Greek god of sexual love.”
   Sophie gave him a surprised look as Teabing plowed on.
   “The Rose has always been the premiere symbol of female sexuality. In primitive goddess cults, the five petals represented the five stations of female life—birth, menstruation, motherhood, menopause, and death. And in modern times, the flowering rose’s ties to womanhood are considered more visual.” He glanced at Robert. “Perhaps the symbologist could explain?”
   Robert hesitated. A moment too long.
   “Oh, heavens!” Teabing huffed. “You Americans are such prudes.” He looked back at Sophie. “What Robert is fumbling with is the fact that the blossoming flower resembles the female genitalia, the sublime blossom from which all mankind enters the world. And if you’ve ever seen any paintings by Georgia O’Keeffe, you’ll know exactly what I mean.”
   “The point here,” Langdon said, motioning back to the bookshelf, “is that all of these books substantiate the same historical claim.”
   “That Jesus was a father.” Sophie was still uncertain.
   “Yes,” Teabing said. “And that Mary Magdalene was the womb that carried His royal lineage. The Priory of Sion, to this day, still worships Mary Magdalene as the Goddess, the Holy Grail, the Rose, and the Divine Mother.”
   Sophie again flashed on the ritual in the basement.
   “According to the Priory,” Teabing continued, “Mary Magdalene was pregnant at the time of the crucifixion. For the safety of Christ’s unborn child, she had no choice but to flee the Holy Land. With the help of Jesus’ trusted uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, Mary Magdalene secretly traveled to France, then known as Gaul. There she found safe refuge in the Jewish community. It was here in France that she gave birth to a daughter. Her name was Sarah.”
   Sophie glanced up. “They actually know the child’s name?”
   “Far more than that. Magdalene’s and Sarah’s lives were scrutinously chronicled by their Jewish protectors. Remember that Magdalene’s child belonged to the lineage of Jewish kings—David and Solomon. For this reason, the Jews in France considered Magdalene sacred royalty and revered her as the progenitor of the royal line of kings. Countless scholars of that era chronicled Mary Magdalene’s days in France, including the birth of Sarah and the subsequent family tree.”
   Sophie was startled. “There exists a family tree of Jesus Christ?”
   “Indeed. And it is purportedly one of the cornerstones of the Sangreal documents. A complete genealogy of the early descendants of Christ.”
   “But what good is a documented genealogy of Christ’s bloodline?” Sophie asked. “It’s not proof. Historians could not possibly confirm its authenticity.”
   Teabing chuckled. “No more so than they can confirm the authenticity of the Bible.”
   “Meaning?”
   “Meaning that history is always written by the winners. When two cultures clash, the loser is obliterated, and the winner writes the history books—books which glorify their own cause and disparage the conquered foe. As Napoleon once said, ‘What is history, but a fable agreed upon?’ “ He smiled. “By its very nature, history is always a onesided account.”
   Sophie had never thought of it that way.
   “The Sangreal documents simply tell the other side of the Christ story. In the end, which side of the story you believe becomes a matter of faith and personal exploration, but at least the information has survived. The Sangreal documents include tens of thousands of pages of information. Eyewitness accounts of the Sangreal treasure describe it as being carried in four enormous trunks. In those trunks are reputed to be the Purist Documents —thousands of pages of unaltered, preConstantine documents, written by the early followers of Jesus, revering Him as a wholly human teacher and prophet. Also rumored to be part of the treasure is the legendary “Q” Document —a manuscript that even the Vatican admits they believe exists. Allegedly, it is a book of Jesus’ teachings, possibly written in His own hand.”
   “Writings by Christ Himself?”
   “Of course,” Teabing said. “Why wouldn’t Jesus have kept a chronicle of His ministry? Most people did in those days. Another explosive document believed to be in the treasure is a manuscript called The Magdalene Diaries —Mary Magdalene’s personal account of her relationship with Christ, His crucifixion, and her time in France.”
   Sophie was silent for a long moment. “And these four chests of documents were the treasure that the Knights Templar found under Solomon’s Temple?”
   “Exactly. The documents that made the Knights so powerful. The documents that have been the object of countless Grail quests throughout history.”
   “But you said the Holy Grail was Mary Magdalene. If people are searching for documents, why would you call it a search for the Holy Grail?”
   Teabing eyed her, his expression softening. “Because the hiding place of the Holy Grail includes a sarcophagus.”
   Outside, the wind howled in the trees.
   Teabing spoke more quietly now. “The quest for the Holy Grail is literally the quest to kneel before the bones of Mary Magdalene. A journey to pray at the feet of the outcast one, the lost sacred feminine.”
   Sophie felt an unexpected wonder. “The hiding place of the Holy Grail is actually… a tomb?”
   Teabing’s hazel eyes got misty. “It is. A tomb containing the body of Mary Magdalene and the documents that tell the true story of her life. At its heart, the quest for the Holy Grail has always been a quest for the Magdalene—the wronged Queen, entombed with proof of her family’s rightful claim to power.”
   Sophie waited a moment as Teabing gathered himself. So much about her grandfather was still not making sense. “Members of the Priory,” she finally said, “all these years have answered the charge of protecting the Sangreal documents and the tomb of Mary Magdalene?”
   “Yes, but the brotherhood had another, more important duty as well—to protect the bloodline itself. Christ’s lineage was in perpetual danger. The early Church feared that if the lineage were permitted to grow, the secret of Jesus and Magdalene would eventually surface and challenge the fundamental Catholic doctrine—that of a divine Messiah who did not consort with women or engage in sexual union.” He paused. “Nonetheless, Christ’s line grew quietly under cover in France until making a bold move in the fifth century, when it intermarried with French royal blood and created a lineage known as the Merovingian bloodline.”
   This news surprised Sophie. Merovingian was a term learned by every student in France. “The Merovingians founded Paris.”
   “Yes. That’s one of the reasons the Grail legend is so rich in France. Many of the Vatican’s Grail quests here were in fact stealth missions to erase members of the royal bloodline. Have you heard of King Dagobert?”
   Sophie vaguely recalled the name from a grisly tale in history class. “Dagobert was a Merovingian king, wasn’t he? Stabbed in the eye while sleeping?”
   “Exactly. Assassinated by the Vatican in collusion with Pepin d’Heristal. Late seventh century. With Dagobert’s murder, the Merovingian bloodline was almost exterminated. Fortunately, Dagobert’s son, Sigisbert, secretly escaped the attack and carried on the lineage, which later included Godefroi de Bouillon—founder of the Priory of Sion.”
   “The same man,” Langdon said, “who ordered the Knights Templar to recover the Sangreal documents from beneath Solomon’s Temple and thus provide the Merovingians proof of their hereditary ties to Jesus Christ.”
   Teabing nodded, heaving a ponderous sigh. “The modern Priory of Sion has a momentous duty. Theirs is a threefold charge. The brotherhood must protect the Sangreal documents. They must protect the tomb of Mary Magdalene. And, of course, they must nurture and protect the bloodline of Christ—those few members of the royal Merovingian bloodline who have survived into modern times.”
   The words hung in the huge space, and Sophie felt an odd vibration, as if her bones were reverberating with some new kind of truth. Descendants of Jesus who survived into modern times. Her grandfather’s voice again was whispering in her ear. Princess, I must tell you the truth about your family.
   A chill raked her flesh.
   Royal blood.
   She could not imagine.
   Princess Sophie.
   “Sir Leigh?” The manservant’s words crackled through the intercom on the wall, and Sophie jumped. “If you could join me in the kitchen a moment?”
   Teabing scowled at the illtimed intrusion. He went over to the intercom and pressed the button. “Remy, as you know, I am busy with my guests. If we need anything else from the kitchen tonight, we will help ourselves. Thank you and good night.”
   “A word with you before I retire, sir. If you would.”
   Teabing grunted and pressed the button. “Make it quick, Remy.”
   “It is a household matter, sir, hardly fare for guests to endure.”
   Teabing looked incredulous. “And it cannot wait until morning?”
   “No, sir. My question won’t take a minute.”
   Teabing rolled his eyes and looked at Langdon and Sophie. “Sometimes I wonder who is serving whom?” He pressed the button again. “I’ll be right there, Remy. Can I bring you anything when I come?”
   “Only freedom from oppression, sir.”
   “Remy, you realize your steak au poivre is the only reason you still work for me.”
   “So you tell me, sir. So you tell me.”

Chapter 61

   Princess Sophie.
   Sophie felt hollow as she listened to the clicking of Teabing’s crutches fade down the hallway. Numb, she turned and faced Langdon in the deserted ballroom. He was already shaking his head as if reading her mind.
   “No, Sophie,” he whispered, his eyes reassuring. “The same thought crossed my mind when I realized your grandfather was in the Priory, and you said he wanted to tell you a secret about your family. But it’s impossible.” Langdon paused. “Saunière is not a Merovingian name.”
   Sophie wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Earlier, Langdon had asked an unusual passing question about Sophie’s mother’s maiden name. Chauvel. The question now made sense. “And Chauvel?” she asked, anxious.
   Again he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know that would have answered some questions for you. Only two direct lines of Merovingians remain. Their family names are Plantard and SaintClair. Both families live in hiding, probably protected by the Priory.”
   Sophie repeated the names silently in her mind and then shook her head. There was no one in her family named Plantard or SaintClair. A weary undertow was pulling at her now. She realized she was no closer than she had been at the Louvre to understanding what truth her grandfather had wanted to reveal to her. Sophie wished her grandfather had never mentioned her family this afternoon. He had torn open old wounds that felt as painful now as ever. They are dead, Sophie. They are not coming back. She thought of her mother singing her to sleep at night, of her father giving her rides on his shoulders, and of her grandmother and younger brother smiling at her with their fervent green eyes. All that was stolen. And all she had left was her grandfather.
   And now he is gone too. I am alone.
   Sophie turned quietly back to The Last Supper and gazed at Mary Magdalene’s long red hair and quiet eyes. There was something in the woman’s expression that echoed the loss of a loved one. Sophie could feel it too.
   “Robert?” she said softly.
   He stepped closer.
   “I know Leigh said the Grail story is all around us, but tonight is the first time I’ve ever heard any of this.”
   Langdon looked as if he wanted to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he refrained. “You’ve heard her story before, Sophie. Everyone has. We just don’t realize it when we hear it.”
   “I don’t understand.”
   “The Grail story is everywhere, but it is hidden. When the Church outlawed speaking of the shunned Mary Magdalene, her story and importance had to be passed on through more discreet channels… channels that supported metaphor and symbolism.”
   “Of course. The arts.”
   Langdon motioned to The Last Supper. “A perfect example. Some of today’s most enduring art, literature, and music secretly tell the history of Mary Magdalene and Jesus.”
   Langdon quickly told her about works by Da Vinci, Botticelli, Poussin, Bernini, Mozart, and Victor Hugo that all whispered of the quest to restore the banished sacred feminine. Enduring legends like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, King Arthur, and Sleeping Beauty were Grail allegories. Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame and Mozart’s Magic Flute were filled with Masonic symbolism and Grail secrets.
   “Once you open your eyes to the Holy Grail,” Langdon said, “you see her everywhere. Paintings. Music. Books. Even in cartoons, theme parks, and popular movies.”
   Langdon held up his Mickey Mouse watch and told her that Walt Disney had made it his quiet life’s work to pass on the Grail story to future generations. Throughout his entire life, Disney had been hailed as “the ModernDay Leonardo da Vinci.” Both men were generations ahead of their times, uniquely gifted artists, members of secret societies, and, most notably, avid pranksters. Like Leonardo, Walt Disney loved infusing hidden messages and symbolism in his art. For the trained symbologist, watching an early Disney movie was like being barraged by an avalanche of allusion and metaphor.
   Most of Disney’s hidden messages dealt with religion, pagan myth, and stories of the subjugated goddess. It was no mistake that Disney retold tales like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White —all of which dealt with the incarceration of the sacred feminine. Nor did one need a background in symbolism to understand that Snow White—a princess who fell from grace after partaking of a poisoned apple—was a clear allusion to the downfall of Eve in the Garden of Eden. Or that Sleeping Beauty’s Princess Aurora—codenamed “Rose” and hidden deep in the forest to protect her from the clutches of the evil witch—was the Grail story for children.
   Despite its corporate image, Disney still had a savvy, playful element among its employees, and their artists still amused themselves by inserting hidden symbolism in Disney products. Langdon would never forget one of his students bringing in a DVD of The Lion King and pausing the film to reveal a freezeframe in which the word SEX was clearly visible, spelled out by floating dust particles over Simba’s head. Although Langdon suspected this was more of a cartoonist’s sophomoric prank than any kind of enlightened allusion to pagan human sexuality, he had learned not to underestimate Disney’s grasp of symbolism. The Little Mermaid was a spellbinding tapestry of spiritual symbols so specifically goddessrelated that they could not be coincidence.
   When Langdon had first seen The Little Mermaid, he had actually gasped aloud when he noticed that the painting in Ariel’s underwater home was none other than seventeenthcentury artist Georges de la Tour’s The Penitent Magdalene —a famous homage to the banished Mary Magdalene—fitting decor considering the movie turned out to be a ninetyminute collage of blatant symbolic references to the lost sanctity of Isis, Eve, Pisces the fish goddess, and, repeatedly, Mary Magdalene. The Little Mermaid’s name, Ariel, possessed powerful ties to the sacred feminine and, in the Book of Isaiah, was synonymous with “the Holy City besieged.” Of course, the Little Mermaid’s flowing red hair was certainly no coincidence either.
   The clicking of Teabing’s crutches approached in the hallway, his pace unusually brisk. When their host entered the study, his expression was stern.
   “You’d better explain yourself, Robert,” he said coldly. “You have not been honest with me.”

Chapter 62

   “I’m being framed, Leigh,” Langdon said, trying to stay calm. You know me. I wouldn’t kill anyone.
   Teabing’s tone did not soften. “Robert, you’re on television, for Christ’s sake. Did you know you were wanted by the authorities?”
   “Yes.”
   “Then you abused my trust. I’m astonished you would put me at risk by coming here and asking me to ramble on about the Grail so you could hide out in my home.”
   “I didn’t kill anyone.”
   “Jacques Saunière is dead, and the police say you did it.” Teabing looked saddened. “Such a contributor to the arts…”
   “Sir?” The manservant had appeared now, standing behind Teabing in the study doorway, his arms crossed. “Shall I show them out?”
   “Allow me.” Teabing hobbled across the study, unlocked a set of wide glass doors, and swung them open onto a side lawn. “Please find your car, and leave.”
   Sophie did not move. “We have information about the clef de voûte. The Priory keystone.”
   Teabing stared at her for several seconds and scoffed derisively. “A desperate ploy. Robert knows how I’ve sought it.”
   “She’s telling the truth,” Langdon said. “That’s why we came to you tonight. To talk to you about the keystone.”
   The manservant intervened now. “Leave, or I shall call the authorities.”
   “Leigh,” Langdon whispered, “we know where it is.”
   Teabing’s balance seemed to falter a bit.
   Remy now marched stiffly across the room. “Leave at once! Or I will forcibly—“
   “Remy!” Teabing spun, snapping at his servant. “Excuse us for a moment.”
   The servant’s jaw dropped. “Sir? I must protest. These people are—“
   “I’ll handle this.” Teabing pointed to the hallway.
   After a moment of stunned silence, Remy skulked out like a banished dog.
   In the cool night breeze coming through the open doors, Teabing turned back to Sophie and Langdon, his expression still wary. “This better be good. What do you know of the keystone?”

   In the thick brush outside Teabing’s study, Silas clutched his pistol and gazed through the glass doors. Only moments ago, he had circled the house and seen Langdon and the woman talking in the large study. Before he could move in, a man on crutches entered, yelled at Langdon, threw open the doors, and demanded his guests leave. Then the woman mentioned the keystone, and everything changed. Shouts turned to whispers. Moods softened. And the glass doors were quickly closed.
   Now, as he huddled in the shadows, Silas peered through the glass. The keystone is somewhere inside the house. Silas could feel it.
   Staying in the shadows, he inched closer to the glass, eager to hear what was being said. He would give them five minutes. If they did not reveal where they had placed the keystone, Silas would have to enter and persuade them with force.

   Inside the study, Langdon could sense their host’s bewilderment.
   “Grand Master?” Teabing choked, eyeing Sophie. “Jacques Saunière?”
   Sophie nodded, seeing the shock in his eyes.
   “But you could not possibly know that!”
   “Jacques Saunière was my grandfather.”
   Teabing staggered back on his crutches, shooting a glance at Langdon, who nodded. Teabing turned back to Sophie. “Miss Neveu, I am speechless. If this is true, then I am truly sorry for your loss. I should admit, for my research, I have kept lists of men in Paris whom I thought might be good candidates for involvement in the Priory. Jacques Saunière was on that list along with many others. But Grand Master, you say? It’s hard to fathom.” Teabing was silent a moment and then shook his head. “But it still makes no sense. Even if your grandfather were the Priory Grand Master and created the keystone himself, he would never tell you how to find it. The keystone reveals the pathway to the brotherhood’s ultimate treasure. Granddaughter or not, you are not eligible to receive such knowledge.”
   “Mr. Saunière was dying when he passed on the information,” Langdon said. “He had limited options.”
   “He didn’t need options,” Teabing argued. “There exist three sénéchaux who also know the secret. That is the beauty of their system. One will rise to Grand Master and they will induct a new sénéchal and share the secret of the keystone.”
   “I guess you didn’t see the entire news broadcast,” Sophie said. “In addition to my grandfather, three other prominent Parisians were murdered today. All in similar ways. All looked like they had been interrogated.”
   Teabing’s jaw fell. “And you think they were…”
   “The sénéchaux,” Langdon said.
   “But how? A murderer could not possibly learn the identities of all four top members of the Priory of Sion! Look at me, I have been researching them for decades, and I can’t even name one Priory member. It seems inconceivable that all three sénéchaux and the Grand Master could be discovered and killed in one day.”
   “I doubt the information was gathered in a single day,” Sophie said. “It sounds like a wellplanned décapiter. It’s a technique we use to fight organized crime syndicates. If DCPJ wants to move on a certain group, they will silently listen and watch for months, identify all the main players, and then move in and take them all at the same moment. Decapitation. With no leadership, the group falls into chaos and divulges other information. It’s possible someone patiently watched the Priory and then attacked, hoping the top people would reveal the location of the keystone.”
   Teabing looked unconvinced. “But the brothers would never talk. They are sworn to secrecy. Even in the face of death.”
   “Exactly,” Langdon said. “Meaning, if they never divulged the secret, and they were killed…”
   Teabing gasped. “Then the location of the keystone would be lost forever!”
   “And with it,” Langdon said, “the location of the Holy Grail.”
   Teabing’s body seemed to sway with the weight of Langdon’s words. Then, as if too tired to stand another moment, he flopped in a chair and stared out the window.
   Sophie walked over, her voice soft. “Considering my grandfather’s predicament, it seems possible that in total desperation he tried to pass the secret on to someone outside the brotherhood. Someone he thought he could trust. Someone in his family.”
   Teabing was pale. “But someone capable of such an attack… of discovering so much about the brotherhood…” He paused, radiating a new fear. “It could only be one force. This kind of infiltration could only have come from the Priory’s oldest enemy.”
   Langdon glanced up. “The Church.”
   “Who else? Rome has been seeking the Grail for centuries.”
   Sophie was skeptical. “You think the Church killed my grandfather?”
   Teabing replied, “It would not be the first time in history the Church has killed to protect itself. The documents that accompany the Holy Grail are explosive, and the Church has wanted to destroy them for years.”
   Langdon was having trouble buying Teabing’s premise that the Church would blatantly murder people to obtain these documents. Having met the new Pope and many of the cardinals, Langdon knew they were deeply spiritual men who would never condone assassination. Regardless of the stakes.
   Sophie seemed to be having similar thoughts. “Isn’t it possible that these Priory members were murdered by someone outside the Church? Someone who didn’t understand what the Grail really is? The Cup of Christ, after all, would be quite an enticing treasure. Certainly treasure hunters have killed for less.”
   “In my experience,” Teabing said, “men go to far greater lengths to avoid what they fear than to obtain what they desire. I sense a desperation in this assault on the Priory.”
   “Leigh,” Langdon said, “the argument is paradoxical. Why would members of the Catholic clergy murder Priory members in an effort to find and destroy documents they believe are false testimony anyway?”
   Teabing chuckled. “The ivory towers of Harvard have made you soft, Robert. Yes, the clergy in Rome are blessed with potent faith, and because of this, their beliefs can weather any storm, including documents that contradict everything they hold dear. But what about the rest of the world? What about those who are not blessed with absolute certainty? What about those who look at the cruelty in the world and say, where is God today? Those who look at Church scandals and ask, who are these men who claim to speak the truth about Christ and yet lie to cover up the sexual abuse of children by their own priests?” Teabing paused. “What happens to those people, Robert, if persuasive scientific evidence comes out that the Church’s version of the Christ story is inaccurate, and that the greatest story ever told is, in fact, the greatest story ever sold”
   Langdon did not respond.
   “I’ll tell you what happens if the documents get out,” Teabing said. “The Vatican faces a crisis of faith unprecedented in its twomillennia history.”
   After a long silence, Sophie said, “But if it is the Church who is responsible for this attack, why would they act now? After all these years? The Priory keeps the Sangreal documents hidden. They pose no immediate threat to the Church.”
   Teabing heaved an ominous sigh and glanced at Langdon. “Robert, I assume you are familiar with the Priory’s final charge?”
   Langdon felt his breath catch at the thought. “I am.”
   “Miss Neveu,” Teabing said, “the Church and the Priory have had a tacit understanding for years. That is, the Church does not attack the Priory, and the Priory keeps the Sangreal documents hidden.” He paused. “However, part of the Priory history has always included a plan to unveil the secret. With the arrival of a specific date in history, the brotherhood plans to break the silence and carry out its ultimate triumph by unveiling the Sangreal documents to the world and shouting the true story of Jesus Christ from the mountaintops.”
   Sophie stared at Teabing in silence. Finally, she too sat down. “And you think that date is approaching? And the Church knows it?”
   “A speculation,” Teabing said, “but it would certainly provide the Church motivation for an allout attack to find the documents before it was too late.”
   Langdon had the uneasy feeling that Teabing was making good sense. “Do you think the Church would actually be capable of uncovering hard evidence of the Priory’s date?”
   “Why not—if we’re assuming the Church was able to uncover the identities of the Priory members, then certainly they could have learned of their plans. And even if they don’t have the exact date, their superstitions may be getting the best of them.”
   “Superstitions?” Sophie asked.
   “In terms of prophecy,” Teabing said, “we are currently in an epoch of enormous change. The millennium has recently passed, and with it has ended the twothousandyearlong astrological Age of Pisces—the fish, which is also the sign of Jesus. As any astrological symbologist will tell you, the Piscean ideal believes that man must be told what to do by higher powers because man is incapable of thinking for himself. Hence it has been a time of fervent religion. Now, however, we are entering the Age of Aquarius—the water bearer—whose ideals claim that man will learn the truth and be able to think for himself. The ideological shift is enormous, and it is occurring right now.”
   Langdon felt a shiver. Astrological prophecy never held much interest or credibility for him, but he knew there were those in the Church who followed it very closely. “The Church calls this transitional period the End of Days.”
   Sophie looked skeptical. “As in the end of the world? The Apocalypse?”
   “No.” Langdon replied. “That’s a common misconception. Many religions speak of the End of Days. It refers not to the end of the world, but rather the end of our current age—Pisces, which began at the time of Christ’s birth, spanned two thousand years, and waned with the passing of the millennium. Now that we’ve passed into the Age of Aquarius, the End of Days has arrived.”
   “Many Grail historians,” Teabing added, “believe that if the Priory is indeed planning to release this truth, this point in history would be a symbolically apt time. Most Priory academics, myself included, anticipated the brotherhood’s release would coincide precisely with the millennium. Obviously, it did not. Admittedly, the Roman calendar does not mesh perfectly with astrological markers, so there is some gray area in the prediction. Whether the Church now has inside information that an exact date is looming, or whether they are just getting nervous on account of astrological prophecy, I don’t know. Anyway, it’s immaterial. Either scenario explains how the Church might be motivated to launch a preemptive attack against the Priory.” Teabing frowned. “And believe me, if the Church finds the Holy Grail, they will destroy it. The documents and the relics of the blessed Mary Magdalene as well.” His eyes grew heavy. “Then, my dear, with the Sangreal documents gone, all evidence will be lost. The Church will have won their ageold war to rewrite history. The past will be erased forever.”
   Slowly, Sophie pulled the cruciform key from her sweater pocket and held it out to Teabing.
   Teabing took the key and studied it. “My goodness. The Priory seal. Where did you get this?”
   “My grandfather gave it to me tonight before he died.”
   Teabing ran his fingers across the cruciform. “A key to a church?”
   She drew a deep breath. “This key provides access to the keystone.”
   Teabing’s head snapped up, his face wild with disbelief. “Impossible! What church did I miss? I’ve searched every church in France!”
   “It’s not in a church,” Sophie said. “It’s in a Swiss depository bank.”
   Teabing’s look of excitement waned. “The keystone is in a bank?”
   “A vault,” Langdon offered.
   “A bank vault?” Teabing shook his head violently. “That’s impossible. The keystone is supposed to be hidden beneath the sign of the Rose.”
   “It is,” Langdon said. “It was stored in a rosewood box inlaid with a fivepetal Rose.”
   Teabing looked thunderstruck. “You’ve seen the keystone?”
   Sophie nodded. “We visited the bank.”
   Teabing came over to them, his eyes wild with fear. “My friends, we must do something. The keystone is in danger! We have a duty to protect it. What if there are other keys? Perhaps stolen from the murdered sénéchaux? If the Church can gain access to the bank as you have—“
   “Then they will be too late,” Sophie said. “We removed the keystone.”
   “What! You removed the keystone from its hiding place?”
   “Don’t worry,” Langdon said. “The keystone is well hidden.”
   “Extremely well hidden, I hope!”
   “Actually,” Langdon said, unable to hide his grin, “that depends on how often you dust under your couch.”

   The wind outside Chateau Villette had picked up, and Silas’s robe danced in the breeze as he crouched near the window. Although he had been unable to hear much of the conversation, the word keystone had sifted through the glass on numerous occasions.
   It is inside.
   The Teacher’s words were fresh in his mind. Enter Chateau Villette. Take the keystone. Hun no one.
   Now, Langdon and the others had adjourned suddenly to another room, extinguishing the study lights as they went. Feeling like a panther stalking prey, Silas crept to the glass doors. Finding them unlocked, he slipped inside and closed the doors silently behind him. He could hear muffled voices from another room. Silas pulled the pistol from his pocket, turned off the safety, and inched down the hallway.

Chapter 63

   Lieutenant Collet stood alone at the foot of Leigh Teabing’s driveway and gazed up at the massive house. Isolated. Dark. Good ground cover. Collet watched his halfdozen agents spreading silently out along the length of the fence. They could be over it and have the house surrounded in a matter of minutes. Langdon could not have chosen a more ideal spot for Collet’s men to make a surprise assault.
   Collet was about to call Fache himself when at last his phone rang.
   Fache sounded not nearly as pleased with the developments as Collet would have imagined. “Why didn’t someone tell me we had a lead on Langdon?”
   “You were on a phone call and—“
   “Where exactly are you, Lieutenant Collet?”
   Collet gave him the address. “The estate belongs to a British national named Teabing. Langdon drove a fair distance to get here, and the vehicle is inside the security gate, with no signs of forced entry, so chances are good that Langdon knows the occupant.”
   “I’m coming out,” Fache said. “Don’t make a move. I’ll handle this personally.”
   Collet’s jaw dropped. “But Captain, you’re twenty minutes away! We should act immediately. I have him staked out. I’m with eight men total. Four of us have field rifles and the others have sidearms.”
   “Wait for me.”
   “Captain, what if Langdon has a hostage in there? What if he sees us and decides to leave on foot? We need to move now! My men are in position and ready to go.”
   “Lieutenant Collet, you will wait for me to arrive before taking action. That is an order.” Fache hung up.
   Stunned, Lieutenant Collet switched off his phone. Why the hell is Fache asking me to wait? Collet knew the answer. Fache, though famous for his instinct, was notorious for his pride. Fache wants credit for the arrest. After putting the American’s face all over the television, Fache wanted to be sure his own face got equal time. Collet’s job was simply to hold down the fort until the boss showed up to save the day.
   As he stood there, Collet flashed on a second possible explanation for this delay. Damage control. In law enforcement, hesitating to arrest a fugitive only occurred when uncertainty had arisen regarding the suspect’s guilt. Is Fache having second thoughts that Langdon is the right man? The thought was frightening. Captain Fache had gone out on a limb tonight to arrest Robert Langdon—surveillance cachée, Interpol, and now television. Not even the great Bezu Fache would survive the political fallout if he had mistakenly splashed a prominent American’s face all over French television, claiming he was a murderer. If Fache now realized he’d made a mistake, then it made perfect sense that he would tell Collet not to make a move. The last thing Fache needed was for Collet to storm an innocent Brit’s private estate and take Langdon at gunpoint.
   Moreover, Collet realized, if Langdon were innocent, it explained one of this case’s strangest paradoxes: Why had Sophie Neveu, the granddaughter of the victim, helped the alleged killer escape? Unless Sophie knew Langdon was falsely charged. Fache had posited all kinds of explanations tonight to explain Sophie’s odd behavior, including that Sophie, as Saunière’s sole heir, had persuaded her secret lover Robert Langdon to kill off Saunière for the inheritance money. Saunière, if he had suspected this, might have left the police the message P.S. Find Robert Langdon. Collet was fairly certain something else was going on here. Sophie Neveu seemed far too solid of character to be mixed up in something that sordid.
   “Lieutenant?” One of the field agents came running over. “We found a car.”
   Collet followed the agent about fifty yards past the driveway. The agent pointed to a wide shoulder on the opposite side of the road. There, parked in the brush, almost out of sight, was a black Audi. It had rental plates. Collet felt the hood. Still warm. Hot even.
   “That must be how Langdon got here,” Collet said. “Call the rental company. Find out if it’s stolen.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   Another agent waved Collet back over in the direction of the fence. “Lieutenant, have a look at this.” He handed Collet a pair of night vision binoculars. “The grove of trees near the top of the driveway.”
   Collet aimed the binoculars up the hill and adjusted the image intensifier dials. Slowly, the greenish shapes came into focus. He located the curve of the driveway and slowly followed it up, reaching the grove of trees. All he could do was stare. There, shrouded in the greenery, was an armored truck. A truck identical to the one Collet had permitted to leave the Depository Bank of Zurich earlier tonight. He prayed this was some kind of bizarre coincidence, but he knew it could not be.
   “It seems obvious,” the agent said, “that this truck is how Langdon and Neveu got away from the bank.”
   Collet was speechless. He thought of the armored truck driver he had stopped at the roadblock. The Rolex. His impatience to leave. I never checked the cargo hold.
   Incredulous, Collet realized that someone in the bank had actually lied to DCPJ about Langdon and Sophie’s whereabouts and then helped them escape. But who? And why? Collet wondered if maybe this were the reason Fache had told him not to take action yet. Maybe Fache realized there were more people involved tonight than just Langdon and Sophie. And if Langdon and Neveu arrived in the armored truck, then who drove the Audi?

   Hundreds of miles to the south, a chartered Beechcraft Baron 58 raced northward over the Tyrrhenian Sea. Despite calm skies, Bishop Aringarosa clutched an airsickness bag, certain he could be ill at any moment. His conversation with Paris had not at all been what he had imagined.
   Alone in the small cabin, Aringarosa twisted the gold ring on his finger and tried to ease his overwhelming sense of fear and desperation. Everything in Paris has gone terribly wrong. Closing his eyes, Aringarosa said a prayer that Bezu Fache would have the means to fix it.

Chapter 64

   Teabing sat on the divan, cradling the wooden box on his lap and admiring the lid’s intricate inlaid Rose. Tonight has become the strangest and most magical night of my life.
   “Lift the lid,” Sophie whispered, standing over him, beside Langdon.
   Teabing smiled. Do not rush me. Having spent over a decade searching for this keystone, he wanted to savor every millisecond of this moment. He ran a palm across the wooden lid, feeling the texture of the inlaid flower.
   “The Rose,” he whispered. The Rose is Magdalene is the Holy Grail. The Rose is the compass that guides the way. Teabing felt foolish. For years he had traveled to cathedrals and churches all over France, paying for special access, examining hundreds of archways beneath rose windows, searching for an encrypted keystone. La clef de voûte —a stone key beneath the sign of the Rose.
   Teabing slowly unlatched the lid and raised it.
   As his eyes finally gazed upon the contents, he knew in an instant it could only be the keystone. He was staring at a stone cylinder, crafted of interconnecting lettered dials. The device seemed surprisingly familiar to him.
   “Designed from Da Vinci’s diaries,” Sophie said. “My grandfather made them as a hobby.”
   Of course, Teabing realized. He had seen the sketches and blueprints. The key to finding the Holy Grail lies inside this stone. Teabing lifted the heavy cryptex from the box, holding it gently. Although he had no idea how to open the cylinder, he sensed his own destiny lay inside. In moments of failure, Teabing had questioned whether his life’s quest would ever be rewarded. Now those doubts were gone forever. He could hear the ancient words… the foundation of the Grail legend:
   Vous ne trouvez pas le SaintGraal, c’est le SaintGraal qui vous trouve.
   You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you.
   And tonight, incredibly, the key to finding the Holy Grail had walked right through his front door.

   While Sophie and Teabing sat with the cryptex and talked about the vinegar, the dials, and what the password might be, Langdon carried the rosewood box across the room to a welllit table to get a better look at it. Something Teabing had just said was now running through Langdon’s mind.
   The key to the Grail is hidden beneath the sign of the Rose.
   Langdon held the wooden box up to the light and examined the inlaid symbol of the Rose. Although his familiarity with art did not include woodworking or inlaid furniture, he had just recalled the famous tiled ceiling of the Spanish monastery outside of Madrid, where, three centuries after its construction, the ceiling tiles began to fall out, revealing sacred texts scrawled by monks on the plaster beneath.
   Langdon looked again at the Rose.
   Beneath the Rose.
   Sub Rosa.
   Secret.
   A bump in the hallway behind him made Langdon turn. He saw nothing but shadows. Teabing’s manservant most likely had passed through. Langdon turned back to the box. He ran his finger over the smooth edge of the inlay, wondering if he could pry the Rose out, but the craftsmanship was perfect. He doubted even a razor blade could fit in between the inlaid Rose and the carefully carved depression into which it was seated.
   Opening the box, he examined the inside of the lid. It was smooth. As he shifted its position, though, the light caught what appeared to be a small hole on the underside of the lid, positioned in the exact center. Langdon closed the lid and examined the inlaid symbol from the top. No hole.
   It doesn’t pass through.
   Setting the box on the table, he looked around the room and spied a stack of papers with a paper clip on it. Borrowing the clip, he returned to the box, opened it, and studied the hole again. Carefully, he unbent the paper clip and inserted one end into the hole. He gave a gentle push. It took almost no effort. He heard something clatter quietly onto the table. Langdon closed the lid to look. It was a small piece of wood, like a puzzle piece. The wooden Rose had popped out of the lid and fallen onto the desk.
   Speechless, Langdon stared at the bare spot on the lid where the Rose had been. There, engraved in the wood, written in an immaculate hand, were four lines of text in a language he had never seen.
   The characters look vaguely Semitic, Langdon thought to himself, and yet I don’t recognize the language!
   A sudden movement behind him caught his attention. Out of nowhere, a crushing blow to the head knocked Langdon to his knees.
   As he fell, he thought for a moment he saw a pale ghost hovering over him, clutching a gun. Then everything went black.

Chapter 65

   Sophie Neveu, despite working in law enforcement, had never found herself at gunpoint until tonight. Almost inconceivably, the gun into which she was now staring was clutched in the pale hand of an enormous albino with long white hair. He looked at her with red eyes that radiated a frightening, disembodied quality. Dressed in a wool robe with a rope tie, he resembled a medieval cleric. Sophie could not imagine who he was, and yet she was feeling a sudden newfound respect for Teabing’s suspicions that the Church was behind this.
   “You know what I have come for,” the monk said, his voice hollow.
   Sophie and Teabing were seated on the divan, arms raised as their attacker had commanded. Langdon lay groaning on the floor. The monk’s eyes fell immediately to the keystone on Teabing’s lap.
   Teabing’s tone was defiant. “You will not be able to open it.”
   “My Teacher is very wise,” the monk replied, inching closer, the gun shifting between Teabing and Sophie.
   Sophie wondered where Teabing’s manservant was. Didn’t he hear Robert fall?
   “Who is your teacher?” Teabing asked. “Perhaps we can make a financial arrangement.”
   “The Grail is priceless.” He moved closer.
   “You’re bleeding,” Teabing noted calmly, nodding to the monk’s right ankle where a trickle of blood had run down his leg. “And you’re limping.”
   “As do you,” the monk replied, motioning to the metal crutches propped beside Teabing. “Now, hand me the keystone.”
   “You know of the keystone?” Teabing said, sounding surprised.
   “Never mind what I know. Stand up slowly, and give it to me.”
   “Standing is difficult for me.”
   “Precisely. I would prefer nobody attempt any quick moves.”
   Teabing slipped his right hand through one of his crutches and grasped the keystone in his left. Lurching to his feet, he stood erect, palming the heavy cylinder in his left hand, and leaning unsteadily on his crutch with his right.
   The monk closed to within a few feet, keeping the gun aimed directly at Teabing’s head. Sophie watched, feeling helpless as the monk reached out to take the cylinder.
   “You will not succeed,” Teabing said. “Only the worthy can unlock this stone.”

   God alone judges the worthy, Silas thought.
   “It’s quite heavy,” the man on crutches said, his arm wavering now. “If you don’t take it soon, I’m afraid I shall drop it!” He swayed perilously.
   Silas stepped quickly forward to take the stone, and as he did, the man on crutches lost his balance. The crutch slid out from under him, and he began to topple sideways to his right. No! Silas lunged to save the stone, lowering his weapon in the process. But the keystone was moving away from him now. As the man fell to his right, his left hand swung backward, and the cylinder tumbled from his palm onto the couch. At the same instant, the metal crutch that had been sliding out from under the man seemed to accelerate, cutting a wide arc through the air toward Silas’s leg.
   Splinters of pain tore up Silas’s body as the crutch made perfect contact with his cilice, crushing the barbs into his already raw flesh. Buckling, Silas crumpled to his knees, causing the belt to cut deeper still. The pistol discharged with a deafening roar, the bullet burying itself harmlessly in the floorboards as Silas fell. Before he could raise the gun and fire again, the woman’s foot caught him square beneath the jaw.

   At the bottom of the driveway, Collet heard the gunshot. The muffled pop sent panic through his veins. With Fache on the way, Collet had already relinquished any hopes of claiming personal credit for finding Langdon tonight. But Collet would be damned if Fache’s ego landed him in front of a Ministerial Review Board for negligent police procedure.
   A weapon was discharged inside a private home! And you waited at the bottom of the driveway?
   Collet knew the opportunity for a stealth approach had long since passed. He also knew if he stood idly by for another second, his entire career would be history by morning. Eyeing the estate’s iron gate, he made his decision.
   “Tie on, and pull it down.”

   In the distant recesses of his groggy mind, Robert Langdon had heard the gunshot. He’d also heard a scream of pain. His own? A jackhammer was boring a hole into the back of his cranium. Somewhere nearby, people were talking.
   “Where the devil were you?” Teabing was yelling.
   The manservant hurried in. “What happened? Oh my God! Who is that? I’ll call the police!”
   “Bloody hell! Don’t call the police. Make yourself useful and get us something with which to restrain this monster.”
   “And some ice!” Sophie called after him.
   Langdon drifted out again. More voices. Movement. Now he was seated on the divan. Sophie was holding an ice pack to his head. His skull ached. As Langdon’s vision finally began to clear, he found himself staring at a body on the floor. Am I hallucinating? The massive body of an albino monk lay bound and gagged with duct tape. His chin was split open, and the robe over his right thigh was soaked with blood. He too appeared to be just now coming to.
   Langdon turned to Sophie. “Who is that? What… happened?”
   Teabing hobbled over. “You were rescued by a knight brandishing an Excalibur made by Acme Orthopedic.”
   Huh? Langdon tried to sit up.
   Sophie’s touch was shaken but tender. “Just give yourself a minute, Robert.”
   “I fear,” Teabing said, “that I’ve just demonstrated for your lady friend the unfortunate benefit of my condition. It seems everyone underestimates you.”
   From his seat on the divan, Langdon gazed down at the monk and tried to imagine what had happened.
   “He was wearing a cilice,” Teabing explained.
   “A what?”
   Teabing pointed to a bloody strip of barbed leather that lay on the floor. “A Discipline belt. He wore it on his thigh. I took careful aim.”
   Langdon rubbed his head. He knew of Discipline belts. “But how… did you know?”
   Teabing grinned. “Christianity is my field of study, Robert, and there are certain sects who wear their hearts on their sleeves.” He pointed his crutch at the blood soaking through the monk’s cloak. “As it were.”
   “Opus Dei,” Langdon whispered, recalling recent media coverage of several prominent Boston businessmen who were members of Opus Dei. Apprehensive coworkers had falsely and publicly accused the men of wearing Discipline belts beneath their threepiece suits. In fact, the three men did no such thing. Like many members of Opus Dei, these businessmen were at the “supernumerary” stage and practiced no corporal mortification at all. They were devout Catholics, caring fathers to their children, and deeply dedicated members of the community. Not surprisingly, the media spotlighted their spiritual commitment only briefly before moving on to the shock value of the sect’s more stringent “numerary” members… members like the monk now lying on the floor before Langdon.
   Teabing was looking closely at the bloody belt. “But why would Opus Dei be trying to find the Holy Grail?”
   Langdon was too groggy to consider it.
   “Robert,” Sophie said, walking to the wooden box. “What’s this?” She was holding the small Rose inlay he had removed from the lid.
   “It covered an engraving on the box. I think the text might tell us how to open the keystone.”
   Before Sophie and Teabing could respond, a sea of blue police lights and sirens erupted at the bottom of the hill and began snaking up the halfmile driveway.
   Teabing frowned. “My friends, it seems we have a decision to make. And we’d better make it fast.”

Chapter 66

   Collet and his agents burst through the front door of Sir Leigh Teabing’s estate with their guns drawn. Fanning out, they began searching all the rooms on the first level. They found a bullet hole in the drawing room floor, signs of a struggle, a small amount of blood, a strange, barbed leather belt, and a partially used roll of duct tape. The entire level seemed deserted.
   Just as Collet was about to divide his men to search the basement and grounds behind the house, he heard voices on the level above them.
   “They’re upstairs!”
   Rushing up the wide staircase, Collet and his men moved room by room through the huge home, securing darkened bedrooms and hallways as they closed in on the sounds of voices. The sound seemed to be coming from the last bedroom on an exceptionally long hallway. The agents inched down the corridor, sealing off alternate exits.
   As they neared the final bedroom, Collet could see the door was wide open. The voices had stopped suddenly, and had been replaced by an odd rumbling, like an engine.
   Sidearm raised, Collet gave the signal. Reaching silently around the door frame, he found the light switch and flicked it on. Spinning into the room with men pouring in after him, Collet shouted and aimed his weapon at… nothing.
   An empty guest bedroom. Pristine.
   The rumbling sounds of an automobile engine poured from a black electronic panel on the wall beside the bed. Collet had seen these elsewhere in the house. Some kind of intercom system. He raced over. The panel had about a dozen labeled buttons:
   STUDY… KITCHEN… LAUNDRY… CELLAR…

   So where the hell do I hear a car?
   MASTER BEDROOM… SUN ROOM… BARN… LIBRARY…

   Barn! Collet was downstairs in seconds, running toward the back door, grabbing one of his agents on the way. The men crossed the rear lawn and arrived breathless at the front of a weathered gray barn. Even before they entered, Collet could hear the fading sounds of a car engine. He drew his weapon, rushed in, and flicked on the lights.
   The right side of the barn was a rudimentary workshop—lawnmowers, automotive tools, gardening supplies. A familiar intercom panel hung on the wall nearby. One of its buttons was flipped down, transmitting.
   GUEST BEDROOM II.

   Collet wheeled, anger brimming. They lured us upstairs with the intercom! Searching the other side of the barn, he found a long line of horse stalls. No horses. Apparently the owner preferred a different kind of horsepower; the stalls had been converted into an impressive automotive parking facility. The collection was astonishing—a black Ferrari, a pristine RollsRoyce, an antique Astin Martin sports coupe, a vintage Porsche 356.
   The last stall was empty.
   Collet ran over and saw oil stains on the stall floor. They can’t get off the compound. The driveway and gate were barricaded with two patrol cars to prevent this very situation.
   “Sir?” The agent pointed down the length of the stalls.
   The barn’s rear slider was wide open, giving way to a dark, muddy slope of rugged fields that stretched out into the night behind the barn. Collet ran to the door, trying to see out into the darkness. All he could make out was the faint shadow of a forest in the distance. No headlights. This wooded valley was probably crisscrossed by dozens of unmapped fire roads and hunting trails, but Collet was confident his quarry would never make the woods. “Get some men spread out down there. They’re probably already stuck somewhere nearby. These fancy sports cars can’t handle terrain.”
   “Um, sir?” The agent pointed to a nearby pegboard on which hung several sets of keys. The labels above the keys bore familiar names.
   DAIMLER… ROLLSROYCE… ASTIN MARTIN… PORSCHE…

   The last peg was empty.
   When Collet read the label above the empty peg, he knew he was in trouble.

Chapter 67

   The Range Rover was Java Black Pearl, fourwheel drive, standard transmission, with highstrength polypropylene lamps, rear light cluster fittings, and the steering wheel on the right.
   Langdon was pleased he was not driving.
   Teabing’s manservant Remy, on orders from his master, was doing an impressive job of maneuvering the vehicle across the moonlit fields behind Chateau Villette. With no headlights, he had crossed an open knoll and was now descending a long slope, moving farther away from the estate. He seemed to be heading toward a jagged silhouette of wooded land in the distance.
   Langdon, cradling the keystone, turned in the passenger seat and eyed Teabing and Sophie in the back seat.
   “How’s your head, Robert?” Sophie asked, sounding concerned.
   Langdon forced a pained smile. “Better, thanks.” It was killing him.
   Beside her, Teabing glanced over his shoulder at the bound and gagged monk lying in the cramped luggage area behind the back seat. Teabing had the monk’s gun on his lap and looked like an old photo of a British safari chap posing over his kill.
   “So glad you popped in this evening, Robert,” Teabing said, grinning as if he were having fun for the first time in years.
   “Sorry to get you involved in this, Leigh.”
   “Oh, please, I’ve waited my entire life to be involved.” Teabing looked past Langdon out the windshield at the shadow of a long hedgerow. He tapped Remy on the shoulder from behind. “Remember, no brake lights. Use the emergency brake if you need it. I want to get into the woods a bit. No reason to risk them seeing us from the house.”
   Remy coasted to a crawl and guided the Range Rover through an opening in the hedge. As the vehicle lurched onto an overgrown pathway, almost immediately the trees overhead blotted out the moonlight.
   I can’t see a thing, Langdon thought, straining to distinguish any shapes at all in front of them. It was pitch black. Branches rubbed against the left side of the vehicle, and Remy corrected in the other direction. Keeping the wheel more or less straight now, he inched ahead about thirty yards.
   “You’re doing beautifully, Remy,” Teabing said. “That should be far enough. Robert, if you could press that little blue button just below the vent there. See it?”
   Langdon found the button and pressed it.
   A muted yellow glow fanned out across the path in front of them, revealing thick underbrush on either side of the pathway. Fog lights, Langdon realized. They gave off just enough light to keep them on the path, and yet they were deep enough into the woods now that the lights would not give them away.
   “Well, Remy,” Teabing chimed happily. “The lights are on. Our lives are in your hands.”
   “Where are we going?” Sophie asked.
   “This trail continues about three kilometers into the forest,” Teabing said. “Cutting across the estate and then arching north. Provided we don’t hit any standing water or fallen trees, we shall emerge unscathed on the shoulder of highway five.”
   Unscathed. Langdon’s head begged to differ. He turned his eyes down to his own lap, where the keystone was safely stowed in its wooden box. The inlaid Rose on the lid was back in place, and although his head felt muddled, Langdon was eager to remove the inlay again and examine the engraving beneath more closely. He unlatched the lid and began to raise it when Teabing laid a hand on his shoulder from behind.
   “Patience, Robert,” Teabing said. “It’s bumpy and dark. God save us if we break anything. If you didn’t recognize the language in the light, you won’t do any better in the dark. Let’s focus on getting away in one piece, shall we? There will be time for that very soon.”
   Langdon knew Teabing was right. With a nod, he relatched the box.
   The monk in back was moaning now, struggling against his trusses. Suddenly, he began kicking wildly.
   Teabing spun around and aimed the pistol over the seat. “I can’t imagine your complaint, sir. You trespassed in my home and planted a nasty welt on the skull of a dear friend. I would be well within my rights to shoot you right now and leave you to rot in the woods.”
   The monk fell silent.
   “Are you sure we should have brought him?” Langdon asked.
   “Bloody well positive!” Teabing exclaimed. “You’re wanted for murder, Robert. This scoundrel is your ticket to freedom. The police apparently want you badly enough to have tailed you to my home.”
   “My fault,” Sophie said. “The armored car probably had a transmitter.”
   “Not the point,” Teabing said. “I’m not surprised the police found you, but I am surprised that this Opus Dei character found you. From all you’ve told me, I can’t imagine how this man could have tailed you to my home unless he had a contact either within the Judicial Police or within the Zurich Depository.”
   Langdon considered it. Bezu Fache certainly seemed intent on finding a scapegoat for tonight’s murders. And Vernet had turned on them rather suddenly, although considering Langdon was being charged with four murders, the banker’s change of heart seemed understandable.
   “This monk is not working alone, Robert,” Teabing said, “and until you learn who is behind all this, you both are in danger. The good news, my friend, is that you are now in the position of power. This monster behind me holds that information, and whoever is pulling his strings has got to be quite nervous right now.”
   Remy was picking up speed, getting comfortable with the trail. They splashed through some water, climbed a small rise, and began descending again.
   “Robert, could you be so kind as to hand me that phone?” Teabing pointed to the car phone on the dash. Langdon handed it back, and Teabing dialed a number. He waited for a very long time before someone answered. “Richard? Did I wake you? Of course, I did. Silly question. I’m sorry. I have a small problem. I’m feeling a bit off. Remy and I need to pop up to the Isles for my treatments. Well, right away, actually. Sorry for the short notice. Can you have Elizabeth ready in about twenty minutes? I know, do the best you can. See you shortly.” He hung up.
   “Elizabeth?” Langdon said.
   “My plane. She cost me a Queen’s ransom.”
   Langdon turned full around and looked at him.
   “What?” Teabing demanded. “You two can’t expect to stay in France with the entire Judicial Police after you. London will be much safer.”
   Sophie had turned to Teabing as well. “You think we should leave the country?”
   “My friends, I am far more influential in the civilized world than here in France. Furthermore, the Grail is believed to be in Great Britain. If we unlock the keystone, I am certain we will discover a map that indicates we have moved in the proper direction.”
   “You’re running a big risk,” Sophie said, “by helping us. You won’t make any friends with the French police.”
   Teabing gave a wave of disgust. “I am finished with France. I moved here to find the keystone. That work is now done. I shan’t care if I ever again see Chateau Villette.”
   Sophie sounded uncertain. “How will we get through airport security?”
   Teabing chuckled. “I fly from Le Bourget—an executive airfield not far from here. French doctors make me nervous, so every fortnight, I fly north to take my treatments in England. I pay for certain special privileges at both ends. Once we’re airborne, you can make a decision as to whether or not you’d like someone from the U.S. Embassy to meet us.”
   Langdon suddenly didn’t want anything to do with the embassy. All he could think of was the keystone, the inscription, and whether it would all lead to the Grail. He wondered if Teabing was right about Britain. Admittedly most modern legends placed the Grail somewhere in the United Kingdom. Even King Arthur’s mythical, Grailrich Isle of Avalon was now believed to be none other than Glastonbury, England. Wherever the Grail lay, Langdon never imagined he would actually be looking for it. The Sangreal documents. The true history of Jesus Christ. The tomb of Mary Magdalene. He suddenly felt as if he were living in some kind of limbo tonight… a bubble where the real world could not reach him.
   “Sir?” Remy said. “Are you truly thinking of returning to England for good?”
   “Remy, you needn’t worry,” Teabing assured. “Just because I am returning to the Queen’s realm does not mean I intend to subject my palate to bangers and mash for the rest of my days. I expect you will join me there permanently. I’m planning to buy a splendid villa in Devonshire, and we’ll have all your things shipped up immediately. An adventure, Remy. I say, an adventure!”
   Langdon had to smile. As Teabing railed on about his plans for a triumphant return to Britain, Langdon felt himself caught up in the man’s infectious enthusiasm.
   Gazing absently out the window, Langdon watched the woods passing by, ghostly pale in the yellow blush of the fog lights. The side mirror was tipped inward, brushed askew by branches, and Langdon saw the reflection of Sophie sitting quietly in the back seat. He watched her for a long while and felt an unexpected upwelling of contentment. Despite his troubles tonight, Langdon was thankful to have landed in such good company.
   After several minutes, as if suddenly sensing his eyes on her, Sophie leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders, giving him a quick rub. “You okay?”
   “Yeah,” Langdon said. “Somehow.”
   Sophie sat back in her seat, and Langdon saw a quiet smile cross her lips. He realized that he too was now grinning.

   Wedged in the back of the Range Rover, Silas could barely breathe. His arms were wrenched backward and heavily lashed to his ankles with kitchen twine and duct tape. Every bump in the road sent pain shooting through his twisted shoulders. At least his captors had removed the cilice. Unable to inhale through the strip of tape over his mouth, he could only breathe through his nostrils, which were slowly clogging up due to the dusty rear cargo area into which he had been crammed. He began coughing.
   “I think he’s choking,” the French driver said, sounding concerned.
   The British man who had struck Silas with his crutch now turned and peered over the seat, frowning coldly at Silas. “Fortunately for you, we British judge man’s civility not by his compassion for his friends, but by his compassion for his enemies.” The Brit reached down and grabbed the duct tape on Silas’s mouth. In one fast motion, he tore it off.
   Silas felt as if his lips had just caught fire, but the air pouring into his lungs was sent from God.
   “Whom do you work for?” the British man demanded.
   “I do the work of God,” Silas spat back through the pain in his jaw where the woman had kicked him.
   “You belong to Opus Dei,” the man said. It was not a question.
   “You know nothing of who I am.”
   “Why does Opus Dei want the keystone?”
   Silas had no intention of answering. The keystone was the link to the Holy Grail, and the Holy Grail was the key to protecting the faith.
   I do the work of God. The Way is in peril.
   Now, in the Range Rover, struggling against his bonds, Silas feared he had failed the Teacher and the bishop forever. He had no way even to contact them and tell them the terrible turn of events. My captors have the keystone! They will reach the Grail before we do! In the stifling darkness, Silas prayed. He let the pain of his body fuel his supplications.
   A miracle, Lord. I need a miracle. Silas had no way of knowing that hours from now, he would get one.

   “Robert?” Sophie was still watching him. “A funny look just crossed your face.”
   Langdon glanced back at her, realizing his jaw was firmly set and his heart was racing. An incredible notion had just occurred to him. Could it really be that simple an explanation? “I need to use your cell phone, Sophie.”
   “Now?”
   “I think I just figured something out.”
   “What?”
   “I’ll tell you in a minute. I need your phone.”
   Sophie looked wary. “I doubt Fache is tracing, but keep it under a minute just in case.” She gave him her phone.
   “How do I dial the States?”
   “You need to reverse the charges. My service doesn’t cover transatlantic.”
   Langdon dialed zero, knowing that the next sixty seconds might answer a question that had been puzzling him all night.