Chapter 78

   Sophie felt a wild excitement as she cradled the cryptex and began dialing in the letters. An ancient word of wisdom frees this scroll. Langdon and Teabing seemed to have stopped breathing as they looked on.
   S… O… F…
   “Carefully,” Teabing urged. “Ever so carefully.”
   …I… A.
   Sophie aligned the final dial. “Okay,” she whispered, glancing up at the others. “I’m going to pull it apart.”
   “Remember the vinegar,” Langdon whispered with fearful exhilaration. “Be careful.”
   Sophie knew that if this cryptex were like those she had opened in her youth, all she would need to do is grip the cylinder at both ends, just beyond the dials, and pull, applying slow, steady pressure in opposite directions. If the dials were properly aligned with the password, then one of the ends would slide off, much like a lens cap, and she could reach inside and remove the rolled papyrus document, which would be wrapped around the vial of vinegar. However, if the password they had entered were incorrect, Sophie’s outward force on the ends would be transferred to a hinged lever inside, which would pivot downward into the cavity and apply pressure to the glass vial, eventually shattering it if she pulled too hard.
   Pull gently, she told herself.
   Teabing and Langdon both leaned in as Sophie wrapped her palms around the ends of the cylinder. In the excitement of deciphering the code word, Sophie had almost forgotten what they expected to find inside. This is the Priory keystone. According to Teabing, it contained a map to the Holy Grail, unveiling the tomb of Mary Magdalene and the Sangreal treasure… the ultimate treasure trove of secret truth.
   Now gripping the stone tube, Sophie doublechecked that all of the letters were properly aligned with the indicator. Then, slowly, she pulled. Nothing happened. She applied a little more force. Suddenly, the stone slid apart like a wellcrafted telescope. The heavy end piece detached in her hand. Langdon and Teabing almost jumped to their feet. Sophie’s heart rate climbed as she set the end cap on the table and tipped the cylinder to peer inside.
   A scroll!
   Peering down the hollow of the rolled paper, Sophie could see it had been wrapped around a cylindrical object—the vial of vinegar, she assumed. Strangely, though, the paper around the vinegar was not the customary delicate papyrus but rather, vellum. That’s odd, she thought, vinegar can’t dissolve a lambskin vellum. She looked again down the hollow of the scroll and realized the object in the center was not a vial of vinegar after all. It was something else entirely.
   “What’s wrong?” Teabing asked. “Pull out the scroll.”
   Frowning, Sophie grabbed the rolled vellum and the object around which it was wrapped, pulling them both out of the container.
   “That’s not papyrus,” Teabing said. “It’s too heavy.”
   “I know. It’s padding.”
   “For what? The vial of vinegar?”
   “No.” Sophie unrolled the scroll and revealed what was wrapped inside. “For this.”
   When Langdon saw the object inside the sheet of vellum, his heart sank.
   “God help us,” Teabing said, slumping. “Your grandfather was a pitiless architect.”
   Langdon stared in amazement. I see Saunière has no intention of making this easy.
   On the table sat a second cryptex. Smaller. Made of black onyx. It had been nested within the first. Saunière’s passion for dualism. Two cryptexes. Everything in pairs. Double entendres. Male female. Black nested within white. Langdon felt the web of symbolism stretching onward. White gives birth to black.
   Every man sprang from woman.
   White —female.
   Black —male.
   Reaching over, Langdon lifted the smaller cryptex. It looked identical to the first, except half the size and black. He heard the familiar gurgle. Apparently, the vial of vinegar they had heard earlier was inside this smaller cryptex.
   “Well, Robert,” Teabing said, sliding the page of vellum over to him.
   “You’ll be pleased to hear that at least we’re flying in the right direction.”
   Langdon examined the thick vellum sheet. Written in ornate penmanship was another fourline verse. Again, in iambic pentameter. The verse was cryptic, but Langdon needed to read only as far as the first line to realize that Teabing’s plan to come to Britain was going to pay off.
   IN LONDON LIES A KNIGHT A POPE INTERRED.

   The remainder of the poem clearly implied that the password for opening the second cryptex could be found by visiting this knight’s tomb, somewhere in the city.
   Langdon turned excitedly to Teabing. “Do you have any idea what knight this poem is referring to?”
   Teabing grinned. “Not the foggiest. But I know in precisely which crypt we should look.”

   At that moment, fifteen miles ahead of them, six Kent police cars streaked down rainsoaked streets toward Biggin Hill Executive Airport.

Chapter 79

   Lieutenant Collet helped himself to a Perrier from Teabing’s refrigerator and strode back out through the drawing room. Rather than accompanying Fache to London where the action was, he was now babysitting the PTS team that had spread out through Chateau Villette.
   So far, the evidence they had uncovered was unhelpful: a single bullet buried in the floor; a paper with several symbols scrawled on it along with the words blade and chalice; and a bloody spiked belt that PTS had told Collet was associated with the conservative Catholic group Opus Dei, which had caused a stir recently when a news program exposed their aggressive recruiting practices in Paris.
   Collet sighed. Good luck making sense of this unlikely mélange.
   Moving down a lavish hallway, Collet entered the vast ballroom study, where the chief PTS examiner was busy dusting for fingerprints. He was a corpulent man in suspenders.
   “Anything?” Collet asked, entering.
   The examiner shook his head. “Nothing new. Multiple sets matching those in the rest of the house.”
   “How about the prints on the cilice belt?”
   “Interpol is still working. I uploaded everything we found.”
   Collet motioned to two sealed evidence bags on the desk. “And this?”
   The man shrugged. “Force of habit. I bag anything peculiar.”
   Collet walked over. Peculiar?
   “This Brit’s a strange one,” the examiner said. “Have a look at this.” He sifted through the evidence bags and selected one, handing it to Collet.
   The photo showed the main entrance of a Gothic cathedral—the traditional, recessed archway, narrowing through multiple, ribbed layers to a small doorway.
   Collet studied the photo and turned. “This is peculiar?”
   “Turn it over.”
   On the back, Collet found notations scrawled in English, describing a cathedral’s long hollow nave as a secret pagan tribute to a woman’s womb. This was strange. The notation describing the cathedral’s doorway, however, was what startled him. “Hold on! He thinks a cathedral’s entrance represents a woman’s…”
   The examiner nodded. “Complete with receding labial ridges and a nice little cinquefoil clitoris above the doorway.” He sighed. “Kind of makes you want to go back to church.”
   Collet picked up the second evidence bag. Through the plastic, he could see a large glossy photograph of what appeared to be an old document. The heading at the top read:
   Les Dossiers Secrets —Number 4° lm1 249
   “What’s this?” Collet asked.
   “No idea. He’s got copies of it all over the place, so I bagged it.”
   Collet studied the document.


Prieure de Sign—
Les Nautoniers/Grand Masters


Jean de Gisors
11881220
Marie de SaintClair
12201266
Guillaume de Gisors
12661307
Edouard de Bar
13071336
Jeanne de Bar
13361351
Jean de SaintClair
13511366
Blance D’Evreux
13661398
Nicolas Flamel
13981418
Rene D’Anjou
14181480
Iolande de Bar
14801483
Sandro Botticelli
14831510
Leonardo da Vinci
15101519
Connetable de Bourbon
15191527
Ferdinand de Gonzaque
15271575
Louis de Nevers
15751595
Robert Fludd
15951637
J. Valentin Andrea
16371654
Robert Boyle
16541691
Isaac Newton
16911727
Charles Radclyffe
17271746
Charles de Lorraine
17461780
Maximilian de Lorraine
17801801
Charles Nodier
18011844
Victor Hugo
18441885
Claude Debussy
18851918
Jean Cocteau
19181963

   Prieure de Sion? Collet wondered.
   “Lieutenant?” Another agent stuck his head in. “The switchboard has an urgent call for Captain Fache, but they can’t reach him. Will you take it?”
   Collet returned to the kitchen and took the call.
   It was Andre Vernet.
   The banker’s refined accent did little to mask the tension in his voice. “I thought Captain Fache said he would call me, but I have not yet heard from him.”
   “The captain is quite busy,” Collet replied. “May I help you?”
   “I was assured I would be kept abreast of your progress tonight.”
   For a moment, Collet thought he recognized the timbre of the man’s voice, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Monsieur Vernet, I am currently in charge of the Paris investigation. My name is Lieutenant Collet.”
   There was a long pause on the line. “Lieutenant, I have another call coming in. Please excuse me. I will call you later.” He hung up.
   For several seconds, Collet held the receiver. Then it dawned on him. I knew I recognized that voice! The revelation made him gasp.
   The armored car driver.
   With the fake Rolex.
   Collet now understood why the banker had hung up so quickly. Vernet had remembered the name Lieutenant Collet—the officer he blatantly lied to earlier tonight.
   Collet pondered the implications of this bizarre development. Vernet is involved. Instinctively, he knew he should call Fache. Emotionally, he knew this lucky break was going to be his moment to shine.
   He immediately called Interpol and requested every shred of information they could find on the Depository Bank of Zurich and its president, Andre Vernet.

Chapter 80

   “Seat belts, please,” Teabing’s pilot announced as the Hawker 731 descended into a gloomy morning drizzle. “We’ll be landing in five minutes.”
   Teabing felt a joyous sense of homecoming when he saw the misty hills of Kent spreading wide beneath the descending plane. England was less than an hour from Paris, and yet a world away. This morning, the damp, spring green of his homeland looked particularly welcoming. My time in France is over. I am returning to England victorious. The keystone has been found. The question remained, of course, as to where the keystone would ultimately lead. Somewhere in the United Kingdom. Where exactly, Teabing had no idea, but he was already tasting the glory.
   As Langdon and Sophie looked on, Teabing got up and went to the far side of the cabin, then slid aside a wall panel to reveal a discreetly hidden wall safe. He dialed in the combination, opened the safe, and extracted two passports. “Documentation for Remy and myself.” He then removed a thick stack of fiftypound notes. “And documentation for you two.”
   Sophie looked leery. “A bribe?”
   “Creative diplomacy. Executive airfields make certain allowances. A British customs official will greet us at my hangar and ask to board the plane. Rather than permitting him to come on, I’ll tell him I’m traveling with a French celebrity who prefers that nobody knows she is in England—press considerations, you know—and I’ll offer the official this generous tip as gratitude for his discretion.”
   Langdon looked amazed. “And the official will accept?”
   “Not from anyone, they won’t, but these people all know me. I’m not an arms dealer, for heaven’s sake. I was knighted.” Teabing smiled. “Membership has its privileges.”
   Remy approached up the aisle now, the Heckler Koch pistol cradled in his hand. “Sir, my agenda?”
   Teabing glanced at his servant. “I’m going to have you stay onboard with our guest until we return. We can’t very well drag him all over London with us.”
   Sophie looked wary. “Leigh, I was serious about the French police finding your plane before we return.”
   Teabing laughed. “Yes, imagine their surprise if they board and find Remy.”
   Sophie looked surprised by his cavalier attitude. “Leigh, you transported a bound hostage across international borders. This is serious.”
   “So are my lawyers.” He scowled toward the monk in the rear of the plane. “That animal broke into my home and almost killed me. That is a fact, and Remy will corroborate.”
   “But you tied him up and flew him to London!” Langdon said.
   Teabing held up his right hand and feigned a courtroom oath. “Your honor, forgive an eccentric old knight his foolish prejudice for the British court system. I realize I should have called the French authorities, but I’m a snob and do not trust those laissezfaire French to prosecute properly. This man almost murdered me. Yes, I made a rash decision forcing my manservant to help me bring him to England, but I was under great stress. Mea culpa. Mea culpa.”
   Langdon looked incredulous. “Coming from you, Leigh, that just might fly.”
   “Sir?” the pilot called back. “The tower just radioed. They’ve got some kind of maintenance problem out near your hangar, and they’re asking me to bring the plane directly to the terminal instead.”
   Teabing had been flying to Biggin Hill for over a decade, and this was a first. “Did they mention what the problem is?”
   “The controller was vague. Something about a gas leak at the pumping station? They asked me to park in front of the terminal and keep everyone onboard until further notice. Safety precaution. We’re not supposed to deplane until we get the all clear from airport authorities.”
   Teabing was skeptical. Must be one hell of a gas leak. The pumping station was a good half mile from his hangar.
   Remy also looked concerned. “Sir, this sounds highly irregular.”
   Teabing turned to Sophie and Langdon. “My friends, I have an unpleasant suspicion that we are about to be met by a welcoming committee.”
   Langdon gave a bleak sigh. “I guess Fache still thinks I’m his man.”
   “Either that,” Sophie said, “or he is too deep into this to admit his error.
   Teabing was not listening. Regardless of Fache’s mindset, action needed to be taken fast. Don’t lose sight of the ultimate goal. The Grail. We’re so dose. Below them, the landing gear descended with a clunk.
   “Leigh,” Langdon said, sounding deeply remorseful, “I should turn myself in and sort this out legally. Leave you all out of it.”
   “Oh, heavens, Robert!” Teabing waved it off. “Do you really think they’re going to let the rest of us go? I just transported you illegally. Miss Neveu assisted in your escape from the Louvre, and we have a man tied up in the back of the plane. Really now! We’re all in this together.”
   “Maybe a different airport?” Sophie said.
   Teabing shook his head. “If we pull up now, by the time we get clearance anywhere else, our welcoming party will include army tanks.”
   Sophie slumped.
   Teabing sensed that if they were to have any chance of postponing confrontation with the British authorities long enough to find the Grail, bold action had to be taken. “Give me a minute,” he said, hobbling toward the cockpit.
   “What are you doing?” Langdon asked.
   “Sales meeting,” Teabing said, wondering how much it would cost him to persuade his pilot to perform one highly irregular maneuver.

Chapter 81

   The Hawker is on final approach.
   Simon Edwards—Executive Services Officer at Biggin Hill Airport—paced the control tower, squinting nervously at the raindrenched runway. He never appreciated being awoken early on a Saturday morning, but it was particularly distasteful that he had been called in to oversee the arrest of one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Leigh Teabing paid Biggin Hill not only for a private hangar but a “per landing fee” for his frequent arrivals and departures. Usually, the airfield had advance warning of his schedule and was able to follow a strict protocol for his arrival. Teabing liked things just so. The custombuilt Jaguar stretch limousine that he kept in his hangar was to be fully gassed, polished, and the day’s London Times laid out on the back seat. A customs official was to be waiting for the plane at the hangar to expedite the mandatory documentation and luggage check. Occasionally, customs agents accepted large tips from Teabing in exchange for turning a blind eye to the transport of harmless organics—mostly luxury foods—French escargots, a particularly ripe unprocessed Roquefort, certain fruits. Many customs laws were absurd, anyway, and if Biggin Hill didn’t accommodate its clients, certainly competing airfields would. Teabing was provided with what he wanted here at Biggin Hill, and the employees reaped the benefits.
   Edwards’s nerves felt frayed now as he watched the jet coming in. He wondered if Teabing’s penchant for spreading the wealth had gotten him in trouble somehow; the French authorities seemed very intent on containing him. Edwards had not yet been told what the charges were, but they were obviously serious. At the French authorities’ request, Kent police had ordered the Biggin Hill air traffic controller to radio the Hawker’s pilot and order him directly to the terminal rather than to the client’s hangar. The pilot had agreed, apparently believing the farfetched story of a gas leak.
   Though the British police did not generally carry weapons, the gravity of the situation had brought out an armed response team. Now, eight policemen with handguns stood just inside the terminal building, awaiting the moment when the plane’s engines powered down. The instant this happened, a runway attendant would place safety wedges under the tires so the plane could no longer move. Then the police would step into view and hold the occupants at bay until the French police arrived to handle the situation.
   The Hawker was low in the sky now, skimming the treetops to their right. Simon Edwards went downstairs to watch the landing from tarmac level. The Kent police were poised, just out of sight, and the maintenance man waited with his wedges. Out on the runway, the Hawker’s nose tipped up, and the tires touched down in a puff of smoke. The plane settled in for deceleration, streaking from right to left in front of the terminal, its white hull glistening in the wet weather. But rather than braking and turning into the terminal, the jet coasted calmly past the access lane and continued on toward Teabing’s hangar in the distance.
   All the police spun and stared at Edwards. “I thought you said the pilot agreed to come to the terminal!”
   Edwards was bewildered. “He did!”
   Seconds later, Edwards found himself wedged in a police car racing across the tarmac toward the distant hangar. The convoy of police was still a good five hundred yards away as Teabing’s Hawker taxied calmly into the private hangar and disappeared. When the cars finally arrived and skidded to a stop outside the gaping hangar door, the police poured out, guns drawn.
   Edwards jumped out too.
   The noise was deafening.
   The Hawker’s engines were still roaring as the jet finished its usual rotation inside the hangar, positioning itself noseout in preparation for later departure. As the plane completed its 180degree turn and rolled toward the front of the hangar, Edwards could see the pilot’s face, which understandably looked surprised and fearful to see the barricade of police cars.
   The pilot brought the plane to a final stop, and powered down the engines. The police streamed in, taking up positions around the jet. Edwards joined the Kent chief inspector, who moved warily toward the hatch. After several seconds, the fuselage door popped open.
   Leigh Teabing appeared in the doorway as the plane’s electronic stairs smoothly dropped down. As he gazed out at the sea of weapons aimed at him, he propped himself on his crutches and scratched his head. “Simon, did I win the policemen’s lottery while I was away?” He sounded more bewildered than concerned.
   Simon Edwards stepped forward, swallowing the frog in his throat. “Good morning, sir. I apologize for the confusion. We’ve had a gas leak and your pilot said he was coming to the terminal.”
   “Yes, yes, well, I told him to come here instead. I’m late for an appointment. I pay for this hangar, and this rubbish about avoiding a gas leak sounded overcautious.”
   “I’m afraid your arrival has taken us a bit off guard, sir.”
   “I know. I’m off my schedule, I am. Between you and me, the new medication gives me the tinkles. Thought I’d come over for a tuneup.”
   The policemen all exchanged looks. Edwards winced. “Very good, sir.”
   “Sir,” the Kent chief inspector said, stepping forward. “I need to ask you to stay onboard for another half hour or so.”
   Teabing looked unamused as he hobbled down the stairs. “I’m afraid that is impossible. I have a medical appointment.” He reached the tarmac. “I cannot afford to miss it.”
   The chief inspector repositioned himself to block Teabing’s progress away from the plane. “I am here at the orders of the French Judicial Police. They claim you are transporting fugitives from the law on this plane.”
   Teabing stared at the chief inspector a long moment, and then burst out laughing. “Is this one of those hidden camera programs? Jolly good!”
   The chief inspector never flinched. “This is serious, sir. The French police claim you also may have a hostage onboard.”
   Teabing’s manservant Remy appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. “I feel like a hostage working for Sir Leigh, but he assures me I am free to go.” Remy checked his watch. “Master, we really are running late.” He nodded toward the Jaguar stretch limousine in the far corner of the hangar. The enormous automobile was ebony with smoked glass and whitewall tires. “I’ll bring the car.” Remy started down the stairs.
   “I’m afraid we cannot let you leave,” the chief inspector said. “Please return to your aircraft. Both of you. Representatives from the French police will be landing shortly.”
   Teabing looked now toward Simon Edwards. “Simon, for heaven’s sake, this is ridiculous! We don’t have anyone else on board. Just the usual—Remy, our pilot, and myself. Perhaps you could act as an intermediary? Go have a look onboard, and verify that the plane is empty.”
   Edwards knew he was trapped. “Yes, sir. I can have a look.”
   “The devil you will!” the Kent chief inspector declared, apparently knowing enough about executive airfields to suspect Simon Edwards might well lie about the plane’s occupants in an effort to keep Teabing’s business at Biggin Hill. “I will look myself.”
   Teabing shook his head. “No you won’t, Inspector. This is private property and until you have a search warrant, you will stay off my plane. I am offering you a reasonable option here. Mr. Edwards can perform the inspection.”
   “No deal.”
   Teabing’s demeanor turned frosty. “Inspector, I’m afraid I don’t have time to indulge in your games. I’m late, and I’m leaving. If it is that important to you to stop me, you’ll just have to shoot me.” With that, Teabing and Remy walked around the chief inspector and headed across the hangar toward the parked limousine.

   The Kent chief inspector felt only distaste for Leigh Teabing as the man hobbled around him in defiance. Men of privilege always felt like they were above the law.
   They are not. The chief inspector turned and aimed at Teabing’s back. “Stop! I will fire!”
   “Go ahead,” Teabing said without breaking stride or glancing back. “My lawyers will fricassee your testicles for breakfast. And if you dare board my plane without a warrant, your spleen will follow.”
   No stranger to power plays, the chief inspector was unimpressed. Technically, Teabing was correct and the police needed a warrant to board his jet, but because the flight had originated in France, and because the powerful Bezu Fache had given his authority, the Kent chief inspector felt certain his career would be far better served by finding out what it was on this plane that Teabing seemed so intent on hiding.
   “Stop them,” the inspector ordered. “I’m searching the plane.”
   His men raced over, guns leveled, and physically blocked Teabing and his servant from reaching the limousine.
   Now Teabing turned. “Inspector, this is your last warning. Do not even think of boarding that plane. You will regret it.”
   Ignoring the threat, the chief inspector gripped his sidearm and marched up the plane’s gangway. Arriving at the hatch, he peered inside. After a moment, he stepped into the cabin. What the devil?
   With the exception of the frightenedlooking pilot in the cockpit, the aircraft was empty. Entirely devoid of human life. Quickly checking the bathroom, the chairs, and the luggage areas, the inspector found no traces of anyone hiding… much less multiple individuals.
   What the hell was Bezu Fache thinking? It seemed Leigh Teabing had been telling the truth.
   The Kent chief inspector stood alone in the deserted cabin and swallowed hard. Shit. His face flushed, he stepped back onto the gangway, gazing across the hangar at Leigh Teabing and his servant, who were now under gunpoint near the limousine. “Let them go,” the inspector ordered. “We received a bad tip.”
   Teabing’s eyes were menacing even across the hangar. “You can expect a call from my lawyers. And for future reference, the French police cannot be trusted.”
   With that, Teabing’s manservant opened the door at the rear of the stretch limousine and helped his crippled master into the back seat. Then the servant walked the length of the car, climbed in behind the wheel, and gunned the engine. Policemen scattered as the Jaguar peeled out of the hangar.

   “Well played, my good man,” Teabing chimed from the rear seat as the limousine accelerated out of the airport. He turned his eyes now to the dimly lit front recesses of the spacious interior. “Everyone comfy?”
   Langdon gave a weak nod. He and Sophie were still crouched on the floor beside the bound and gagged albino.
   Moments earlier, as the Hawker taxied into the deserted hangar, Remy had popped the hatch as the plane jolted to a stop halfway through its turn. With the police closing in fast, Langdon and Sophie dragged the monk down the gangway to ground level and out of sight behind the limousine. Then the jet engines had roared again, rotating the plane and completing its turn as the police cars came skidding into the hangar.
   Now, as the limousine raced toward Kent, Langdon and Sophie clambered toward the rear of the limo’s long interior, leaving the monk bound on the floor. They settled onto the long seat facing Teabing. The Brit gave them both a roguish smile and opened the cabinet on the limo’s bar. “Could I offer you a drink? Some nibblies? Crisps? Nuts? Seltzer?”
   Sophie and Langdon both shook their heads.
   Teabing grinned and closed the bar. “So then, about this knight’s tomb…”

Chapter 82

   “Fleet Street?” Langdon asked, eyeing Teabing in the back of the limo. There’s a crypt on Fleet Street? So far, Leigh was being playfully cagey about where he thought they would find the “knight’s tomb,” which, according to the poem, would provide the password for opening the smaller cryptex.
   Teabing grinned and turned to Sophie. “Miss Neveu, give the Harvard boy one more shot at the verse, will you?”
   Sophie fished in her pocket and pulled out the black cryptex, which was wrapped in the vellum. Everyone had decided to leave the rosewood box and larger cryptex behind in the plane’s strongbox, carrying with them only what they needed, the far more portable and discreet black cryptex. Sophie unwrapped the vellum and handed the sheet to Langdon.
   Although Langdon had read the poem several times onboard the jet, he had been unable to extract any specific location. Now, as he read the words again, he processed them slowly and carefully, hoping the pentametric rhythms would reveal a clearer meaning now that he was on the ground.


In London lies a knight a Pope interred.
His labor’s fruit a Holy wrath incurred.
You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb.


   The language seemed simple enough. There was a knight buried in London. A knight who labored at something that angered the Church. A knight whose tomb was missing an orb that should be present. The poem’s final reference—Rosy flesh and seeded womb —was a clear allusion to Mary Magdalene, the Rose who bore the seed of Jesus.
   Despite the apparent straightforwardness of the verse, Langdon still had no idea who this knight was or where he was buried. Moreover, once they located the tomb, it sounded as if they would be searching for something that was absent. The orb that ought be on his tomb?
   “No thoughts?” Teabing clucked in disappointment, although Langdon sensed the Royal Historian was enjoying being one up. “Miss Neveu?”
   She shook her head.
   “What would you two do without me?” Teabing said. “Very well, I will walk you through it. It’s quite simple really. The first line is the key. Would you read it please?”
   Langdon read aloud. “ ‘In London lies a knight a Pope interred.’ “
   “Precisely. A knight a Pope interred.” He eyed Langdon. “What does that mean to you?”
   Langdon shrugged. “A knight buried by a Pope? A knight whose funeral was presided over by a Pope?”
   Teabing laughed loudly. “Oh, that’s rich. Always the optimist, Robert. Look at the second line. This knight obviously did something that incurred the Holy wrath of the Church. Think again. Consider the dynamic between the Church and the Knights Templar. A knight a Pope interred?”
   “A knight a Pope killed?” Sophie asked.
   Teabing smiled and patted her knee. “Well done, my dear. A knight a Pope buried. Or killed.”
   Langdon thought of the notorious Templar roundup in 1307—unlucky Friday the thirteenth—when Pope Clement killed and interred hundreds of Knights Templar. “But there must be endless graves of ‘knights killed by Popes.’ “
   “Aha, not so! “Teabing said. “Many of them were burned at the stake and tossed unceremoniously into the Tiber River. But this poem refers to a tomb. A tomb in London. And there are few knights buried in London.” He paused, eyeing Langdon as if waiting for light to dawn. Finally he huffed. “Robert, for heaven’s sake! The church built in London by the Priory’s military arm—the Knights Templar themselves!”
   “The Temple Church?” Langdon drew a startled breath. “It has a crypt?”
   “Ten of the most frightening tombs you will ever see.”
   Langdon had never actually visited the Temple Church, although he’d come across numerous references in his Priory research. Once the epicenter of all Templar/Priory activities in the United Kingdom, the Temple Church had been so named in honor of Solomon’s Temple, from which the Knights Templar had extracted their own title, as well as the Sangreal documents that gave them all their influence in Rome. Tales abounded of knights performing strange, secretive rituals within the Temple Church’s unusual sanctuary. “The Temple Church is on Fleet Street?”
   “Actually, it’s just off Fleet Street on Inner Temple Lane.” Teabing looked mischievous. “I wanted to see you sweat a little more before I gave it away.”
   “Thanks.”
   “Neither of you has ever been there?”
   Sophie and Langdon shook their heads.
   “I’m not surprised,” Teabing said. “The church is hidden now behind much larger buildings. Few people even know it’s there. Eerie old place. The architecture is pagan to the core.”
   Sophie looked surprised. “Pagan?”
   “Pantheonically pagan!” Teabing exclaimed. “The church is round. The Templars ignored the traditional Christian cruciform layout and built a perfectly circular church in honor of the sun.” His eyebrows did a devilish dance. “A not so subtle howdydo to the boys in Rome. They might as well have resurrected Stonehenge in downtown London.”
   Sophie eyed Teabing. “What about the rest of the poem?”
   The historian’s mirthful air faded. “I’m not sure. It’s puzzling. We will need to examine each of the ten tombs carefully. With luck, one of them will have a conspicuously absent orb.”
   Langdon realized how close they really were. If the missing orb revealed the password, they would be able to open the second cryptex. He had a hard time imagining what they might find inside.
   Langdon eyed the poem again. It was like some kind of primordial crossword puzzle. A fiveletter word that speaks of the Grail? On the plane, they had already tried all the obvious passwords—GRAIL, GRAAL, GREAL, VENUS, MARIA, JESUS, SARAH—but the cylinder had not budged. Far too obvious. Apparently there existed some other fiveletter reference to the Rose’s seeded womb. The fact that the word was eluding a specialist like Leigh Teabing signified to Langdon that it was no ordinary Grail reference.
   “Sir Leigh?” Remy called over his shoulder. He was watching them in the rearview mirror through the open divider. “You said Fleet Street is near Blackfriars Bridge?”
   “Yes, take Victoria Embankment.”
   “I’m sorry. I’m not sure where that is. We usually go only to the hospital.”
   Teabing rolled his eyes at Langdon and Sophie and grumbled, “I swear, sometimes it’s like babysitting a child. One moment please. Help yourself to a drink and savory snacks.” He left them, clambering awkwardly toward the open divider to talk to Remy.
   Sophie turned to Langdon now, her voice quiet. “Robert, nobody knows you and I are in England.”
   Langdon realized she was right. The Kent police would tell Fache the plane was empty, and Fache would have to assume they were still in France. We are invisible. Leigh’s little stunt had just bought them a lot of time.
   “Fache will not give up easily,” Sophie said. “He has too much riding on this arrest now.”
   Langdon had been trying not to think about Fache. Sophie had promised she would do everything in her power to exonerate Langdon once this was over, but Langdon was starting to fear it might not matter. Fache could easily be pan of this plot. Although Langdon could not imagine the Judicial Police tangled up in the Holy Grail, he sensed too much coincidence tonight to disregard Fache as a possible accomplice. Fache is religions, and he is intent on pinning these murders on me. Then again, Sophie had argued that Fache might simply be overzealous to make the arrest. After all, the evidence against Langdon was substantial. In addition to Langdon’s name scrawled on the Louvre floor and in Saunière’s date book, Langdon now appeared to have lied about his manuscript and then run away. At Sophie’s suggestion.
   “Robert, I’m sorry you’re so deeply involved,” Sophie said, placing her hand on his knee. “But I’m very glad you’re here.”
   The comment sounded more pragmatic than romantic, and yet Langdon felt an unexpected flicker of attraction between them. He gave her a tired smile. “I’m a lot more fun when I’ve slept.”
   Sophie was silent for several seconds. “My grandfather asked me to trust you. I’m glad I listened to him for once.”
   “Your grandfather didn’t even know me.”
   “Even so, I can’t help but think you’ve done everything he would have wanted. You helped me find the keystone, explained the Sangreal, told me about the ritual in the basement.” She paused. “Somehow I feel closer to my grandfather tonight than I have in years. I know he would be happy about that.”
   In the distance, now, the skyline of London began to materialize through the dawn drizzle. Once dominated by Big Ben and Tower Bridge, the horizon now bowed to the Millennium Eye—a colossal, ultramodern Ferris wheel that climbed five hundred feet and afforded breathtaking views of the city. Langdon had attempted to board it once, but the “viewing capsules” reminded him of sealed sarcophagi, and he opted to keep his feet on the ground and enjoy the view from the airy banks of the Thames.
   Langdon felt a squeeze on his knee, pulling him back, and Sophie’s green eyes were on him. He realized she had been speaking to him. “What do you think we should do with the Sangreal documents if we ever find them?” she whispered.
   “What I think is immaterial,” Langdon said. “Your grandfather gave the cryptex to you, and you should do with it what your instinct tells you he would want done.”
   “I’m asking for your opinion. You obviously wrote something in that manuscript that made my grandfather trust your judgment. He scheduled a private meeting with you. That’s rare.”
   “Maybe he wanted to tell me I have it all wrong.”
   “Why would he tell me to find you unless he liked your ideas? In your manuscript, did you support the idea that the Sangreal documents should be revealed or stay buried?”
   “Neither. I made no judgment either way. The manuscript deals with the symbology of the sacred feminine—tracing her iconography throughout history. I certainly didn’t presume to know where the Grail is hidden or whether it should ever be revealed.”
   “And yet you’re writing a book about it, so you obviously feel the information should be shared.”
   “There’s an enormous difference between hypothetically discussing an alternate history of Christ, and…” He paused.
   “And what?”
   “And presenting to the world thousands of ancient documents as scientific evidence that the New Testament is false testimony.”
   “But you told me the New Testament is based on fabrications.”
   Langdon smiled. “Sophie, every faith in the world is based on fabrication. That is the definition of faith —acceptance of that which we imagine to be true, that which we cannot prove. Every religion describes God through metaphor, allegory, and exaggeration, from the early Egyptians through modern Sunday school. Metaphors are a way to help our minds process the unprocessible. The problems arise when we begin to believe literally in our own metaphors.”
   “So you are in favor of the Sangreal documents staying buried forever?”
   “I’m a historian. I’m opposed to the destruction of documents, and I would love to see religious scholars have more information to ponder the exceptional life of Jesus Christ.”
   “You’re arguing both sides of my question.”
   “Am I? The Bible represents a fundamental guidepost for millions of people on the planet, in much the same way the Koran, Torah, and Pali Canon offer guidance to people of other religions. If you and I could dig up documentation that contradicted the holy stories of Islamic belief, Judaic belief, Buddhist belief, pagan belief, should we do that? Should we wave a flag and tell the Buddhists that we have proof the Buddha did not come from a lotus blossom? Or that Jesus was not born of a literal virgin birth? Those who truly understand their faiths understand the stories are metaphorical.”
   Sophie looked skeptical. “My friends who are devout Christians definitely believe that Christ literally walked on water, literally turned water into wine, and was born of a literal virgin birth.”
   “My point exactly,” Langdon said. “Religious allegory has become a part of the fabric of reality. And living in that reality helps millions of people cope and be better people.”
   “But it appears their reality is false.”
   Langdon chuckled. “No more false than that of a mathematical cryptographer who believes in the imaginary number ‘i’ because it helps her break codes.”
   Sophie frowned. “That’s not fair.”
   A moment passed.
   “What was your question again?” Langdon asked.
   “I can’t remember.”
   He smiled. “Works every time.”

Chapter 83

   Langdon’s Mickey Mouse wristwatch read almost seventhirty when he emerged from the Jaguar limousine onto Inner Temple Lane with Sophie and Teabing. The threesome wound through a maze of buildings to a small courtyard outside the Temple Church. The roughhewn stone shimmered in the rain, and doves cooed in the architecture overhead.
   London’s ancient Temple Church was constructed entirely of Caen stone. A dramatic, circular edifice with a daunting facade, a central turret, and a protruding nave off one side, the church looked more like a military stronghold than a place of worship. Consecrated on the tenth of February in 1185 by Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, the Temple Church survived eight centuries of political turmoil, the Great Fire of London, and the First World War, only to be heavily damaged by Luftwaffe incendiary bombs in 1940. After the war, it was restored to its original, stark grandeur.
   The simplicity of the circle, Langdon thought, admiring the building for the first time. The architecture was coarse and simple, more reminiscent of Rome’s rugged Castel Sant’Angelo than the refined Pantheon. The boxy annex jutting out to the right was an unfortunate eyesore, although it did little to shroud the original pagan shape of the primary structure.
   “It’s early on a Saturday,” Teabing said, hobbling toward the entrance, “so I’m assuming we won’t have services to deal with.”
   The church’s entryway was a recessed stone niche inside which stood a large wooden door. To the left of the door, looking entirely out of place, hung a bulletin board covered with concert schedules and religious service announcements.
   Teabing frowned as he read the board. “They don’t open to sightseers for another couple of hours.” He moved to the door and tried it. The door didn’t budge. Putting his ear to the wood, he listened. After a moment, he pulled back, a scheming look on his face as he pointed to the bulletin board. “Robert, check the service schedule, will you? Who is presiding this week?”

   Inside the church, an altar boy was almost finished vacuuming the communion kneelers when he heard a knocking on the sanctuary door. He ignored it. Father Harvey Knowles had his own keys and was not due for another couple of hours. The knocking was probably a curious tourist or indigent. The altar boy kept vacuuming, but the knocking continued. Can’t you read? The sign on the door clearly stated that the church did not open until ninethirty on Saturday. The altar boy remained with his chores.
   Suddenly, the knocking turned to a forceful banging, as if someone were hitting the door with a metal rod. The young man switched off his vacuum cleaner and marched angrily toward the door. Unlatching it from within, he swung it open. Three people stood in the entryway. Tourists, he grumbled. “We open at ninethirty.”
   The heavyset man, apparently the leader, stepped forward using metal crutches. “I am Sir Leigh Teabing,” he said, his accent a highbrow, Saxonesque British. “As you are no doubt aware, I am escorting Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Wren the Fourth.” He stepped aside, flourishing his arm toward the attractive couple behind them. The woman was softfeatured, with lush burgundy hair. The man was tall, darkhaired, and looked vaguely familiar.
   The altar boy had no idea how to respond. Sir Christopher Wren was the Temple Church’s most famous benefactor. He had made possible all the restorations following damage caused by the Great Fire. He had also been dead since the early eighteenth century. “Um… an honor to meet you?”
   The man on crutches frowned. “Good thing you’re not in sales, young man, you’re not very convincing. Where is Father Knowles?”
   “It’s Saturday. He’s not due in until later.”
   The crippled man’s scowl deepened. “There’s gratitude. He assured us he would be here, but it looks like we’ll do it without him. It won’t take long.”
   The altar boy remained blocking the doorway. “I’m sorry, what won’t take long?”
   The visitor’s eyes sharpened now, and he leaned forward whispering as if to save everyone some embarrassment. “Young man, apparently you are new here. Every year Sir Christopher Wren’s descendants bring a pinch of the old man’s ashes to scatter in the Temple sanctuary. It is part of his last will and testament. Nobody is particularly happy about making the trip, but what can we do?”
   The altar boy had been here a couple of years but had never heard of this custom. “It would be better if you waited until ninethirty. The church isn’t open yet, and I’m not finished hoovering.”
   The man on crutches glared angrily. “Young man, the only reason there’s anything left of this building for you to hoover is on account of the gentleman in that woman’s pocket.”
   “I’m sorry?”
   “Mrs. Wren,” the man on crutches said, “would you be so kind as to show this impertinent young man the reliquary of ashes?”
   The woman hesitated a moment and then, as if awaking from a trance, reached in her sweater pocket and pulled out a small cylinder wrapped in protective fabric.
   “There, you see?” the man on crutches snapped. “Now, you can either grant his dying wish and let us sprinkle his ashes in the sanctuary, or I tell Father Knowles how we’ve been treated.”
   The altar boy hesitated, well acquainted with Father Knowles’ deep observance of church tradition… and, more importantly, with his foul temper when anything cast this timehonored shrine in anything but favorable light. Maybe Father Knowles had simply forgotten these family members were coming. If so, then there was far more risk in turning them away than in letting them in. After all, they said it would only take a minute. What harm could it do?
   When the altar boy stepped aside to let the three people pass, he could have sworn Mr. and Mrs. Wren looked just as bewildered by all of this as he was. Uncertain, the boy returned to his chores, watching them out of the corner of his eye.

   Langdon had to smile as the threesome moved deeper into the church.
   “Leigh,” he whispered, “you lie entirely too well.”
   Teabing’s eyes twinkled. “Oxford Theatre Club. They still talk of my Julius Caesar. I’m certain nobody has ever performed the first scene of Act Three with more dedication.”
   Langdon glanced over. “I thought Caesar was dead in that scene.”
   Teabing smirked. “Yes, but my toga tore open when I fell, and I had to lie on stage for half an hour with my todger hanging out. Even so, I never moved a muscle. I was brilliant, I tell you.”
   Langdon cringed. Sorry I missed it.
   As the group moved through the rectangular annex toward the archway leading into the main church, Langdon was surprised by the barren austerity. Although the altar layout resembled that of a linear Christian chapel, the furnishings were stark and cold, bearing none of the traditional ornamentation. “Bleak,” he whispered.
   Teabing chuckled. “Church of England. Anglicans drink their religion straight. Nothing to distract from their misery.”
   Sophie motioned through the vast opening that gave way to the circular section of the church. “It looks like a fortress in there,” she whispered.
   Langdon agreed. Even from here, the walls looked unusually robust.
   “The Knights Templar were warriors,” Teabing reminded, the sound of his aluminum crutches echoing in this reverberant space. “A religiomilitary society. Their churches were their strongholds and their banks.”
   “Banks?” Sophie asked, glancing at Leigh.
   “Heavens, yes. The Templars invented the concept of modern banking. For European nobility, traveling with gold was perilous, so the Templars allowed nobles to deposit gold in their nearest Temple Church and then draw it from any other Temple Church across Europe. All they needed was proper documentation.” He winked. “And a small commission. They were the original ATMs.” Teabing pointed toward a stainedglass window where the breaking sun was refracting through a whiteclad knight riding a rosecolored horse. “Alanus Marcel,” Teabing said, “Master of the Temple in the early twelve hundreds. He and his successors actually held the Parliamentary chair of Primus Baro Angiae.”
   Langdon was surprised. “First Baron of the Realm?”
   Teabing nodded. “The Master of the Temple, some claim, held more influence than the king himself.” As they arrived outside the circular chamber, Teabing shot a glance over his shoulder at the altar boy, who was vacuuming in the distance. “You know,” Teabing whispered to Sophie, “the Holy Grail is said to once have been stored in this church overnight while the Templars moved it from one hiding place to another. Can you imagine the four chests of Sangreal documents sitting right here with Mary Magdalene’s sarcophagus? It gives me gooseflesh.”
   Langdon was feeling gooseflesh too as they stepped into the circular chamber. His eye traced the curvature of the chamber’s pale stone perimeter, taking in the carvings of gargoyles, demons, monsters, and pained human faces, all staring inward. Beneath the carvings, a single stone pew curled around the entire circumference of the room.
   “Theater in the round,” Langdon whispered.
   Teabing raised a crutch, pointing toward the far left of the room and then to the far right. Langdon had already seen them.
   Ten stone knights.
   Five on the left. Five on the right.
   Lying prone on the floor, the carved, lifesized figures rested in peaceful poses. The knights were depicted wearing full armor, shields, and swords, and the tombs gave Langdon the uneasy sensation that someone had snuck in and poured plaster over the knights while they were sleeping. All of the figures were deeply weathered, and yet each was clearly unique—different armory pieces, distinct leg and arm positions, facial features, and markings on their shields.
   In London lies a knight a Pope interred.
   Langdon felt shaky as he inched deeper into the circular room.
   This had to be the place.

Chapter 84

   In a rubbishstrewn alley very close to Temple Church, Remy Legaludec pulled the Jaguar limousine to a stop behind a row of industrial waste bins. Killing the engine, he checked the area. Deserted. He got out of the car, walked toward the rear, and climbed back into the limousine’s main cabin where the monk was.
   Sensing Remy’s presence, the monk in the back emerged from a prayerlike trance, his red eyes looking more curious than fearful. All evening Remy had been impressed with this trussed man’s ability to stay calm. After some initial struggles in the Range Rover, the monk seemed to have accepted his plight and given over his fate to a higher power.
   Loosening his bow tie, Remy unbuttoned his high, starched, wingtipped collar and felt as if he could breathe for the first time in years. He went to the limousine’s wet bar, where he poured himself a Smirnoff vodka. He drank it in a single swallow and followed it with a second.
   Soon I will be a man of leisure.
   Searching the bar, Remy found a standard service wineopener and flicked open the sharp blade. The knife was usually employed to slice the lead foil from corks on fine bottles of wine, but it would serve a far more dramatic purpose this morning. Remy turned and faced Silas, holding up the glimmering blade.
   Now those red eyes flashed fear.
   Remy smiled and moved toward the back of the limousine. The monk recoiled, struggling against his bonds.
   “Be still,” Remy whispered, raising the blade.
   Silas could not believe that God had forsaken him. Even the physical pain of being bound Silas had turned into a spiritual exercise, asking the throb of his bloodstarved muscles to remind him of the pain Christ endured. I have been praying all night for liberation. Now, as the knife descended, Silas clenched his eyes shut.
   A slash of pain tore through his shoulder blades. He cried out, unable to believe he was going to die here in the back of this limousine, unable to defend himself. I was doing God’s work. The Teacher said he would protect me.
   Silas felt the biting warmth spreading across his back and shoulders and could picture his own blood, spilling out over his flesh. A piercing pain cut through his thighs now, and he felt the onset of that familiar undertow of disorientation—the body’s defense mechanism against the pain.
   As the biting heat tore through all of his muscles now, Silas clenched his eyes tighter, determined that the final image of his life would not be of his own killer. Instead he pictured a younger Bishop Aringarosa, standing before the small church in Spain… the church that he and Silas had built with their own hands. The beginning of my life.
   Silas felt as if his body were on fire.
   “Take a drink,” the tuxedoed man whispered, his accent French. “It will help with your circulation.”
   Silas’s eyes flew open in surprise. A blurry image was leaning over him, offering a glass of liquid. A mound of shredded duct tape lay on the floor beside the bloodless knife.
   “Drink this,” he repeated. “The pain you feel is the blood rushing into your muscles.”
   Silas felt the fiery throb transforming now to a prickling sting. The vodka tasted terrible, but he drank it, feeling grateful. Fate had dealt Silas a healthy share of bad luck tonight, but God had solved it all with one miraculous twist.
   God has not forsaken me.
   Silas knew what Bishop Aringarosa would call it.
   Divine intervention.
   “I had wanted to free you earlier,” the servant apologized, “but it was impossible. With the police arriving at Chateau Villette, and then at Biggin Hill airport, this was the first possible moment. You understand, don’t you, Silas?”
   Silas recoiled, startled. “You know my name?”
   The servant smiled.
   Silas sat up now, rubbing his stiff muscles, his emotions a torrent of incredulity, appreciation, and confusion. “Are you… the Teacher?”
   Remy shook his head, laughing at the proposition. “I wish I had that kind of power. No, I am not the Teacher. Like you, I serve him. But the Teacher speaks highly of you. My name is Remy.”
   Silas was amazed. “I don’t understand. If you work for the Teacher, why did Langdon bring the keystone to your home?”
   “Not my home. The home of the world’s foremost Grail historian, Sir Leigh Teabing.”
   “But you live there. The odds…”
   Remy smiled, seeming to have no trouble with the apparent coincidence of Langdon’s chosen refuge. “It was all utterly predictable. Robert Langdon was in possession of the keystone, and he needed help. What more logical place to run than to the home of Leigh Teabing? That I happen to live there is why the Teacher approached me in the first place.” He paused. “How do you think the Teacher knows so much about the Grail?”
   Now it dawned, and Silas was stunned. The Teacher had recruited a servant who had access to all of Sir Leigh Teabing’s research. It was brilliant.
   “There is much I have to tell you,” Remy said, handing Silas the loaded Heckler Koch pistol. Then he reached through the open partition and retrieved a small, palmsized revolver from the glove box. “But first, you and I have a job to do.”

   Captain Fache descended from his transport plane at Biggin Hill and listened in disbelief to the Kent chief inspector’s account of what had happened in Teabing’s hangar.
   “I searched the plane myself,” the inspector insisted, “and there was no one inside.” His tone turned haughty. “And I should add that if Sir Leigh Teabing presses charges against me, I will—“
   “Did you interrogate the pilot?”
   “Of course not. He is French, and our jurisdiction requires—“
   “Take me to the plane.”
   Arriving at the hangar, Fache needed only sixty seconds to locate an anomalous smear of blood on the pavement near where the limousine had been parked. Fache walked up to the plane and rapped loudly on the fuselage.
   “This is the captain of the French Judicial Police. Open the door!”
   The terrified pilot opened the hatch and lowered the stairs.
   Fache ascended. Three minutes later, with the help of his sidearm, he had a full confession, including a description of the bound albino monk. In addition, he learned that the pilot saw Langdon and Sophie leave something behind in Teabing’s safe, a wooden box of some sort. Although the pilot denied knowing what was in the box, he admitted it had been the focus of Langdon’s full attention during the flight to London.
   “Open the safe,” Fache demanded.
   The pilot looked terrified. “I don’t know the combination!”
   “That’s too bad. I was going to offer to let you keep your pilot’s license.”
   The pilot wrung his hands. “I know some men in maintenance here. Maybe they could drill it?”
   “You have half an hour.”
   The pilot leapt for his radio.
   Fache strode to the back of the plane and poured himself a hard drink. It was early, but he had not yet slept, so this hardly counted as drinking before noon. Sitting in a plush bucket seat, he closed his eyes, trying to sort out what was going on. The Kent police’s blunder could cost me dearly. Everyone was now on the lookout for a black Jaguar limousine.
   Fache’s phone rang, and he wished for a moment’s peace. “Allo?”
   “I’m en route to London.” It was Bishop Aringarosa. “I’ll be arriving in an hour.”
   Fache sat up. “I thought you were going to Paris.”
   “I am deeply concerned. I have changed my plans.”
   “You should not have.”
   “Do you have Silas?”
   “No. His captors eluded the local police before I landed.”
   Aringarosa’s anger rang sharply. “You assured me you would stop that plane!”
   Fache lowered his voice. “Bishop, considering your situation, I recommend you not test my patience today. I will find Silas and the others as soon as possible. Where are you landing?”
   “One moment.” Aringarosa covered the receiver and then came back. “The pilot is trying to get clearance at Heathrow. I’m his only passenger, but our redirect was unscheduled.”
   “Tell him to come to Biggin Hill Executive Airport in Kent. I’ll get him clearance. If I’m not here when you land, I’ll have a car waiting for you.”
   “Thank you.”
   “As I expressed when we first spoke, Bishop, you would do well to remember that you are not the only man on the verge of losing everything.”

Chapter 85

   You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
   Each of the carved knights within the Temple Church lay on his back with his head resting on a rectangular stone pillow. Sophie felt a chill. The poem’s reference to an “orb” conjured images of the night in her grandfather’s basement.
   Hieros Gamos. The orbs.
   Sophie wondered if the ritual had been performed in this very sanctuary. The circular room seemed custombuilt for such a pagan rite. A stone pew encircled a bare expanse of floor in the middle. A theater in the round, as Robert had called it. She imagined this chamber at night, filled with masked people, chanting by torchlight, all witnessing a “sacred communion” in the center of the room.
   Forcing the image from her mind, she advanced with Langdon and Teabing toward the first group of knights. Despite Teabing’s insistence that their investigation should be conducted meticulously, Sophie felt eager and pushed ahead of them, making a cursory walkthrough of the five knights on the left.
   Scrutinizing these first tombs, Sophie noted the similarities and differences between them. Every knight was on his back, but three of the knights had their legs extended straight out while two had their legs crossed. The oddity seemed to have no relevance to the missing orb. Examining their clothing, Sophie noted that two of the knights wore tunics over their armor, while the other three wore anklelength robes. Again, utterly unhelpful. Sophie turned her attention to the only other obvious difference—their hand positions. Two knights clutched swords, two prayed, and one had his arms at his side. After a long moment looking at the hands, Sophie shrugged, having seen no hint anywhere of a conspicuously absent orb.
   Feeling the weight of the cryptex in her sweater pocket, she glanced back at Langdon and Teabing. The men were moving slowly, still only at the third knight, apparently having no luck either. In no mood to wait, she turned away from them toward the second group of knights.
   As she crossed the open space, she quietly recited the poem she had read so many times now that it was committed to memory.


In London lies a knight a Pope interred.
His labor’s fruit a Holy wrath incurred.
You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb.


   When Sophie arrived at the second group of knights, she found that this second group was similar to the first. All lay with varied body positions, wearing armor and swords.
   That was, all except the tenth and final tomb.
   Hurrying over to it, she stared down.
   No pillow. No armor. No tunic. No sword.
   “Robert? Leigh?” she called, her voice echoing around the chamber. “There’s something missing over here.”
   Both men looked up and immediately began to cross the room toward her.
   “An orb?” Teabing called excitedly. His crutches clicked out a rapid staccato as he hurried across the room. “Are we missing an orb?”
   “Not exactly,” Sophie said, frowning at the tenth tomb. “We seem to be missing an entire knight.”
   Arriving beside her both men gazed down in confusion at the tenth tomb. Rather than a knight lying in the open air, this tomb was a sealed stone casket. The casket was trapezoidal, tapered at the feet, widening toward the top, with a peaked lid.
   “Why isn’t this knight shown?” Langdon asked.
   “Fascinating,” Teabing said, stroking his chin. “I had forgotten about this oddity. It’s been years since I was here.”
   “This coffin,” Sophie said, “looks like it was carved at the same time and by the same sculptor as the other nine tombs. So why is this knight in a casket rather than in the open?”
   Teabing shook his head. “One of this church’s mysteries. To the best of my knowledge, nobody has ever found any explanation for it.”
   “Hello?” the altar boy said, arriving with a perturbed look on his face. “Forgive me if this seems rude, but you told me you wanted to spread ashes, and yet you seem to be sightseeing.”
   Teabing scowled at the boy and turned to Langdon. “Mr. Wren, apparently your family’s philanthropy does not buy you the time it used to, so perhaps we should take out the ashes and get on with it.” Teabing turned to Sophie. “Mrs. Wren?”
   Sophie played along, pulling the vellumwrapped cryptex from her pocket.
   “Now then,” Teabing snapped at the boy, “if you would give us some privacy?”
   The altar boy did not move. He was eyeing Langdon closely now. “You look familiar.”
   Teabing huffed. “Perhaps that is because Mr. Wren comes here every year!”
   Or perhaps, Sophie now feared, because he saw Langdon on television at the Vatican last year.
   “I have never met Mr. Wren,” the altar boy declared.
   “You’re mistaken,” Langdon said politely. “I believe you and I met in passing last year. Father Knowles failed to formally introduce us, but I recognized your face as we came in. Now, I realize this is an intrusion, but if you could afford me a few more minutes, I have traveled a great distance to scatter ashes amongst these tombs.” Langdon spoke his lines with Teabingesque believability.
   The altar boy’s expression turned even more skeptical. “These are not tombs.”
   “I’m sorry?” Langdon said.
   “Of course they are tombs,” Teabing declared. “What are you talking about?”
   The altar boy shook his head. “Tombs contain bodies. These are effigies. Stone tributes to real men. There are no bodies beneath these figures.”
   “This is a crypt!” Teabing said.
   “Only in outdated history books. This was believed to be a crypt but was revealed as nothing of the sort during the 1950 renovation.” He turned back to Langdon. “And I imagine Mr. Wren would know that. Considering it was his family that uncovered that fact.”
   An uneasy silence fell.
   It was broken by the sound of a door slamming out in the annex.
   “That must be Father Knowles,” Teabing said. “Perhaps you should go see?”
   The altar boy looked doubtful but stalked back toward the annex, leaving Langdon, Sophie, and Teabing to eye one another gloomily.
   “Leigh,” Langdon whispered. “No bodies? What is he talking about?”
   Teabing looked distraught. “I don’t know. I always thought… certainly, this must be the place. I can’t imagine he knows what he is talking about. It makes no sense!”
   “Can I see the poem again?” Langdon said.
   Sophie pulled the cryptex from her pocket and carefully handed it to him.
   Langdon unwrapped the vellum, holding the cryptex in his hand while he examined the poem. “Yes, the poem definitely references a tomb. Not an effigy.”
   “Could the poem be wrong?” Teabing asked. “Could Jacques Saunière have made the same mistake I just did?”
   Langdon considered it and shook his head. “Leigh, you said it yourself. This church was built by Templars, the military arm of the Priory. Something tells me the Grand Master of the Priory would have a pretty good idea if there were knights buried here.”
   Teabing looked flabbergasted. “But this place is perfect.” He wheeled back toward the knights. “We must be missing something!”

   Entering the annex, the altar boy was surprised to find it deserted. “Father Knowles?” I know I heard the door, he thought, moving forward until he could see the entryway.
   A thin man in a tuxedo stood near the doorway, scratching his head and looking lost. The altar boy gave an irritated huff, realizing he had forgotten to relock the door when he let the others in. Now some pathetic sod had wandered in off the street, looking for directions to some wedding from the looks of it. “I’m sorry,” he called out, passing a large pillar, “we’re closed.”
   A flurry of cloth ruffled behind him, and before the altar boy could turn, his head snapped backward, a powerful hand clamping hard over his mouth from behind, muffling his scream. The hand over the boy’s mouth was snowwhite, and he smelled alcohol.
   The prim man in the tuxedo calmly produced a very small revolver, which he aimed directly at the boy’s forehead.
   The altar boy felt his groin grow hot and realized he had wet himself.
   “Listen carefully,” the tuxedoed man whispered. “You will exit this church silently, and you will run. You will not stop. Is that clear?”
   The boy nodded as best he could with the hand over his mouth.
   “If you call the police…” The tuxedoed man pressed the gun to his skin. “I will find you.”
   The next thing the boy knew, he was sprinting across the outside courtyard with no plans of stopping until his legs gave out.

Chapter 86

   Like a ghost, Silas drifted silently behind his target. Sophie Neveu sensed him too late. Before she could turn, Silas pressed the gun barrel into her spine and wrapped a powerful arm across her chest, pulling her back against his hulking body. She yelled in surprise. Teabing and Langdon both turned now, their expressions astonished and fearful.
   “What…?” Teabing choked out. “What did you do to Remy!”
   “Your only concern,” Silas said calmly, “is that I leave here with the keystone.” This recovery mission, as Remy had described it, was to be clean and simple: Enter the church, take the keystone, and walk out; no killing, no struggle.
   Holding Sophie firm, Silas dropped his hand from her chest, down to her waist, slipping it inside her deep sweater pockets, searching. He could smell the soft fragrance of her hair through his own alcohollaced breath. “Where is it?” he whispered. The keystone was in her sweater pocket earlier. So where is it now?
   “It’s over here,” Langdon’s deep voice resonated from across the room.
   Silas turned to see Langdon holding the black cryptex before him, waving it back and forth like a matador tempting a dumb animal.
   “Set it down,” Silas demanded.
   “Let Sophie and Leigh leave the church,” Langdon replied. “You and I can settle this.”
   Silas pushed Sophie away from him and aimed the gun at Langdon, moving toward him.
   “Not a step closer,” Langdon said. “Not until they leave the building.”
   “You are in no position to make demands.”
   “I disagree.” Langdon raised the cryptex high over his head. “I will not hesitate to smash this on the floor and break the vial inside.”
   Although Silas sneered outwardly at the threat, he felt a flash of fear. This was unexpected. He aimed the gun at Langdon’s head and kept his voice as steady as his hand. “You would never break the keystone. You want to find the Grail as much as I do.”
   “You’re wrong. You want it much more. You’ve proven you’re willing to kill for it.”

   Forty feet away, peering out from the annex pews near the archway, Remy Legaludec felt a rising alarm. The maneuver had not gone as planned, and even from here, he could see Silas was uncertain how to handle the situation. At the Teacher’s orders, Remy had forbidden Silas to fire his gun.
   “Let them go,” Langdon again demanded, holding the cryptex high over his head and staring into Silas’s gun.
   The monk’s red eyes filled with anger and frustration, and Remy tightened with fear that Silas might actually shoot Langdon while he was holding the cryptex. The cryptex cannot fall!
   The cryptex was to be Remy’s ticket to freedom and wealth. A little over a year ago, he was simply a fiftyfiveyearold manservant living within the walls of Chateau Villette, catering to the whims of the insufferable cripple Sir Leigh Teabing. Then he was approached with an extraordinary proposition. Remy’s association with Sir Leigh Teabing—the preeminent Grail historian on earth—was going to bring Remy everything he had ever dreamed of in life. Since then, every moment he had spent inside Chateau Villette had been leading him to this very instant.
   I am so close, Remy told himself, gazing into the sanctuary of the Temple Church and the keystone in Robert Langdon’s hand. If Langdon dropped it, all would be lost.
   Am I willing to show my face? It was something the Teacher had strictly forbidden. Remy was the only one who knew the Teacher’s identity.
   “Are you certain you want Silas to carry out this task?” Remy had asked the Teacher less than half an hour ago, upon getting orders to steal the keystone. “I myself am capable.”
   The Teacher was resolute. “Silas served us well with the four Priory members. He will recover the keystone. You must remain anonymous. If others see you, they will need to be eliminated, and there has been enough killing already. Do not reveal your face.”
   My face will change, Remy thought. With what you’ve promised to pay me, I will become an entirely new man. Surgery could even change his fingerprints, the Teacher had told him. Soon he would be free—another unrecognizable, beautiful face soaking up the sun on the beach. “Understood,” Remy said. “I will assist Silas from the shadows.”
   “For your own knowledge, Remy,” the Teacher had told him, “the tomb in question is not in the Temple Church. So have no fear. They are looking in the wrong place.”
   Remy was stunned. “And you know where the tomb is?”
   “Of course. Later, I will tell you. For the moment, you must act quickly. If the others figure out the true location of the tomb and leave the church before you take the cryptex, we could lose the Grail forever.”
   Remy didn’t give a damn about the Grail, except that the Teacher refused to pay him until it was found. Remy felt giddy every time he thought of the money he soon would have. One third of twenty million euro. Plenty to disappear forever. Remy had pictured the beach towns on the Cote d’Azur, where he planned to live out his days basking in the sun and letting others serve him for a change.
   Now, however, here in the Temple Church, with Langdon threatening to break the keystone, Remy’s future was at risk. Unable to bear the thought of coming this close only to lose it all, Remy made the decision to take bold action. The gun in his hand was a concealable, smallcaliber, Jframe Medusa, but it would be plenty deadly at close range.
   Stepping from the shadows, Remy marched into the circular chamber and aimed the gun directly at Teabing’s head. “Old man, I’ve been waiting a long time to do this.”

   Sir Leigh Teabing’s heart practically stalled to see Remy aiming a gun at him. What is he doing! Teabing recognized the tiny Medusa revolver as his own, the one he kept locked in the limousine glove box for safety.
   “Remy?” Teabing sputtered in shock. “What is going on?”
   Langdon and Sophie looked equally dumbstruck.
   Remy circled behind Teabing and rammed the pistol barrel into his back, high and on the left, directly behind his heart.
   Teabing felt his muscles seize with terror. “Remy, I don’t—“
   “I’ll make it simple,” Remy snapped, eyeing Langdon over Teabing’s shoulder. “Set down the keystone, or I pull the trigger.”
   Langdon seemed momentarily paralyzed. “The keystone is worthless to you,” he stammered. “You cannot possibly open it.”
   “Arrogant fools,” Remy sneered. “Have you not noticed that I have been listening tonight as you discussed these poems? Everything I heard, I have shared with others. Others who know more than you. You are not even looking in the right place. The tomb you seek is in another location entirely!”
   Teabing felt panicked. What is he saying!
   “Why do you want the Grail?” Langdon demanded. “To destroy it? Before the End of Days?”
   Remy called to the monk. “Silas, take the keystone from Mr. Langdon.”
   As the monk advanced, Langdon stepped back, raising the keystone high, looking fully prepared to hurl it at the floor.
   “I would rather break it,” Langdon said, “than see it in the wrong hands.”
   Teabing now felt a wave of horror. He could see his life’s work evaporating before his eyes. All his dreams about to be shattered.
   “Robert, no!” Teabing exclaimed. “Don’t! That’s the Grail you’re holding! Remy would never shoot me. We’ve known each other for ten—“
   Remy aimed at the ceiling and fired the Medusa. The blast was enormous for such a small weapon, the gunshot echoing like thunder inside the stone chamber.
   Everyone froze.
   “I am not playing games,” Remy said. “The next one is in his back. Hand the keystone to Silas.”
   Langdon reluctantly held out the cryptex. Silas stepped forward and took it, his red eyes gleaming with the selfsatisfaction of vengeance. Slipping the keystone in the pocket of his robe, Silas backed off, still holding Langdon and Sophie at gunpoint.
   Teabing felt Remy’s arm clamp hard around his neck as the servant began backing out of the building, dragging Teabing with him, the gun still pressed in his back.
   “Let him go,” Langdon demanded.
   “We’re taking Mr. Teabing for a drive,” Remy said, still backing up. “If you call the police, he will die. If you do anything to interfere, he will die. Is that clear?”
   “Take me,” Langdon demanded, his voice cracking with emotion. “Let Leigh go.”
   Remy laughed. “I don’t think so. He and I have such a nice history. Besides, he still might prove useful.”
   Silas was backing up now, keeping Langdon and Sophie at gunpoint as Remy pulled Leigh toward the exit, his crutches dragging behind him.
   Sophie’s voice was unwavering. “Who are you working for?”
   The question brought a smirk to the departing Remy’s face. “You would be surprised, Mademoiselle Neveu.”

Chapter 87

   The fireplace in Chateau Villette’s drawing room was cold, but Collet paced before it nonetheless as he read the faxes from Interpol.
   Not at all what he expected.
   Andre Vernet, according to official records, was a model citizen. No police record—not even a parking ticket. Educated at prep school and the Sorbonne, he had a cum laude degree in international finance. Interpol said Vernet’s name appeared in the newspapers from time to time, but always in a positive light. Apparently the man had helped design the security parameters that kept the Depository Bank of Zurich a leader in the ultramodern world of electronic security. Vernet’s credit card records showed a penchant for art books, expensive wine, and classical CD’s—mostly Brahms—which he apparently enjoyed on an exceptionally highend stereo system he had purchased several years ago.
   Zero, Collet sighed.
   The only red flag tonight from Interpol had been a set of fingerprints that apparently belonged to Teabing’s servant. The chief PTS examiner was reading the report in a comfortable chair across the room.
   Collet looked over. “Anything?”
   The examiner shrugged. “Prints belong to Remy Legaludec. Wanted for petty crime. Nothing serious. Looks like he got kicked out of university for rewiring phone jacks to get free service… later did some petty theft. Breaking and entering. Skipped out on a hospital bill once for an emergency tracheotomy.” He glanced up, chuckling. “Peanut allergy.”
   Collet nodded, recalling a police investigation into a restaurant that had failed to notate on its menu that the chili recipe contained peanut oil. An unsuspecting patron had died of anaphylactic shock at the table after a single bite.
   “Legaludec is probably a livein here to avoid getting picked up.” The examiner looked amused. “His lucky night.”
   Collet sighed. “All right, you better forward this info to Captain Fache.”
   The examiner headed off just as another PTS agent burst into the living room. “Lieutenant! We found something in the barn.”
   From the anxious look on the agent’s face, Collet could only guess. “A body.”
   “No, sir. Something more…” He hesitated. “Unexpected.”
   Rubbing his eyes, Collet followed the agent out to the barn. As they entered the musty, cavernous space, the agent motioned toward the center of the room, where a wooden ladder now ascended high into the rafters, propped against the ledge of a hayloft suspended high above them.
   “That ladder wasn’t there earlier,” Collet said.
   “No, sir. I set that up. We were dusting for prints near the Rolls when I saw the ladder lying on the floor. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought except the rungs were worn and muddy. This ladder gets regular use. The height of the hayloft matched the ladder, so I raised it and climbed up to have a look.”
   Collet’s eyes climbed the ladder’s steep incline to the soaring hayloft. Someone goes up there regularly? From down here, the loft appeared to be a deserted platform, and yet admittedly most of it was invisible from this line of sight.
   A senior PTS agent appeared at the top of the ladder, looking down. “You’ll definitely want to see this, Lieutenant,” he said, waving Collet up with a latexgloved hand.
   Nodding tiredly, Collet walked over to the base of the old ladder and grasped the bottom rungs. The ladder was an antique tapered design and narrowed as Collet ascended. As he neared the top, Collet almost lost his footing on a thin rung. The barn below him spun. Alert now, he moved on, finally reaching the top. The agent above him reached out, offering his wrist. Collet grabbed it and made the awkward transition onto the platform.
   “It’s over there,” the PTS agent said, pointing deep into the immaculately clean loft. “Only one set of prints up here. We’ll have an ID shortly.”
   Collet squinted through the dim light toward the far wall. What the hell? Nestled against the far wall sat an elaborate computer workstation—two tower CPUs, a flatscreen video monitor with speakers, an array of hard drives, and a multichannel audio console that appeared to have its own filtered power supply.
   Why in the world would anyone work all the way up here? Collet moved toward the gear. “Have you examined the system?”
   “It’s a listening post.”
   Collet spun. “Surveillance?”
   The agent nodded. “Very advanced surveillance.” He motioned to a long project table strewn with electronic parts, manuals, tools, wires, soldering irons, and other electronic components. “Someone clearly knows what he’s doing. A lot of this gear is as sophisticated as our own equipment. Miniature microphones, photoelectric recharging cells, highcapacity RAM chips. He’s even got some of those new nano drives.”
   Collet was impressed.
   “Here’s a complete system,” the agent said, handing Collet an assembly not much larger than a pocket calculator. Dangling off the contraption was a footlong wire with a stampsized piece of waferthin foil stuck on the end. “The base is a highcapacity hard disk audio recording system with rechargeable battery. That strip of foil at the end of the wire is a combination microphone and photoelectric recharging cell.”
   Collet knew them well. These foillike, photocell microphones had been an enormous breakthrough a few years back. Now, a hard disk recorder could be affixed behind a lamp, for example, with its foil microphone molded into the contour of the base and dyed to match. As long as the microphone was positioned such that it received a few hours of sunlight per day, the photo cells would keep recharging the system. Bugs like this one could listen indefinitely.
   “Reception method?” Collet asked.
   The agent signaled to an insulated wire that ran out of the back of the computer, up the wall, through a hole in the barn roof. “Simple radio wave. Small antenna on the roof.”
   Collet knew these recording systems were generally placed in offices, were voiceactivated to save hard disk space, and recorded snippets of conversation during the day, transmitting compressed audio files at night to avoid detection. After transmitting, the hard drive erased itself and prepared to do it all over again the next day.
   Collet’s gaze moved now to a shelf on which were stacked several hundred audio cassettes, all labeled with dates and numbers. Someone has been very busy. He turned back to the agent. “Do you have any idea what target is being bugged?”
   “Well, Lieutenant,” the agent said, walking to the computer and launching a piece of software. “It’s the strangest thing…”