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Sauniure would imitate a famous drawing.
"Mr. Langdon," Fache said, "certainly a man like yourself is aware that
Leonardo da Vinci had a tendency toward the darker arts."
Langdon was surprised by Fache's knowledge of Da Vinci, and it
certainly went a long way toward explaining the captain's suspicions about
devil worship. Da Vinci had always been an awkward subject for historians,
especially in the Christian tradition. Despite the visionary's genius, he
was a flamboyant homosexual and worshipper of Nature's divine order, both of
which placed him in a perpetual state of sin against God. Moreover, the
artist's eerie eccentricities projected an admittedly demonic aura: Da Vinci
exhumed corpses to study human anatomy; he kept mysterious journals in
illegible reverse handwriting; he believed he possessed the alchemic power
to turn lead into gold and even cheat God by creating an elixir to postpone
death; and his inventions included horrific, never-before-imagined weapons
of war and torture.
Misunderstanding breeds distrust, Langdon thought.
Even Da Vinci's enormous output of breathtaking Christian art only
furthered the artist's reputation for spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting
hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da Vinci painted Christian themes
not as an expression of his own beliefs but rather as a commercial
venture--a means of funding a lavish lifestyle. Unfortunately, Da Vinci was
a prankster who often amused himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed
him. He incorporated in many of his Christian paintings hidden symbolism
that was anything but Christian--tributes to his own beliefs and a subtle
thumbing of his nose at the Church. Langdon had even given a lecture once at
the National Gallery in London entitled: "The Secret Life of Leonardo: Pagan
Symbolism in Christian Art."
"I understand your concerns," Langdon now said, "but Da Vinci never
really practiced any dark arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man,
albeit one in constant conflict with the Church." As Langdon said this, an
odd thought popped into his mind. He glanced down at the message on the
floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
"Yes?" Fache said.
Langdon weighed his words carefully. "I was just thinking that Sauniure
shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da Vinci, including a concern over
the Church's elimination of the sacred feminine from modern religion. Maybe,
by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Sauniure was simply echoing some of
their shared frustrations with the modern Church's demonization of the
goddess."
Fache's eyes hardened. "You think Sauniure is calling the Church a lame
saint and a Draconian devil?"
Langdon had to admit it seemed far-fetched, and yet the pentacle seemed
to endorse the idea on some level. "All I am saying is that Mr. Sauniure
dedicated his life to studying the history of the goddess, and nothing has
done more to erase that history than the Catholic Church. It seems
reasonable that Sauniure might have chosen to express his disappointment in
his final good-bye."
"Disappointment?" Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. "This message
sounds more enraged than disappointed, wouldn't you say?"
Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. "Captain, you asked for
my instincts as to what Sauniure is trying to say here, and that's what I'm
giving you."
"That this is an indictment of the Church?" Fache's jaw tightened as he
spoke through clenched teeth. "Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my
work, and let me tell you something. When a man is murdered by another man,
I do not believe his final thoughts are to write an obscure spiritual
statement that no one will understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing
only." Fache's whispery voice sliced the air. "La vengeance. I believe
Sauniure wrote this note to tell us who killed him." Langdon stared. "But
that makes no sense whatsoever."
"No?"
"No," he fired back, tired and frustrated. "You told me Sauniure was
attacked in his office by someone he had apparently invited in."
"Yes."
"So it seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his
attacker."
Fache nodded. "Go on."
"So if Sauniure knew the person who killed him, what kind of indictment
is this?" He pointed at the floor. "Numeric codes? Lame saints? Draconian
devils? Pentacles on his stomach? It's all too cryptic."
Fache frowned as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You have a
point."
"Considering the circumstances," Langdon said, "I would assume that if
Sauniure wanted to tell you who killed him, he would have written down
somebody's name."
As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Fache's lips for the
first time all night. "Prucisument," Fache said. "Prucisument."
I am witnessing the work of a master, mused Lieutenant Collet as he
tweaked his audio gear and listened to Fache's voice coming through the
headphones. The agent supurieur knew it was moments like these that had
lifted the captain to the pinnacle of French law enforcement.
Fache will do what no one else dares.
The delicate art of cajoler was a lost skill in modern law enforcement,
one that required exceptional poise under pressure. Few men possessed the
necessary sangfroid for this kind of operation, but Fache seemed born for
it. His restraint and patience bordered on the robotic.
Fache's sole emotion this evening seemed to be one of intense resolve,
as if this arrest were somehow personal to him. Fache's briefing of his
agents an hour ago had been unusually succinct and assured. I know who
murdered Jacques Sauniure, Fache had said. You know what to do. No mistakes
tonight.
And so far, no mistakes had been made.
Collet was not yet privy to the evidence that had cemented Fache's
certainty of their suspect's guilt, but he knew better than to question the
instincts of the Bull. Fache's intuition seemed almost supernatural at
times. God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly
impressive display of Fache's sixth sense. Collet had to admit, if there was
a God, Bezu Fache would be on His A-list. The captain attended mass and
confession with zealous regularity--far more than the requisite holiday
attendance fulfilled by other officials in the name of good public
relations. When the Pope visited Paris a few years back, Fache had used all
his muscle to obtain the honor of an audience. A photo of Fache with the
Pope now hung in his office. The Papal Bull, the agents secretly called it.
Collet found it ironic that one of Fache's rare popular public stances
in recent years had been his outspoken reaction to the Catholic pedophilia
scandal. These priests should be hanged twice! Fache had declared. Once for
their crimes against children. And once for shaming the good name of the
Catholic Church. Collet had the odd sense it was the latter that angered
Fache more.
Turning now to his laptop computer, Collet attended to the other half
of his responsibilities here tonight--the GPS tracking system. The image
onscreen revealed a detailed floor plan of the Denon Wing, a structural
schematic uploaded from the Louvre Security Office. Letting his eyes trace
the maze of galleries and hallways, Collet found what he was looking for.
Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery blinked a tiny red dot.
La marque.
Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so.
Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer.
To ensure his conversation with Mr. Langdon would not be interrupted,
Bezu Fache had turned off his cellular phone. Unfortunately, it was an
expensive model equipped with a two-way radio feature, which, contrary to
his orders, was now being used by one of his agents to page him.
"Capitaine?" The phone crackled like a walkie-talkie.
Fache felt his teeth clench in rage. He could imagine nothing important
enough that Collet would interrupt this surveillance cachue--especially at
this critical juncture.
He gave Langdon a calm look of apology. "One moment please." He pulled
the phone from his belt and pressed the radio transmission button. "Oui?"
"Capitaine, un agent du Dupartement de Cryptographie est arrivu."
Fache's anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy
timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Sauniure's cryptic
text on the floor, had uploaded photographs of the entire crime scene to the
Cryptography Department in hopes someone there could tell him what the hell
Sauniure was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most
likely meant someone had decrypted Sauniure's message.
"I'm busy at the moment," Fache radioed back, leaving no doubt in his
tone that a line had been crossed. "Ask the cryptographer to wait at the
command post. I'll speak to him when I'm done."
"Her," the voice corrected. "It's Agent Neveu."
Fache was becoming less amused with this call every passing moment.
Sophie Neveu was one of DCPJ's biggest mistakes. A young Parisian
duchiffreuse who had studied cryptography in England at the Royal Holloway,
Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part of the
ministry's attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The
ministry's ongoing foray into political correctness, Fache argued, was
weakening the department. Women not only lacked the physicality necessary
for police work, but their mere presence posed a dangerous distraction to
the men in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving far more
distracting than most.
At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination that bordered
on obstinate. Her eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic methodology
continually exasperated the veteran French cryptographers above her. And by
far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable universal truth that in
an office of middle-aged men, an attractive young woman always drew eyes
away from the work at hand.
The man on the radio said, "Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you
immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the
gallery."
Fache recoiled in disbelief. "Unacceptable! I made it very clear--"
For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke.
The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes
bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's
shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's
voice chime out behind him.
"Excusez-moi, messieurs."
Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down
the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides... a haunting certainty to
her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater
over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her
thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of
her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard
dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and
genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence.
To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended
a polite hand. "Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology
Department." Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent.
"It is a pleasure to meet you."
Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in
her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green--incisive and clear.
Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a
reprimand.
"Captain," she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch,
"please excuse the interruption, but--"
"Ce n'est pas le moment!" Fache sputtered.
"I tried to phone you." Sophie continued in English, as if out of
courtesy to Langdon. "But your cell phone was turned off."
"I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am speaking to Mr.
Langdon."
"I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code?
Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
"Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for Mr.
Langdon."
Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr.
Langdon?"
She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S.
Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States."
Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way
to a sudden ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to
imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew
he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he
demanded, sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon
here?"
Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the
concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent."
Fache looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?"
"No, sir," Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the DCPJ
switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr.
Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you."
Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to
speak, but Sophie had already turned back to Langdon.
"Mr. Langdon," she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her
pocket, "this is the number for your embassy's messaging service. They asked
that you phone in as soon as possible." She handed him the paper with an
intent gaze. "While I explain the code to Captain Fache, you need to make
this call."
Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on
it. "Thank you," he said, feeling worried now. "Where do I find a phone?"
Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache
waved her off. He now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without
taking his eyes off Sophie, he produced his own cell phone and held it out.
"This line is secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it."
Langdon felt mystified by Fache's anger with the young woman. Feeling
uneasy, he accepted the captain's phone. Fache immediately marched Sophie
several steps away and began chastising her in hushed tones. Disliking the
captain more and more, Langdon turned away from the odd confrontation and
switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of paper Sophie had given him,
Langdon dialed the number.
The line began to ring.
One ring... two rings... three rings...
Finally the call connected.
Langdon expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself
instead listening to an answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was
familiar. It was that of Sophie Neveu.
"Bonjour, vous utes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the woman's voice said.
"Je suis absenle pour le moment, mais..."
Confused, Langdon turned back toward Sophie. "I'm sorry, Ms. Neveu? I
think you may have given me--"
"No, that's the right number," Sophie interjected quickly, as if
anticipating Langdon's confusion. "The embassy has an automated message
system. You have to dial an access code to pick up your messages."
Langdon stared. "But--"
"It's the three-digit code on the paper I gave you."
Langdon opened his mouth to explain the bizarre error, but Sophie
flashed him a silencing glare that lasted only an instant. Her green eyes
sent a crystal-clear message.
Don't ask questions. Just do it.
Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the slip of paper: 454.
Sophie's outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon heard an
electronic voice announce in French: "You have one new message." Apparently,
454 was Sophie's remote access code for picking up her messages while away
from home.
I'm picking up this woman's messages?
Langdon could hear the tape rewinding now. Finally, it stopped, and the
machine engaged. Langdon listened as the message began to play. Again, the
voice on the line was Sophie's.
"Mr. Langdon," the message began in a fearful whisper. "Do not react to
this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my
directions very closely."
Silas sat behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had arranged
for him and gazed out at the great Church of Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath
by banks of floodlights, the church's two bell towers rose like stalwart
sentinels above the building's long body. On either flank, a shadowy row of
sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a beautiful beast.
The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone. Again the
brotherhood had confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion and
deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding the keystone and giving it to
the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long ago stolen
from the faithful.
How powerful that will make Opus Dei.
Parking the Audi on the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled,
telling himself to clear his mind for the task at hand. His broad back still
ached from the corporal mortification he had endured earlier today, and yet
the pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life before
Opus Dei had saved him.
Still, the memories haunted his soul.
Release your hatred, Silas commanded himself. Forgive those who
trespassed against you.
Looking up at the stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that
familiar undertow... that force that often dragged his mind back in time,
locking him once again in the prison that had been his world as a young man.
The memories of purgatory came as they always did, like a tempest to his
senses... the reek of rotting cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and
feces. The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees
and the soft sobs of forgotten men.
Andorra, he thought, feeling his muscles tighten.
Incredibly, it was in that barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain
and France, shivering in his stone cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had
been saved.
He had not realized it at the time.
The light came long after the thunder.
His name was not Silas then, although he didn't recall the name his
parents had given him. He had left home when he was seven. His drunken
father, a burly dockworker, enraged by the arrival of an albino son, beat
his mother regularly, blaming her for the boy's embarrassing condition. When
the boy tried to defend her, he too was badly beaten.
One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got up. The
boy stood over his lifeless mother and felt an unbearable up-welling of
guilt for permitting it to happen.
This is my fault!
As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to
the kitchen and grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the
bedroom where his father lay on the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word,
the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in pain and tried to
roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment
fell quiet.
The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally
unfriendly. His strange appearance made him an outcast among the other young
runaways, and he was forced to live alone in the basement of a dilapidated
factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His only companions
were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to read
them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter--a girl
twice his age--mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food.
The girl found herself pummeled to within inches of her life. When the
authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him an ultimatum--leave
Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.
The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on
the streets turned to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young
man. When people passed by, he could hear them whispering to one another. A
ghost, they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they stared at his
white skin. A ghost with the eyes of a devil!
And he felt like a ghost... transparent... floating from seaport to
seaport.
People seemed to look right through him.
At eighteen, in a port town, while attempting to steal a case of cured
ham from a cargo ship, he was caught by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors
who began to beat him smelled of beer, just as his father had. The memories
of fear and hatred surfaced like a monster from the deep. The young man
broke the first sailor's neck with his bare hands, and only the arrival of
the police saved the second sailor from a similar fate.
Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in Andorra.
You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards
marched him in, naked and cold. Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will
pass right through these walls!
Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he
knew he had become transparent.
I am a ghost.
I am weightless.
Yo soy un espectro... palido coma una fantasma... caminando este mundo
a solas.
One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn't
know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor what
mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to
his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been
sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in
the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten
years. The moon.
Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling
through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and
tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always
downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.
Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a
clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the
rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled
in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving. How long? How
far? A pain was growing in his gut. Am I dying? He slept again. This time he
awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car.
Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for
food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the
side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.
The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been
dead. A day? Three days? It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud,
and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring
down at him. I am here, Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you
are born again.
He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in
heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed,
and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his
bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down,
speaking. You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path.
Again, he slept.
It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber.
His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of
shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller
man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him
backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the
body of a young man in priest's robes. The priest had a badly shattered
nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.
"Thank you, my friend," the priest said in awkward French. "The
offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do
you also speak Spanish?"
The ghost shook his head.
"What is your name?" he continued in broken French.
The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he
heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.
The priest smiled. "No hay problema. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am
a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de
Dios."
"Where am I?" His voice sounded hollow.
"Oviedo. In the north of Spain."
"How did I get here?"
"Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You've been
here many days."
The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone
had shown any kindness. "Thank you, Father."
The priest touched his bloody lip. "It is I who am thankful, my
friend."
When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed
up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to
him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised
to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in
French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of
an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many
dangerous criminals.
His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The emotion he
felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied
by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I run?
"The Book of Acts," a voice said from the door.
The ghost turned, frightened.
The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly
bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. "I found one in French for
you. The chapter is marked."
Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the chapter the
priest had marked.
Acts 16.
The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in
his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped
in shock.
"...And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations
of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open."
His eyes shot up at the priest.
The priest smiled warmly. "From now on, my friend, if you have no other
name, I shall call you Silas."
The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is
Silas.
"It's time for breakfast," the priest said. "You will need your
strength if you are to help me build this church."
Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618
bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop
Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei.
Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone
Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.
"It is for your own safety," the Teacher had explained, speaking in
English with a French accent. "I am familiar enough with electronic
communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be
disastrous for you."
Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally
careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he
had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow
obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood's four top
members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the
Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he
could unearth.
"Bishop," the Teacher had told him, "I have made all the arrangements.
For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to me for
several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him
through secure channels."
"You will treat him with respect?"
"A man of faith deserves the highest."
"Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this
is over."
"I do this to protect your identity, Silas's identity, and my
investment."
"Your investment?"
"Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in
jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee."
The bishop smiled. "A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed."
Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane's
window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A
pittance for something so powerful.
He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail.
Money and faith were powerful motivators.
"Une plaisanterie numurique?" Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie
Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? "Your professional assessment of
Sauniure's code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?"
Fache was in utter incomprehension of this woman's gall. Not only had
she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying to
convince him that Sauniure, in his final moments of life, had been inspired
to leave a mathematical gag?
"This code," Sophie explained in rapid French, "is simplistic to the
point of absurdity. Jacques Sauniure must have known we would see through it
immediately." She pulled a scrap of paper from her sweater pocket and handed
it to Fache. "Here is the decryption."
Fache looked at the card.
1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21
"This is it?" he snapped. "All you did was put the numbers in
increasing order!"
Sophie actually had the nerve to give a satisfied smile. "Exactly."
Fache's tone lowered to a guttural rumble. "Agent Neveu, I have no idea
where the hell you're going with this, but I suggest you get there fast." He
shot an anxious glance at Langdon, who stood nearby with the phone pressed
to his ear, apparently still listening to his phone message from the U.S.
Embassy. From Langdon's ashen expression, Fache sensed the news was bad.
"Captain," Sophie said, her tone dangerously defiant, "the sequence of
numbers you have in your hand happens to be one of the most famous
mathematical progressions in history."
Fache was not aware there even existed a mathematical progression that
qualified as famous, and he certainly didn't appreciate Sophie's off-handed
tone.
"This is the Fibonacci sequence," she declared, nodding toward the
piece of paper in Fache's hand. "A progression in which each term is equal
to the sum of the two preceding terms."
Fache studied the numbers. Each term was indeed the sum of the two
previous, and yet Fache could not imagine what the relevance of all this was
to Sauniure's death.
"Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of numbers in
the thirteenth-century. Obviously there can be no coincidence that all of
the numbers Sauniure wrote on the floor belong to Fibonacci's famous
sequence."
Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. "Fine, if there is
no coincidence, would you tell me why Jacques Sauniure chose to do this.
What is he saying? What does this mean?"
She shrugged. "Absolutely nothing. That's the point. It's a simplistic
cryptographic joke. Like taking the words of a famous poem and shuffling
them at random to see if anyone recognizes what all the words have in
common."
Fache took a menacing step forward, placing his face only inches from
Sophie's. "I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying explanation than
that."
Sophie's soft features grew surprisingly stern as she leaned in.
"Captain, considering what you have at stake here tonight, I thought you
might appreciate knowing that Jacques Sauniure might be playing games with
you. Apparently not. I'll inform the director of Cryptography you no longer
need our services."
With that, she turned on her heel, and marched off the way she had
come.
Stunned, Fache watched her disappear into the darkness. Is she out of
her mind? Sophie Neveu had just redefined le suicide professionnel.
Fache turned to Langdon, who was still on the phone, looking more
concerned than before, listening intently to his phone message. The U.S.
Embassy. Bezu Fache despised many things... but few drew more wrath than the
U.S. Embassy.
Fache and the ambassador locked horns regularly over shared affairs of
state--their most common battleground being law enforcement for visiting
Americans. Almost daily, DCPJ arrested American exchange students in
possession of drugs, U.S. businessmen for soliciting underage Prostitutes,
American tourists for shoplifting or destruction of property. Legally, the
U.S. Embassy could intervene and extradite guilty citizens back to the
United States, where they received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
And the embassy invariably did just that.
L'umasculation de la Police Judiciaire, Fache called it. Paris Match
had run a cartoon recently depicting Fache as a police dog, trying to bite
an American criminal, but unable to reach because it was chained to the U.S.
Embassy.
Not tonight, Fache told himself. There is far too much at stake.
By the time Robert Langdon hung up the phone, he looked ill.
"Is everything all right?" Fache asked.
Weakly, Langdon shook his head.
Bad news from home, Fache sensed, noticing Langdon was sweating
slightly as Fache took back his cell phone.
"An accident," Langdon stammered, looking at Fache with a strange
expression. "A friend..." He hesitated. "I'll need to fly home first thing
in the morning."
Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdon's face was genuine, and yet he
sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant fear were suddenly
simmering in the American's eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," Fache said,
watching Langdon closely. "Would you like to sit down?" He motioned toward
one of the viewing benches in the gallery.
Langdon nodded absently and took a few steps toward the bench. He
paused, looking more confused with every moment. "Actually, I think I'd like
to use the rest room."
Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. "The rest room. Of course. Let's
take a break for a few minutes." He motioned back down the long hallway in
the direction they had come from. "The rest rooms are back toward the
curator's office."
Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward the far end
of the Grand Gallery corridor. "I believe there's a much closer rest room at
the end."
Fache realized Langdon was right. They were two thirds of the way down,
and the Grand Gallery dead-ended at a pair of rest rooms. "Shall I accompany
you?"
Langdon shook his head, already moving deeper into the gallery. "Not
necessary. I think I'd like a few minutes alone."
Fache was not wild about the idea of Langdon wandering alone down the
remaining length of corridor, but he took comfort in knowing the Grand
Gallery was a dead end whose only exit was at the other end--the gate under
which they had entered. Although French fire regulations required several
emergency stairwells for a space this large, those stairwells had been
sealed automatically when Sauniure tripped the security system. Granted,
that system had now been reset, unlocking the stairwells, but it didn't
matter--the external doors, if opened, would set off fire alarms and were
guarded outside by DCPJ agents. Langdon could not possibly leave without
Fache knowing about it.
"I need to return to Mr. Sauniure's office for a moment," Fache said.
"Please come find me directly, Mr. Langdon. There is more we need to
discuss."
Langdon gave a quiet wave as he disappeared into the darkness.
Turning, Fache marched angrily in the opposite direction. Arriving at
the gate, he slid under, exited the Grand Gallery, marched down the hall,
and stormed into the command center at Sauniure's office.
"Who gave the approval to let Sophie Neveu into this building!" Fache
bellowed.
Collet was the first to answer. "She told the guards outside she'd
broken the code."
Fache looked around. "Is she gone?"
"She's not with you?"
"She left." Fache glanced out at the darkened hallway. Apparently
Sophie had been in no mood to stop by and chat with the other officers on
her way out.
For a moment, Fache considered radioing the guards in the entresol and
telling them to stop Sophie and drag her back up here before she could leave
the premises. He thought better of it. That was only his pride talking...
wanting the last word. He'd had enough distractions tonight.
Deal with Agent Neveu later, he told himself, already looking forward
to firing her.
Pushing Sophie from his mind, Fache stared for a moment at the
miniature knight standing on Sauniure's desk. Then he turned back to Collet.
"Do you have him?"
Collet gave a curt nod and spun the laptop toward Fache. The red dot
was clearly visible on the floor plan overlay, blinking methodically in a
room marked TOILETTES PUBLIQUES.
"Good," Fache said, lighting a cigarette and stalking into the hall.
I've got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the only
place Langdon goes."
Robert Langdon felt light-headed as he trudged toward the end of the
Grand Gallery. Sophie's phone message played over and over in his mind. At
the end of the corridor, illuminated signs bearing the international
stick-figure symbols for rest rooms guided him through a maze-like series of
dividers displaying Italian drawings and hiding the rest rooms from sight.
Finding the men's room door, Langdon entered and turned on the lights.
The room was empty.
Walking to the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and tried to
wake up. Harsh fluorescent lights glared off the stark tile, and the room
smelled of ammonia. As he toweled off, the rest room's door creaked open
behind him. He spun.
Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing fear. "Thank God you
came. We don't have much time."
Langdon stood beside the sinks, staring in bewilderment at DCPJ
cryptographer Sophie Neveu. Only minutes ago, Langdon had listened to her
phone message, thinking the newly arrived cryptographer must be insane. And
yet, the more he listened, the more he sensed Sophie Neveu was speaking in
earnest. Do not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger
right now. Follow my directions very closely. Filled with uncertainty,
Langdon had decided to do exactly as Sophie advised. He told Fache that the
phone message was regarding an injured friend back home. Then he had asked
to use the rest room at the end of the Grand Gallery.
Sophie stood before him now, still catching her breath after doubling
back to the rest room. In the fluorescent lights, Langdon was surprised to
see that her strong air actually radiated from unexpectedly soft features.
Only her gaze was sharp, and the juxtaposition conjured images of a
multilayered Renoir portrait... veiled but distinct, with a boldness that
somehow retained its shroud of mystery.
"I wanted to warn you, Mr. Langdon..." Sophie began, still catching her
breath, "that you are sous surveillance cachue. Under a guarded
observation." As she spoke, her accented English resonated off the tile
walls, giving her voice a hollow quality.
"But... why?" Langdon demanded. Sophie had already given him an
explanation on the phone, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
"Because," she said, stepping toward him, "Fache's primary suspect in
this murder is you."
Langdon was braced for the words, and yet they still sounded utterly
ridiculous. According to Sophie, Langdon had been called to the Louvre
tonight not as a symbologist but rather as a suspect and was currently the
unwitting target of one of DCPJ's favorite interrogation
methods--surveillance cachue--a deft deception in which the police calmly
invited a suspect to a crime scene and interviewed him in hopes he would get
nervous and mistakenly incriminate himself.
"Look in your jacket's left pocket," Sophie said. "You'll find proof
they are watching you."
Langdon felt his apprehension rising. Look in my pocket? It sounded
like some kind of cheap magic trick.
"Just look."
Bewildered, Langdon reached his hand into his tweed jacket's left
pocket--one he never used. Feeling around inside, he found nothing. What the
devil did you expect? He began wondering if Sophie might just be insane
after all. Then his fingers brushed something unexpected. Small and hard.
Pinching the tiny object between his fingers, Langdon pulled it out and
stared in astonishment. It was a metallic, button-shaped disk, about the
size of a watch battery. He had never seen it before. "What the...?"
"GPS tracking dot," Sophie said. "Continuously transmits its location
to a Global Positioning System satellite that DCPJ can monitor. We use them
to monitor people's locations. It's accurate within two feet anywhere on the
globe. They have you on an electronic leash. The agent who picked you up at
the hotel slipped it inside your pocket before you left your room."
Langdon flashed back to the hotel room... his quick shower, getting
dressed, the DCPJ agent politely holding out Langdon's tweed coat as they
left the room. It's cool outside, Mr. Langdon, the agent had said. Spring in
Paris is not all your song boasts. Langdon had thanked him and donned the
jacket.
Sophie's olive gaze was keen. "I didn't tell you about the tracking dot
earlier because I didn't want you checking your pocket in front of Fache. He
can't know you've found it."
Langdon had no idea how to respond.
"They tagged you with GPS because they thought you might run." She
paused. "In fact, they hoped you would run; it would make their case
stronger."
"Why would I run!" Langdon demanded. "I'm innocent!"
"Fache feels otherwise."
Angrily, Langdon stalked toward the trash receptacle to dispose of the
tracking dot.
"No!" Sophie grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Leave it in your pocket.
If you throw it out, the signal will stop moving, and they'll know you found
the dot. The only reason Fache left you alone is because he can monitor
where you are. If he thinks you've discovered what he's doing..." Sophie did
not finish the thought. Instead, she pried the metallic disk from Langdon's
hand and slid it back into the pocket of his tweed coat. "The dot stays with
you. At least for the moment."
Langdon felt lost. "How the hell could Fache actually believe I killed
Jacques Sauniure!"
"He has some fairly persuasive reasons to suspect you." Sophie's
expression was grim. "There is a piece of evidence here that you have not
yet seen. Fache has kept it carefully hidden from you."
Langdon could only stare.
"Do you recall the three lines of text that Sauniure wrote on the
floor?"
Langdon nodded. The numbers and words were imprinted on Langdon's mind.
Sophie's voice dropped to a whisper now. "Unfortunately, what you saw
was not the entire message. There was a fourth line that Fache photographed
and then wiped clean before you arrived."
Although Langdon knew the soluble ink of a watermark stylus could
easily be wiped away, he could not imagine why Fache would erase evidence.
"The last line of the message," Sophie said, "was something Fache did
not want you to know about." She paused. "At least not until he was done
with you."
Sophie produced a computer printout of a photo from her sweater pocket
"Mr. Langdon," Fache said, "certainly a man like yourself is aware that
Leonardo da Vinci had a tendency toward the darker arts."
Langdon was surprised by Fache's knowledge of Da Vinci, and it
certainly went a long way toward explaining the captain's suspicions about
devil worship. Da Vinci had always been an awkward subject for historians,
especially in the Christian tradition. Despite the visionary's genius, he
was a flamboyant homosexual and worshipper of Nature's divine order, both of
which placed him in a perpetual state of sin against God. Moreover, the
artist's eerie eccentricities projected an admittedly demonic aura: Da Vinci
exhumed corpses to study human anatomy; he kept mysterious journals in
illegible reverse handwriting; he believed he possessed the alchemic power
to turn lead into gold and even cheat God by creating an elixir to postpone
death; and his inventions included horrific, never-before-imagined weapons
of war and torture.
Misunderstanding breeds distrust, Langdon thought.
Even Da Vinci's enormous output of breathtaking Christian art only
furthered the artist's reputation for spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting
hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da Vinci painted Christian themes
not as an expression of his own beliefs but rather as a commercial
venture--a means of funding a lavish lifestyle. Unfortunately, Da Vinci was
a prankster who often amused himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed
him. He incorporated in many of his Christian paintings hidden symbolism
that was anything but Christian--tributes to his own beliefs and a subtle
thumbing of his nose at the Church. Langdon had even given a lecture once at
the National Gallery in London entitled: "The Secret Life of Leonardo: Pagan
Symbolism in Christian Art."
"I understand your concerns," Langdon now said, "but Da Vinci never
really practiced any dark arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man,
albeit one in constant conflict with the Church." As Langdon said this, an
odd thought popped into his mind. He glanced down at the message on the
floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
"Yes?" Fache said.
Langdon weighed his words carefully. "I was just thinking that Sauniure
shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da Vinci, including a concern over
the Church's elimination of the sacred feminine from modern religion. Maybe,
by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Sauniure was simply echoing some of
their shared frustrations with the modern Church's demonization of the
goddess."
Fache's eyes hardened. "You think Sauniure is calling the Church a lame
saint and a Draconian devil?"
Langdon had to admit it seemed far-fetched, and yet the pentacle seemed
to endorse the idea on some level. "All I am saying is that Mr. Sauniure
dedicated his life to studying the history of the goddess, and nothing has
done more to erase that history than the Catholic Church. It seems
reasonable that Sauniure might have chosen to express his disappointment in
his final good-bye."
"Disappointment?" Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. "This message
sounds more enraged than disappointed, wouldn't you say?"
Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. "Captain, you asked for
my instincts as to what Sauniure is trying to say here, and that's what I'm
giving you."
"That this is an indictment of the Church?" Fache's jaw tightened as he
spoke through clenched teeth. "Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my
work, and let me tell you something. When a man is murdered by another man,
I do not believe his final thoughts are to write an obscure spiritual
statement that no one will understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing
only." Fache's whispery voice sliced the air. "La vengeance. I believe
Sauniure wrote this note to tell us who killed him." Langdon stared. "But
that makes no sense whatsoever."
"No?"
"No," he fired back, tired and frustrated. "You told me Sauniure was
attacked in his office by someone he had apparently invited in."
"Yes."
"So it seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his
attacker."
Fache nodded. "Go on."
"So if Sauniure knew the person who killed him, what kind of indictment
is this?" He pointed at the floor. "Numeric codes? Lame saints? Draconian
devils? Pentacles on his stomach? It's all too cryptic."
Fache frowned as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You have a
point."
"Considering the circumstances," Langdon said, "I would assume that if
Sauniure wanted to tell you who killed him, he would have written down
somebody's name."
As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Fache's lips for the
first time all night. "Prucisument," Fache said. "Prucisument."
I am witnessing the work of a master, mused Lieutenant Collet as he
tweaked his audio gear and listened to Fache's voice coming through the
headphones. The agent supurieur knew it was moments like these that had
lifted the captain to the pinnacle of French law enforcement.
Fache will do what no one else dares.
The delicate art of cajoler was a lost skill in modern law enforcement,
one that required exceptional poise under pressure. Few men possessed the
necessary sangfroid for this kind of operation, but Fache seemed born for
it. His restraint and patience bordered on the robotic.
Fache's sole emotion this evening seemed to be one of intense resolve,
as if this arrest were somehow personal to him. Fache's briefing of his
agents an hour ago had been unusually succinct and assured. I know who
murdered Jacques Sauniure, Fache had said. You know what to do. No mistakes
tonight.
And so far, no mistakes had been made.
Collet was not yet privy to the evidence that had cemented Fache's
certainty of their suspect's guilt, but he knew better than to question the
instincts of the Bull. Fache's intuition seemed almost supernatural at
times. God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly
impressive display of Fache's sixth sense. Collet had to admit, if there was
a God, Bezu Fache would be on His A-list. The captain attended mass and
confession with zealous regularity--far more than the requisite holiday
attendance fulfilled by other officials in the name of good public
relations. When the Pope visited Paris a few years back, Fache had used all
his muscle to obtain the honor of an audience. A photo of Fache with the
Pope now hung in his office. The Papal Bull, the agents secretly called it.
Collet found it ironic that one of Fache's rare popular public stances
in recent years had been his outspoken reaction to the Catholic pedophilia
scandal. These priests should be hanged twice! Fache had declared. Once for
their crimes against children. And once for shaming the good name of the
Catholic Church. Collet had the odd sense it was the latter that angered
Fache more.
Turning now to his laptop computer, Collet attended to the other half
of his responsibilities here tonight--the GPS tracking system. The image
onscreen revealed a detailed floor plan of the Denon Wing, a structural
schematic uploaded from the Louvre Security Office. Letting his eyes trace
the maze of galleries and hallways, Collet found what he was looking for.
Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery blinked a tiny red dot.
La marque.
Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so.
Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer.
To ensure his conversation with Mr. Langdon would not be interrupted,
Bezu Fache had turned off his cellular phone. Unfortunately, it was an
expensive model equipped with a two-way radio feature, which, contrary to
his orders, was now being used by one of his agents to page him.
"Capitaine?" The phone crackled like a walkie-talkie.
Fache felt his teeth clench in rage. He could imagine nothing important
enough that Collet would interrupt this surveillance cachue--especially at
this critical juncture.
He gave Langdon a calm look of apology. "One moment please." He pulled
the phone from his belt and pressed the radio transmission button. "Oui?"
"Capitaine, un agent du Dupartement de Cryptographie est arrivu."
Fache's anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy
timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Sauniure's cryptic
text on the floor, had uploaded photographs of the entire crime scene to the
Cryptography Department in hopes someone there could tell him what the hell
Sauniure was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most
likely meant someone had decrypted Sauniure's message.
"I'm busy at the moment," Fache radioed back, leaving no doubt in his
tone that a line had been crossed. "Ask the cryptographer to wait at the
command post. I'll speak to him when I'm done."
"Her," the voice corrected. "It's Agent Neveu."
Fache was becoming less amused with this call every passing moment.
Sophie Neveu was one of DCPJ's biggest mistakes. A young Parisian
duchiffreuse who had studied cryptography in England at the Royal Holloway,
Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part of the
ministry's attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The
ministry's ongoing foray into political correctness, Fache argued, was
weakening the department. Women not only lacked the physicality necessary
for police work, but their mere presence posed a dangerous distraction to
the men in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving far more
distracting than most.
At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination that bordered
on obstinate. Her eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic methodology
continually exasperated the veteran French cryptographers above her. And by
far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable universal truth that in
an office of middle-aged men, an attractive young woman always drew eyes
away from the work at hand.
The man on the radio said, "Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you
immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the
gallery."
Fache recoiled in disbelief. "Unacceptable! I made it very clear--"
For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke.
The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes
bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's
shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's
voice chime out behind him.
"Excusez-moi, messieurs."
Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down
the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides... a haunting certainty to
her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater
over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her
thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of
her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard
dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and
genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence.
To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended
a polite hand. "Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology
Department." Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent.
"It is a pleasure to meet you."
Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in
her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green--incisive and clear.
Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a
reprimand.
"Captain," she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch,
"please excuse the interruption, but--"
"Ce n'est pas le moment!" Fache sputtered.
"I tried to phone you." Sophie continued in English, as if out of
courtesy to Langdon. "But your cell phone was turned off."
"I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am speaking to Mr.
Langdon."
"I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code?
Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
"Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for Mr.
Langdon."
Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr.
Langdon?"
She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S.
Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States."
Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way
to a sudden ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to
imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew
he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he
demanded, sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon
here?"
Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the
concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent."
Fache looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?"
"No, sir," Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the DCPJ
switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr.
Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you."
Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to
speak, but Sophie had already turned back to Langdon.
"Mr. Langdon," she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her
pocket, "this is the number for your embassy's messaging service. They asked
that you phone in as soon as possible." She handed him the paper with an
intent gaze. "While I explain the code to Captain Fache, you need to make
this call."
Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on
it. "Thank you," he said, feeling worried now. "Where do I find a phone?"
Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache
waved her off. He now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without
taking his eyes off Sophie, he produced his own cell phone and held it out.
"This line is secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it."
Langdon felt mystified by Fache's anger with the young woman. Feeling
uneasy, he accepted the captain's phone. Fache immediately marched Sophie
several steps away and began chastising her in hushed tones. Disliking the
captain more and more, Langdon turned away from the odd confrontation and
switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of paper Sophie had given him,
Langdon dialed the number.
The line began to ring.
One ring... two rings... three rings...
Finally the call connected.
Langdon expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself
instead listening to an answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was
familiar. It was that of Sophie Neveu.
"Bonjour, vous utes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the woman's voice said.
"Je suis absenle pour le moment, mais..."
Confused, Langdon turned back toward Sophie. "I'm sorry, Ms. Neveu? I
think you may have given me--"
"No, that's the right number," Sophie interjected quickly, as if
anticipating Langdon's confusion. "The embassy has an automated message
system. You have to dial an access code to pick up your messages."
Langdon stared. "But--"
"It's the three-digit code on the paper I gave you."
Langdon opened his mouth to explain the bizarre error, but Sophie
flashed him a silencing glare that lasted only an instant. Her green eyes
sent a crystal-clear message.
Don't ask questions. Just do it.
Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the slip of paper: 454.
Sophie's outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon heard an
electronic voice announce in French: "You have one new message." Apparently,
454 was Sophie's remote access code for picking up her messages while away
from home.
I'm picking up this woman's messages?
Langdon could hear the tape rewinding now. Finally, it stopped, and the
machine engaged. Langdon listened as the message began to play. Again, the
voice on the line was Sophie's.
"Mr. Langdon," the message began in a fearful whisper. "Do not react to
this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my
directions very closely."
Silas sat behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had arranged
for him and gazed out at the great Church of Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath
by banks of floodlights, the church's two bell towers rose like stalwart
sentinels above the building's long body. On either flank, a shadowy row of
sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a beautiful beast.
The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone. Again the
brotherhood had confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion and
deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding the keystone and giving it to
the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long ago stolen
from the faithful.
How powerful that will make Opus Dei.
Parking the Audi on the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled,
telling himself to clear his mind for the task at hand. His broad back still
ached from the corporal mortification he had endured earlier today, and yet
the pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life before
Opus Dei had saved him.
Still, the memories haunted his soul.
Release your hatred, Silas commanded himself. Forgive those who
trespassed against you.
Looking up at the stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that
familiar undertow... that force that often dragged his mind back in time,
locking him once again in the prison that had been his world as a young man.
The memories of purgatory came as they always did, like a tempest to his
senses... the reek of rotting cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and
feces. The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees
and the soft sobs of forgotten men.
Andorra, he thought, feeling his muscles tighten.
Incredibly, it was in that barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain
and France, shivering in his stone cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had
been saved.
He had not realized it at the time.
The light came long after the thunder.
His name was not Silas then, although he didn't recall the name his
parents had given him. He had left home when he was seven. His drunken
father, a burly dockworker, enraged by the arrival of an albino son, beat
his mother regularly, blaming her for the boy's embarrassing condition. When
the boy tried to defend her, he too was badly beaten.
One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got up. The
boy stood over his lifeless mother and felt an unbearable up-welling of
guilt for permitting it to happen.
This is my fault!
As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to
the kitchen and grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the
bedroom where his father lay on the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word,
the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in pain and tried to
roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment
fell quiet.
The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally
unfriendly. His strange appearance made him an outcast among the other young
runaways, and he was forced to live alone in the basement of a dilapidated
factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His only companions
were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to read
them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter--a girl
twice his age--mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food.
The girl found herself pummeled to within inches of her life. When the
authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him an ultimatum--leave
Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.
The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on
the streets turned to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young
man. When people passed by, he could hear them whispering to one another. A
ghost, they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they stared at his
white skin. A ghost with the eyes of a devil!
And he felt like a ghost... transparent... floating from seaport to
seaport.
People seemed to look right through him.
At eighteen, in a port town, while attempting to steal a case of cured
ham from a cargo ship, he was caught by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors
who began to beat him smelled of beer, just as his father had. The memories
of fear and hatred surfaced like a monster from the deep. The young man
broke the first sailor's neck with his bare hands, and only the arrival of
the police saved the second sailor from a similar fate.
Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in Andorra.
You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards
marched him in, naked and cold. Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will
pass right through these walls!
Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he
knew he had become transparent.
I am a ghost.
I am weightless.
Yo soy un espectro... palido coma una fantasma... caminando este mundo
a solas.
One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn't
know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor what
mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to
his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been
sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in
the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten
years. The moon.
Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling
through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and
tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always
downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.
Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a
clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the
rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled
in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving. How long? How
far? A pain was growing in his gut. Am I dying? He slept again. This time he
awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car.
Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for
food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the
side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.
The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been
dead. A day? Three days? It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud,
and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring
down at him. I am here, Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you
are born again.
He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in
heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed,
and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his
bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down,
speaking. You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path.
Again, he slept.
It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber.
His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of
shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller
man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him
backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the
body of a young man in priest's robes. The priest had a badly shattered
nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.
"Thank you, my friend," the priest said in awkward French. "The
offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do
you also speak Spanish?"
The ghost shook his head.
"What is your name?" he continued in broken French.
The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he
heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.
The priest smiled. "No hay problema. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am
a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de
Dios."
"Where am I?" His voice sounded hollow.
"Oviedo. In the north of Spain."
"How did I get here?"
"Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You've been
here many days."
The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone
had shown any kindness. "Thank you, Father."
The priest touched his bloody lip. "It is I who am thankful, my
friend."
When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed
up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to
him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised
to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in
French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of
an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many
dangerous criminals.
His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The emotion he
felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied
by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I run?
"The Book of Acts," a voice said from the door.
The ghost turned, frightened.
The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly
bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. "I found one in French for
you. The chapter is marked."
Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the chapter the
priest had marked.
Acts 16.
The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in
his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped
in shock.
"...And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations
of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open."
His eyes shot up at the priest.
The priest smiled warmly. "From now on, my friend, if you have no other
name, I shall call you Silas."
The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is
Silas.
"It's time for breakfast," the priest said. "You will need your
strength if you are to help me build this church."
Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618
bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop
Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei.
Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone
Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.
"It is for your own safety," the Teacher had explained, speaking in
English with a French accent. "I am familiar enough with electronic
communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be
disastrous for you."
Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally
careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he
had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow
obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood's four top
members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the
Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he
could unearth.
"Bishop," the Teacher had told him, "I have made all the arrangements.
For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to me for
several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him
through secure channels."
"You will treat him with respect?"
"A man of faith deserves the highest."
"Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this
is over."
"I do this to protect your identity, Silas's identity, and my
investment."
"Your investment?"
"Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in
jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee."
The bishop smiled. "A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed."
Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane's
window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A
pittance for something so powerful.
He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail.
Money and faith were powerful motivators.
"Une plaisanterie numurique?" Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie
Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? "Your professional assessment of
Sauniure's code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?"
Fache was in utter incomprehension of this woman's gall. Not only had
she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying to
convince him that Sauniure, in his final moments of life, had been inspired
to leave a mathematical gag?
"This code," Sophie explained in rapid French, "is simplistic to the
point of absurdity. Jacques Sauniure must have known we would see through it
immediately." She pulled a scrap of paper from her sweater pocket and handed
it to Fache. "Here is the decryption."
Fache looked at the card.
1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21
"This is it?" he snapped. "All you did was put the numbers in
increasing order!"
Sophie actually had the nerve to give a satisfied smile. "Exactly."
Fache's tone lowered to a guttural rumble. "Agent Neveu, I have no idea
where the hell you're going with this, but I suggest you get there fast." He
shot an anxious glance at Langdon, who stood nearby with the phone pressed
to his ear, apparently still listening to his phone message from the U.S.
Embassy. From Langdon's ashen expression, Fache sensed the news was bad.
"Captain," Sophie said, her tone dangerously defiant, "the sequence of
numbers you have in your hand happens to be one of the most famous
mathematical progressions in history."
Fache was not aware there even existed a mathematical progression that
qualified as famous, and he certainly didn't appreciate Sophie's off-handed
tone.
"This is the Fibonacci sequence," she declared, nodding toward the
piece of paper in Fache's hand. "A progression in which each term is equal
to the sum of the two preceding terms."
Fache studied the numbers. Each term was indeed the sum of the two
previous, and yet Fache could not imagine what the relevance of all this was
to Sauniure's death.
"Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of numbers in
the thirteenth-century. Obviously there can be no coincidence that all of
the numbers Sauniure wrote on the floor belong to Fibonacci's famous
sequence."
Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. "Fine, if there is
no coincidence, would you tell me why Jacques Sauniure chose to do this.
What is he saying? What does this mean?"
She shrugged. "Absolutely nothing. That's the point. It's a simplistic
cryptographic joke. Like taking the words of a famous poem and shuffling
them at random to see if anyone recognizes what all the words have in
common."
Fache took a menacing step forward, placing his face only inches from
Sophie's. "I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying explanation than
that."
Sophie's soft features grew surprisingly stern as she leaned in.
"Captain, considering what you have at stake here tonight, I thought you
might appreciate knowing that Jacques Sauniure might be playing games with
you. Apparently not. I'll inform the director of Cryptography you no longer
need our services."
With that, she turned on her heel, and marched off the way she had
come.
Stunned, Fache watched her disappear into the darkness. Is she out of
her mind? Sophie Neveu had just redefined le suicide professionnel.
Fache turned to Langdon, who was still on the phone, looking more
concerned than before, listening intently to his phone message. The U.S.
Embassy. Bezu Fache despised many things... but few drew more wrath than the
U.S. Embassy.
Fache and the ambassador locked horns regularly over shared affairs of
state--their most common battleground being law enforcement for visiting
Americans. Almost daily, DCPJ arrested American exchange students in
possession of drugs, U.S. businessmen for soliciting underage Prostitutes,
American tourists for shoplifting or destruction of property. Legally, the
U.S. Embassy could intervene and extradite guilty citizens back to the
United States, where they received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
And the embassy invariably did just that.
L'umasculation de la Police Judiciaire, Fache called it. Paris Match
had run a cartoon recently depicting Fache as a police dog, trying to bite
an American criminal, but unable to reach because it was chained to the U.S.
Embassy.
Not tonight, Fache told himself. There is far too much at stake.
By the time Robert Langdon hung up the phone, he looked ill.
"Is everything all right?" Fache asked.
Weakly, Langdon shook his head.
Bad news from home, Fache sensed, noticing Langdon was sweating
slightly as Fache took back his cell phone.
"An accident," Langdon stammered, looking at Fache with a strange
expression. "A friend..." He hesitated. "I'll need to fly home first thing
in the morning."
Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdon's face was genuine, and yet he
sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant fear were suddenly
simmering in the American's eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," Fache said,
watching Langdon closely. "Would you like to sit down?" He motioned toward
one of the viewing benches in the gallery.
Langdon nodded absently and took a few steps toward the bench. He
paused, looking more confused with every moment. "Actually, I think I'd like
to use the rest room."
Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. "The rest room. Of course. Let's
take a break for a few minutes." He motioned back down the long hallway in
the direction they had come from. "The rest rooms are back toward the
curator's office."
Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward the far end
of the Grand Gallery corridor. "I believe there's a much closer rest room at
the end."
Fache realized Langdon was right. They were two thirds of the way down,
and the Grand Gallery dead-ended at a pair of rest rooms. "Shall I accompany
you?"
Langdon shook his head, already moving deeper into the gallery. "Not
necessary. I think I'd like a few minutes alone."
Fache was not wild about the idea of Langdon wandering alone down the
remaining length of corridor, but he took comfort in knowing the Grand
Gallery was a dead end whose only exit was at the other end--the gate under
which they had entered. Although French fire regulations required several
emergency stairwells for a space this large, those stairwells had been
sealed automatically when Sauniure tripped the security system. Granted,
that system had now been reset, unlocking the stairwells, but it didn't
matter--the external doors, if opened, would set off fire alarms and were
guarded outside by DCPJ agents. Langdon could not possibly leave without
Fache knowing about it.
"I need to return to Mr. Sauniure's office for a moment," Fache said.
"Please come find me directly, Mr. Langdon. There is more we need to
discuss."
Langdon gave a quiet wave as he disappeared into the darkness.
Turning, Fache marched angrily in the opposite direction. Arriving at
the gate, he slid under, exited the Grand Gallery, marched down the hall,
and stormed into the command center at Sauniure's office.
"Who gave the approval to let Sophie Neveu into this building!" Fache
bellowed.
Collet was the first to answer. "She told the guards outside she'd
broken the code."
Fache looked around. "Is she gone?"
"She's not with you?"
"She left." Fache glanced out at the darkened hallway. Apparently
Sophie had been in no mood to stop by and chat with the other officers on
her way out.
For a moment, Fache considered radioing the guards in the entresol and
telling them to stop Sophie and drag her back up here before she could leave
the premises. He thought better of it. That was only his pride talking...
wanting the last word. He'd had enough distractions tonight.
Deal with Agent Neveu later, he told himself, already looking forward
to firing her.
Pushing Sophie from his mind, Fache stared for a moment at the
miniature knight standing on Sauniure's desk. Then he turned back to Collet.
"Do you have him?"
Collet gave a curt nod and spun the laptop toward Fache. The red dot
was clearly visible on the floor plan overlay, blinking methodically in a
room marked TOILETTES PUBLIQUES.
"Good," Fache said, lighting a cigarette and stalking into the hall.
I've got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the only
place Langdon goes."
Robert Langdon felt light-headed as he trudged toward the end of the
Grand Gallery. Sophie's phone message played over and over in his mind. At
the end of the corridor, illuminated signs bearing the international
stick-figure symbols for rest rooms guided him through a maze-like series of
dividers displaying Italian drawings and hiding the rest rooms from sight.
Finding the men's room door, Langdon entered and turned on the lights.
The room was empty.
Walking to the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and tried to
wake up. Harsh fluorescent lights glared off the stark tile, and the room
smelled of ammonia. As he toweled off, the rest room's door creaked open
behind him. He spun.
Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing fear. "Thank God you
came. We don't have much time."
Langdon stood beside the sinks, staring in bewilderment at DCPJ
cryptographer Sophie Neveu. Only minutes ago, Langdon had listened to her
phone message, thinking the newly arrived cryptographer must be insane. And
yet, the more he listened, the more he sensed Sophie Neveu was speaking in
earnest. Do not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger
right now. Follow my directions very closely. Filled with uncertainty,
Langdon had decided to do exactly as Sophie advised. He told Fache that the
phone message was regarding an injured friend back home. Then he had asked
to use the rest room at the end of the Grand Gallery.
Sophie stood before him now, still catching her breath after doubling
back to the rest room. In the fluorescent lights, Langdon was surprised to
see that her strong air actually radiated from unexpectedly soft features.
Only her gaze was sharp, and the juxtaposition conjured images of a
multilayered Renoir portrait... veiled but distinct, with a boldness that
somehow retained its shroud of mystery.
"I wanted to warn you, Mr. Langdon..." Sophie began, still catching her
breath, "that you are sous surveillance cachue. Under a guarded
observation." As she spoke, her accented English resonated off the tile
walls, giving her voice a hollow quality.
"But... why?" Langdon demanded. Sophie had already given him an
explanation on the phone, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
"Because," she said, stepping toward him, "Fache's primary suspect in
this murder is you."
Langdon was braced for the words, and yet they still sounded utterly
ridiculous. According to Sophie, Langdon had been called to the Louvre
tonight not as a symbologist but rather as a suspect and was currently the
unwitting target of one of DCPJ's favorite interrogation
methods--surveillance cachue--a deft deception in which the police calmly
invited a suspect to a crime scene and interviewed him in hopes he would get
nervous and mistakenly incriminate himself.
"Look in your jacket's left pocket," Sophie said. "You'll find proof
they are watching you."
Langdon felt his apprehension rising. Look in my pocket? It sounded
like some kind of cheap magic trick.
"Just look."
Bewildered, Langdon reached his hand into his tweed jacket's left
pocket--one he never used. Feeling around inside, he found nothing. What the
devil did you expect? He began wondering if Sophie might just be insane
after all. Then his fingers brushed something unexpected. Small and hard.
Pinching the tiny object between his fingers, Langdon pulled it out and
stared in astonishment. It was a metallic, button-shaped disk, about the
size of a watch battery. He had never seen it before. "What the...?"
"GPS tracking dot," Sophie said. "Continuously transmits its location
to a Global Positioning System satellite that DCPJ can monitor. We use them
to monitor people's locations. It's accurate within two feet anywhere on the
globe. They have you on an electronic leash. The agent who picked you up at
the hotel slipped it inside your pocket before you left your room."
Langdon flashed back to the hotel room... his quick shower, getting
dressed, the DCPJ agent politely holding out Langdon's tweed coat as they
left the room. It's cool outside, Mr. Langdon, the agent had said. Spring in
Paris is not all your song boasts. Langdon had thanked him and donned the
jacket.
Sophie's olive gaze was keen. "I didn't tell you about the tracking dot
earlier because I didn't want you checking your pocket in front of Fache. He
can't know you've found it."
Langdon had no idea how to respond.
"They tagged you with GPS because they thought you might run." She
paused. "In fact, they hoped you would run; it would make their case
stronger."
"Why would I run!" Langdon demanded. "I'm innocent!"
"Fache feels otherwise."
Angrily, Langdon stalked toward the trash receptacle to dispose of the
tracking dot.
"No!" Sophie grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Leave it in your pocket.
If you throw it out, the signal will stop moving, and they'll know you found
the dot. The only reason Fache left you alone is because he can monitor
where you are. If he thinks you've discovered what he's doing..." Sophie did
not finish the thought. Instead, she pried the metallic disk from Langdon's
hand and slid it back into the pocket of his tweed coat. "The dot stays with
you. At least for the moment."
Langdon felt lost. "How the hell could Fache actually believe I killed
Jacques Sauniure!"
"He has some fairly persuasive reasons to suspect you." Sophie's
expression was grim. "There is a piece of evidence here that you have not
yet seen. Fache has kept it carefully hidden from you."
Langdon could only stare.
"Do you recall the three lines of text that Sauniure wrote on the
floor?"
Langdon nodded. The numbers and words were imprinted on Langdon's mind.
Sophie's voice dropped to a whisper now. "Unfortunately, what you saw
was not the entire message. There was a fourth line that Fache photographed
and then wiped clean before you arrived."
Although Langdon knew the soluble ink of a watermark stylus could
easily be wiped away, he could not imagine why Fache would erase evidence.
"The last line of the message," Sophie said, "was something Fache did
not want you to know about." She paused. "At least not until he was done
with you."
Sophie produced a computer printout of a photo from her sweater pocket