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First and foremost, to my friend and editor, Jason Kaufman, for working
so hard on this project and for truly understanding what this book is all
about. And to the incomparable Heide Lange--tireless champion of The Da
Vinci Code, agent extraordinaire, and trusted friend.
I cannot fully express my gratitude to the exceptional team at
Doubleday, for their generosity, faith, and superb guidance. Thank you
especially to Bill Thomas and Steve Rubin, who believed in this book from
the start. My thanks also to the initial core of early in-house supporters,
headed by Michael Palgon, Suzanne Herz, Janelle Moburg, Jackie Everly, and
Adrienne Sparks, as well as to the talented people of Doubleday's sales
force.
For their generous assistance in the research of the book, I would like
to acknowledge the Louvre Museum, the French Ministry of Culture, Project
Gutenberg, Bibliothuque Nationale, the Gnostic Society Library, the
Department of Paintings Study and Documentation Service at the Louvre,
Catholic World News, Royal Observatory Greenwich, London Record Society, the
Muniment Collection at Westminster Abbey, John Pike and the Federation of
American Scientists, and the five members of Opus Dei (three active, two
former) who recounted their stories, both positive and negative, regarding
their experiences inside Opus Dei.
My gratitude also to Water Street Bookstore for tracking down so many
of my research books, my father Richard Brown--mathematics teacher and
author--for his assistance with the Divine Proportion and the Fibonacci
Sequence, Stan Planton, Sylvie Baudeloque, Peter McGuigan, Francis
McInerney, Margie Wachtel, Andru Vernet, Ken Kelleher at Anchorball Web
Media, Cara Sottak, Karyn Popham, Esther Sung, Miriam Abramowitz, William
Tunstall-Pedoe, and Griffin Wooden Brown.
And finally, in a novel drawing so heavily on the sacred feminine, I
would be remiss if I did not mention the two extraordinary women who have
touched my life. First, my mother, Connie Brown--fellow scribe, nurturer,
musician, and role model. And my wife, Blythe--art historian, painter,
front-line editor, and without a doubt the most astonishingly talented woman
I have ever known.
The Priory of Sion--a European secret society founded in 1099--is a
real organization. In 1975 Paris's Bibliothuque Nationale discovered
parchments known as Les Dossiers Secrets, identifying numerous members of
the Priory of Sion, including Sir Isaac Newton, Botticelli, Victor Hugo, and
Leonardo da Vinci.
The Vatican prelature known as Opus Dei is a deeply devout Catholic
sect that has been the topic of recent controversy due to reports of
brainwashing, coercion, and a dangerous practice known as "corporal
mortification." Opus Dei has just completed construction of a $47 million
World Headquarters at 243 Lexington Avenue in New York City.
All descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret
rituals in this novel are accurate.
Renowned curator Jacques Sauniure staggered through the vaulted archway
of the museum's Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could
see, a Caravaggio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man
heaved the masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and
Sauniure collapsed backward in a heap beneath the canvas.
As he had anticipated, a thundering iron gate fell nearby, barricading
the entrance to the suite. The parquet floor shook. Far off, an alarm began
to ring.
The curator lay a moment, gasping for breath, taking stock. I am still
alive. He crawled out from under the canvas and scanned the cavernous space
for someplace to hide.
A voice spoke, chillingly close. "Do not move."
On his hands and knees, the curator froze, turning his head slowly.
Only fifteen feet away, outside the sealed gate, the mountainous
silhouette of his attacker stared through the iron bars. He was broad and
tall, with ghost-pale skin and thinning white hair. His irises were pink
with dark red pupils. The albino drew a pistol from his coat and aimed the
barrel through the bars, directly at the curator. "You should not have run."
His accent was not easy to place. "Now tell me where it is."
"I told you already," the curator stammered, kneeling defenseless on
the floor of the gallery. "I have no idea what you are talking about!"
"You are lying." The man stared at him, perfectly immobile except for
the glint in his ghostly eyes. "You and your brethren possess something that
is not yours."
The curator felt a surge of adrenaline. How could he possibly know
this?
"Tonight the rightful guardians will be restored. Tell me where it is
hidden, and you will live." The man leveled his gun at the curator's head.
"Is it a secret you will die for?"
Sauniure could not breathe.
The man tilted his head, peering down the barrel of his gun.
Sauniure held up his hands in defense. "Wait," he said slowly. "I will
tell you what you need to know." The curator spoke his next words carefully.
The lie he told was one he had rehearsed many times... each time praying he
would never have to use it.
When the curator had finished speaking, his assailant smiled smugly.
"Yes. This is exactly what the others told me."
Sauniure recoiled. The others?
"I found them, too," the huge man taunted. "All three of them. They
confirmed what you have just said."
It cannot be! The curator's true identity, along with the identities of
his three sunuchaux, was almost as sacred as the ancient secret they
protected. Sauniure now realized his sunuchaux, following strict procedure,
had told the same lie before their own deaths. It was part of the protocol.
The attacker aimed his gun again. "When you are gone, I will be the
only one who knows the truth."
The truth. In an instant, the curator grasped the true horror of the
situation. If I die, the truth will be lost forever. Instinctively, he tried
to scramble for cover.
The gun roared, and the curator felt a searing heat as the bullet
lodged in his stomach. He fell forward... struggling against the pain.
Slowly, Sauniure rolled over and stared back through the bars at his
attacker.
The man was now taking dead aim at Sauniure's head.
Sauniure closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest of fear and
regret.
The click of an empty chamber echoed through the corridor.
The curator's eyes flew open.
The man glanced down at his weapon, looking almost amused. He reached
for a second clip, but then seemed to reconsider, smirking calmly at
Sauniure's gut. "My work here is done."
The curator looked down and saw the bullet hole in his white linen
shirt. It was framed by a small circle of blood a few inches below his
breastbone. My stomach. Almost cruelly, the bullet had missed his heart. As
a veteran of la Guerre d'Algurie, the curator had witnessed this horribly
drawn-out death before. For fifteen minutes, he would survive as his stomach
acids seeped into his chest cavity, slowly poisoning him from within.
"Pain is good, monsieur," the man said.
Then he was gone.
Alone now, Jacques Sauniure turned his gaze again to the iron gate. He
was trapped, and the doors could not be reopened for at least twenty
minutes. By the time anyone got to him, he would be dead. Even so, the fear
that now gripped him was a fear far greater than that of his own death.
I must pass on the secret.
Staggering to his feet, he pictured his three murdered brethren. He
thought of the generations who had come before them... of the mission with
which they had all been entrusted.
An unbroken chain of knowledge.
Suddenly, now, despite all the precautions... despite all the
fail-safes... Jacques Sauniure was the only remaining link, the sole
guardian of one of the most powerful secrets ever kept.
Shivering, he pulled himself to his feet.
I must find some way....
He was trapped inside the Grand Gallery, and there existed only one
person on earth to whom he could pass the torch. Sauniure gazed up at the
walls of his opulent prison. A collection of the world's most famous
paintings seemed to smile down on him like old friends.
Wincing in pain, he summoned all of his faculties and strength. The
desperate task before him, he knew, would require every remaining second of
his life.
Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darkness--a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He
fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings
he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed
walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed.
Where the hell am I?
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL
RITZ PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"
Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had
been asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but
you have a visitor. He insists it is urgent."
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled
flyer on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON
PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture--a slide show about pagan symbolism
hidden in the stones of Chartres Cathedral--had probably ruffled some
conservative feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar
had trailed him home to pick a fight.
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and--"
"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an
urgent whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult
symbology had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year
Langdon's visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a
widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of
self-important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed
never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain
polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll try to
call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before the
concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations
Handbook, whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS.
SLUMBER AT THE PARIS RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length
mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger--tousled
and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate
seeing proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and
drawn tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin.
Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way
deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues
insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed
him as one of that city's top ten most intriguing people--a dubious honor
that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues.
Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to
haunt him at the lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at
the American University of Paris's Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight
needs no introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of
Secret Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and
when I say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite
literally. Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive
curriculum vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was
seated onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we
say... intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and
Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds
later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up.
"And Mr. Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last
year's Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter."
The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like
some of our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than
his share of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an
unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe
as 'chocolate for the ears.' "
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next--some
ridiculous line about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"--and because this
evening he had figured it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed
and Burberry turtleneck, he decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her
away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He
turned to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of
you provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power
of symbols..."
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence.
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"
As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I
am calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I
thought I should alert you."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the
authority to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?"
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door.
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into
the savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the
door. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was
accented--a sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet.
Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent
of the U.S. FBI.
Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few
inches. The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was
exceptionally lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.
"May I come in?" the agent asked.
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes
studied him. "What is this all about?"
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the
Louvre this evening?"
Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator
Jacques Sauniure had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture
tonight, but Sauniure had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"
"We found your name in his daily planner."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the
narrow opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock
gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question,
considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."
Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The
image was gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling
sense of duju vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a
photograph of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours
later, he had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was
entirely different, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly
familiar.
The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture.
"This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..."
"Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who
would do this to someone."
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see
in this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Sauniure did that to himself."
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front
gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyure. The spiked
cilice belt that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and yet his
soul sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord.
Pain is good.
His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He
climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow
numeraries. His bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He
entered, closing the door behind him.
The room was spartan--hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in
the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet
for many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New York
City.
The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.
Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying
to the dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and
placed a call.
"Yes?" a male voice answered.
"Teacher, I have returned."
"Speak," the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.
"All four are gone. The three sunuchaux... and the Grand Master
himself."
There was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have
the information?"
"All four concurred. Independently."
"And you believed them?"
"Their agreement was too great for coincidence."
An excited breath. "Excellent. I had feared the brotherhood's
reputation for secrecy might prevail."
"The prospect of death is strong motivation."
"So, my pupil, tell me what I must know."
Silas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come
as a shock. "Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of the clef de
voute... the legendary keystone."
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the
Teacher's excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected."
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone--a clef
de voute... or keystone--an engraved tablet that revealed the final resting
place of the brotherhood's greatest secret... information so powerful that
its protection was the reason for the brotherhood's very existence.
"When we possess the keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one
step away."
"We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris."
"Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy."
Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening... how all four of his
victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back their
godless lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same
thing--that the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location inside
one of Paris's ancient churches--the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice.
"Inside a house of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock
us!"
"As they have for centuries."
The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this moment
settle over him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to God.
We have waited centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me.
Immediately. Tonight. You understand the stakes."
Silas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was
now commanding seemed impossible. "But the church, it is a fortress.
Especially at night. How will I enter?"
With the confident tone of a man of enormous influence, the Teacher
explained what was to be done.
When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with anticipation.
One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given him time
to carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of God. I must
purge my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today had been holy in
purpose. Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for
centuries. Forgiveness was assured.
Even so, Silas knew, absolution required sacrifice.
Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of his
room. Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around his
thigh. All true followers of The Way wore this device--a leather strap,
studded with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual
reminder of Christ's suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped
counteract the desires of the flesh.
Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the
requisite two hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the buckle,
he cinched it one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into his
flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain.
Pain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father
Josemarua Escrivu--the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escrivu had died in
1975, his wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of
faithful servants around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed
the sacred practice known as "corporal mortification."
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on
the floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots were caked with dried blood.
Eager for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said a quick prayer.
Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and swung it hard
over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back. He whipped it
over his shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and again, he lashed.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow.
The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citroun ZX
as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vendume. In the
passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city tear past him as he tried to
clear his thoughts. His quick shower and shave had left him looking
reasonably presentable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The
frightening image of the curator's body remained locked in his mind.
Jacques Sauniure is dead.
Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curator's
death. Despite Sauniure's reputation for being reclusive, his recognition
for dedication to the arts made him an easy man to revere. His books on the
secret codes hidden in the paintings of Poussin and Teniers were some of
Langdon's favorite classroom texts. Tonight's meeting had been one Langdon
was very much looking forward to, and he was disappointed when the curator
had not shown.
Again the image of the curator's body flashed in his mind. Jacques
Sauniure did that to himself? Langdon turned and looked out the window,
forcing the picture from his mind.
Outside, the city was just now winding down--street vendors wheeling
carts of candied amandes, waiters carrying bags of garbage to the curb, a
pair of late night lovers cuddling to stay warm in a breeze scented with
jasmine blossom. The Citroun navigated the chaos with authority, its
dissonant two-tone siren parting the traffic like a knife.
"Le capitaine was pleased to discover you were still in Paris tonight,"
the agent said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hotel. "A
fortunate coincidence."
Langdon was feeling anything but fortunate, and coincidence was a
concept he did not entirely trust. As someone who had spent his life
exploring the hidden interconnectivity of disparate emblems and ideologies,
Langdon viewed the world as a web of profoundly intertwined histories and
events. The connections may be invisible, he often preached to his symbology
classes at Harvard, but they are always there, buried just beneath the
surface.
"I assume," Langdon said, "that the American University of Paris told
you where I was staying?"
The driver shook his head. "Interpol."
Interpol, Langdon thought. Of course. He had forgotten that the
seemingly innocuous request of all European hotels to see a passport at
check-in was more than a quaint formality--it was the law. On any given
night, all across Europe, Interpol officials could pinpoint exactly who was
sleeping where. Finding Langdon at the Ritz had probably taken all of five
seconds.
As the Citroun accelerated southward across the city, the illuminated
profile of the Eiffel Tower appeared, shooting skyward in the distance to
the right. Seeing it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful
promise a year ago that every six months they would meet again at a
different romantic spot on the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected,
would have made their list. Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy
airport in Rome more than a year ago.
"Did you mount her?" the agent asked, looking over.
Langdon glanced up, certain he had misunderstood. "I beg your pardon?"
"She is lovely, no?" The agent motioned through the windshield toward
the Eiffel Tower. "Have you mounted her?"
Langdon rolled his eyes. "No, I haven't climbed the tower."
"She is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect."
Langdon nodded absently. Symbologists often remarked that France--a
country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and diminutive insecure leaders
like Napoleon and Pepin the Short--could not have chosen a more apt national
emblem than a thousand-foot phallus.
When they reached the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, the traffic light
was red, but the Citroun didn't slow. The agent gunned the sedan across the
junction and sped onto a wooded section of Rue Castiglione, which served as
the northern entrance to the famed Tuileries Gardens--Paris's own version of
Central Park. Most tourists mistranslated Jardins des Tuileries as relating
to the thousands of tulips that bloomed here, but Tuileries was actually a
literal reference to something far less romantic. This park had once been an
enormous, polluted excavation pit from which Parisian contractors mined clay
to manufacture the city's famous red roofing tiles--or tuiles.
As they entered the deserted park, the agent reached under the dash and
turned off the blaring siren. Langdon exhaled, savoring the sudden quiet.
Outside the car, the pale wash of halogen headlights skimmed over the
crushed gravel parkway, the rugged whir of the tires intoning a hypnotic
rhythm. Langdon had always considered the Tuileries to be sacred ground.
These were the gardens in which Claude Monet had experimented with form and
color, and literally inspired the birth of the Impressionist movement.
Tonight, however, this place held a strange aura of foreboding.
The Citroun swerved left now, angling west down the park's central
boulevard. Curling around a circular pond, the driver cut across a desolate
avenue out into a wide quadrangle beyond. Langdon could now see the end of
the Tuileries Gardens, marked by a giant stone archway.
Arc du Carrousel.
Despite the orgiastic rituals once held at the Arc du Carrousel, art
aficionados revered this place for another reason entirely. From the
esplanade at the end of the Tuileries, four of the finest art museums in the
world could be seen... one at each point of the compass.
Out the right-hand window, south across the Seine and Quai Voltaire,
Langdon could see the dramatically lit facade of the old train station--now
the esteemed Musue d'Orsay. Glancing left, he could make out the top of the
ultramodern Pompidou Center, which housed the Museum of Modern Art. Behind
him to the west, Langdon knew the ancient obelisk of Ramses rose above the
trees, marking the Musue du Jeu de Paume.
But it was straight ahead, to the east, through the archway, that
Langdon could now see the monolithic Renaissance palace that had become the
most famous art museum in the world.
Musue du Louvre.
Langdon felt a familiar tinge of wonder as his eyes made a futile
attempt to absorb the entire mass of the edifice. Across a staggeringly
expansive plaza, the imposing facade of the Louvre rose like a citadel
against the Paris sky. Shaped like an enormous horseshoe, the Louvre was the
longest building in Europe, stretching farther than three Eiffel Towers laid
end to end. Not even the million square feet of open plaza between the
museum wings could challenge the majesty of the facade's breadth. Langdon
had once walked the Louvre's entire perimeter, an astonishing three-mile
journey.
Despite the estimated five days it would take a visitor to properly
appreciate the 65,300 pieces of art in this building, most tourists chose an
abbreviated experience Langdon referred to as "Louvre Lite"--a full sprint
through the museum to see the three most famous objects: the Mona Lisa,
Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory. Art Buchwald had once boasted he'd seen
all three masterpieces in five minutes and fifty-six seconds.
The driver pulled out a handheld walkie-talkie and spoke in rapid-fire
French. "Monsieur Langdon est arrivu. Deux minutes."
An indecipherable confirmation came crackling back.
The agent stowed the device, turning now to Langdon. "You will meet the
capitaine at the main entrance."
The driver ignored the signs prohibiting auto traffic on the plaza,
revved the engine, and gunned the Citroun up over the curb. The Louvre's
main entrance was visible now, rising boldly in the distance, encircled by
seven triangular pools from which spouted illuminated fountains.
La Pyramide.
The new entrance to the Paris Louvre had become almost as famous as the
museum itself. The controversial, neomodern glass pyramid designed by
Chinese-born American architect I. M. Pei still evoked scorn from
traditionalists who felt it destroyed the dignity of the Renaissance
courtyard. Goethe had described architecture as frozen music, and Pei's
critics described this pyramid as fingernails on a chalkboard. Progressive
admirers, though, hailed Pei's seventy-one-foot-tall transparent pyramid as
a dazzling synergy of ancient structure and modern method--a symbolic link
between the old and new--helping usher the Louvre into the next millennium.
"Do you like our pyramid?" the agent asked.
Langdon frowned. The French, it seemed, loved to ask Americans this. It
was a loaded question, of course. Admitting you liked the pyramid made you a
tasteless American, and expressing dislike was an insult to the French.
"Mitterrand was a bold man," Langdon replied, splitting the difference.
The late French president who had commissioned the pyramid was said to have
suffered from a "Pharaoh complex." Singlehandedly responsible for filling
Paris with Egyptian obelisks, art, and artifacts.
Franuois Mitterrand had an affinity for Egyptian culture that was so
all-consuming that the French still referred to him as the Sphinx.
"What is the captain's name?" Langdon asked, changing topics.
"Bezu Fache," the driver said, approaching the pyramid's main entrance.
"We call him le Taureau."
Langdon glanced over at him, wondering if every Frenchman had a
mysterious animal epithet. "You call your captain the Bull?"
The man arched his eyebrows. "Your French is better than you admit,
Monsieur Langdon."
My French stinks, Langdon thought, but my zodiac iconography is pretty
good. Taurus was always the bull. Astrology was a symbolic constant all over
the world.
The agent pulled the car to a stop and pointed between two fountains to
a large door in the side of the pyramid. "There is the entrance. Good luck,
monsieur."
"You're not coming?"
"My orders are to leave you here. I have other business to attend to."
Langdon heaved a sigh and climbed out. It's your circus.
The agent revved his engine and sped off.
As Langdon stood alone and watched the departing taillights, he
realized he could easily reconsider, exit the courtyard, grab a taxi, and
head home to bed. Something told him it was probably a lousy idea.
As he moved toward the mist of the fountains, Langdon had the uneasy
sense he was crossing an imaginary threshold into another world. The
dreamlike quality of the evening was settling around him again. Twenty
minutes ago he had been asleep in his hotel room. Now he was standing in
front of a transparent pyramid built by the Sphinx, waiting for a policeman
they called the Bull.
I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting, he thought.
Langdon strode to the main entrance--an enormous revolving door. The
foyer beyond was dimly lit and deserted.
Do I knock?
Langdon wondered if any of Harvard's revered Egyptologists had ever
knocked on the front door of a pyramid and expected an answer. He raised his
hand to bang on the glass, but out of the darkness below, a figure appeared,
striding up the curving staircase. The man was stocky and dark, almost
Neanderthal, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit that strained to cover
his wide shoulders. He advanced with unmistakable authority on squat,
powerful legs. He was speaking on his cell phone but finished the call as he
arrived. He motioned for Langdon to enter.
"I am Bezu Fache," he announced as Langdon pushed through the revolving
door. "Captain of the Central Directorate Judicial Police." His tone was
fitting--a guttural rumble... like a gathering storm.
Langdon held out his hand to shake. "Robert Langdon."
Fache's enormous palm wrapped around Langdon's with crushing force.
"I saw the photo," Langdon said. "Your agent said Jacques Sauniure
himself did--"
"Mr. Langdon," Fache's ebony eyes locked on. "What you see in the photo
is only the beginning of what Sauniure did."
Captain Bezu Fache carried himself like an angry ox, with his wide
shoulders thrown back and his chin tucked hard into his chest. His dark hair
was slicked back with oil, accentuating an arrow-like widow's peak that
divided his jutting brow and preceded him like the prow of a battleship. As
he advanced, his dark eyes seemed to scorch the earth before him, radiating
a fiery clarity that forecast his reputation for unblinking severity in all
matters.
Langdon followed the captain down the famous marble staircase into the
sunken atrium beneath the glass pyramid. As they descended, they passed
between two armed Judicial Police guards with machine guns. The message was
clear: Nobody goes in or out tonight without the blessing of Captain Fache.
Descending below ground level, Langdon fought a rising trepidation.
Fache's presence was anything but welcoming, and the Louvre itself had an
almost sepulchral aura at this hour. The staircase, like the aisle of a dark
movie theater, was illuminated by subtle tread-lighting embedded in each
step. Langdon could hear his own footsteps reverberating off the glass
overhead. As he glanced up, he could see the faint illuminated wisps of mist
from the fountains fading away outside the transparent roof.
"Do you approve?" Fache asked, nodding upward with his broad chin.
Langdon sighed, too tired to play games. "Yes, your pyramid is
magnificent."
Fache grunted. "A scar on the face of Paris."
Strike one. Langdon sensed his host was a hard man to please. He
wondered if Fache had any idea that this pyramid, at President Mitterrand's
explicit demand, had been constructed of exactly 666 panes of glass--a
bizarre request that had always been a hot topic among conspiracy buffs who
claimed 666 was the number of Satan.
Langdon decided not to bring it up.
As they dropped farther into the subterranean foyer, the yawning space
slowly emerged from the shadows. Built fifty-seven feet beneath ground
level, the Louvre's newly constructed 70,000-square-foot lobby spread out
like an endless grotto. Constructed in warm ocher marble to be compatible
with the honey-colored stone of the Louvre facade above, the subterranean
hall was usually vibrant with sunlight and tourists. Tonight, however, the
lobby was barren and dark, giving the entire space a cold and crypt-like
atmosphere.
"And the museum's regular security staff?" Langdon asked.
"En quarantaine," Fache replied, sounding as if Langdon were
questioning the integrity of Fache's team. "Obviously, someone gained entry
tonight who should not have. All Louvre night wardens are in the Sully Wing
being questioned. My own agents have taken over museum security for the
evening."
Langdon nodded, moving quickly to keep pace with Fache.
"How well did you know Jacques Sauniure?" the captain asked.
"Actually, not at all. We'd never met."
Fache looked surprised. "Your first meeting was to be tonight?"
"Yes. We'd planned to meet at the American University reception
following my lecture, but he never showed up."
Fache scribbled some notes in a little book. As they walked, Langdon
caught a glimpse of the Louvre's lesser-known pyramid--La Pyramide
Inversue--a huge inverted skylight that hung from the ceiling like a
stalactite in an adjoining section of the entresol. Fache guided Langdon up
a short set of stairs to the mouth of an arched tunnel, over which a sign
read: DENON. The Denon Wing was the most famous of the Louvre's three main
sections.
"Who requested tonight's meeting?" Fache asked suddenly. "You or he?"
The question seemed odd. "Mr. Sauniure did," Langdon replied as they
entered the tunnel. "His secretary contacted me a few weeks ago via e-mail.
She said the curator had heard I would be lecturing in Paris this month and
wanted to discuss something with me while I was here."
"Discuss what?"
"I don't know. Art, I imagine. We share similar interests."
Fache looked skeptical. "You have no idea what your meeting was about?"
Langdon did not. He'd been curious at the time but had not felt
comfortable demanding specifics. The venerated Jacques Sauniure had a
renowned penchant for privacy and granted very few meetings; Langdon was
grateful simply for the opportunity to meet him.
"Mr. Langdon, can you at least guess what our murder victim might have
wanted to discuss with you on the night he was killed? It might be helpful."
The pointedness of the question made Langdon uncomfortable. "I really
can't imagine. I didn't ask. I felt honored to have been contacted at all.
I'm an admirer of Mr. Sauniure's work. I use his texts often in my classes."
Fache made note of that fact in his book.
The two men were now halfway up the Denon Wing's entry tunnel, and
Langdon could see the twin ascending escalators at the far end, both
motionless.
"So you shared interests with him?" Fache asked.
"Yes. In fact, I've spent much of the last year writing the draft for a
book that deals with Mr. Sauniure's primary area of expertise. I was looking
forward to picking his brain."
Fache glanced up. "Pardon?"
The idiom apparently didn't translate. "I was looking forward to
learning his thoughts on the topic."
"I see. And what is the topic?"
Langdon hesitated, uncertain exactly how to put it. "Essentially, the
manuscript is about the iconography of goddess worship--the concept of
female sanctity and the art and symbols associated with it."
Fache ran a meaty hand across his hair. "And Sauniure was knowledgeable
about this?"
"Nobody more so."
"I see."
Langdon sensed Fache did not see at all. Jacques Sauniure was
considered the premiere goddess iconographer on earth. Not only did Sauniure
have a personal passion for relics relating to fertility, goddess cults,
Wicca, and the sacred feminine, but during his twenty-year tenure as
curator, Sauniure had helped the Louvre amass the largest collection of
goddess art on earth--labrys axes from the priestesses' oldest Greek shrine
in Delphi, gold caducei wands, hundreds of Tjet ankhs resembling small
standing angels, sistrum rattles used in ancient Egypt to dispel evil
spirits, and an astonishing array of statues depicting Horus being nursed by
the goddess Isis.
"Perhaps Jacques Sauniure knew of your manuscript?" Fache offered. "And
he called the meeting to offer his help on your book."
Langdon shook his head. "Actually, nobody yet knows about my
manuscript. It's still in draft form, and I haven't shown it to anyone
except my editor."
Fache fell silent.
Langdon did not add the reason he hadn't yet shown the manuscript to
anyone else. The three-hundred-page draft--tentatively titled Symbols of the
Lost Sacred Feminine--proposed some very unconventional interpretations of
established religious iconography which would certainly be controversial.
Now, as Langdon approached the stationary escalators, he paused,
realizing Fache was no longer beside him. Turning, Langdon saw Fache
standing several yards back at a service elevator.
"We'll take the elevator," Fache said as the lift doors opened. "As I'm
sure you're aware, the gallery is quite a distance on foot."
Although Langdon knew the elevator would expedite the long, two-story
climb to the Denon Wing, he remained motionless.
"Is something wrong?" Fache was holding the door, looking impatient.
Langdon exhaled, turning a longing glance back up the open-air
escalator. Nothing's wrong at all, he lied to himself, trudging back toward
the elevator. As a boy, Langdon had fallen down an abandoned well shaft and
almost died treading water in the narrow space for hours before being
rescued. Since then, he'd suffered a haunting phobia of enclosed
spaces--elevators, subways, squash courts. The elevator is a perfectly safe
machine, Langdon continually told himself, never believing it. It's a tiny
metal box hanging in an enclosed shaft! Holding his breath, he stepped into
the lift, feeling the familiar tingle of adrenaline as the doors slid shut.
Two floors. Ten seconds.
"You and Mr. Sauniure," Fache said as the lift began to move, "you