The translation, Aringarosa feared, was that the man was actually arrogant enough to think
he could rewrite God's laws and win back the hearts of those who felt the demands of true
Catholicism had become too inconvenient in a modern world.
Aringarosa had been using all of his political sway— substantial considering the size of the
Opus Dei constituency and their bankroll— to persuade the Pope and his advisers that softening
the Church's laws was not only faithless and cowardly, but political suicide. He reminded them
that previous tempering of Church law— the Vatican II fiasco— had left a devastating legacy:
Church attendance was now lower than ever, donations were drying up, and there were not even
enough Catholic priests to preside over their churches.
People need structure and direction from the Church, Aringarosa insisted, not coddling and
indulgence!
On that night, months ago, as the Fiat had left the airport, Aringarosa was surprised to find
himself heading not toward Vatican City but rather eastward up a sinuous mountain road.
"Where are we going?" he had demanded of his driver.
"Alban Hills," the man replied. "Your meeting is at Castel Gandolfo."
The Pope's summer residence? Aringarosa had never been, nor had he ever desired to see it.
In addition to being the Pope's summer vacation home, the sixteenth-century citadel housed the
Specula Vaticana— the Vatican Observatory— one of the most advanced astronomical
observatories in Europe. Aringarosa had never been comfortable with the Vatican's historical
need to dabble in science. What was the rationale for fusing science and faith? Unbiased science
could not possibly be performed by a man who possessed faith in God. Nor did faith have any
need for physical confirmation of its beliefs.
Nonetheless, there it is, he thought as Castel Gandolfo came into view, rising against a star-
filled November sky. From the access road, Gandolfo resembled a great stone monster pondering
a suicidal leap. Perched at the very edge of a cliff, the castle leaned out over the cradle of Italian
civilization— the valley where the Curiazi and Orazi clans fought long before the founding of
Rome.
Even in silhouette, Gandolfo was a sight to behold— an impressive example of tiered,
defensive architecture, echoing the potency of this dramatic cliffside setting. Sadly, Aringarosa
now saw, the Vatican had ruined the building by constructing two huge aluminum telescope
domes atop the roof, leaving this once dignified edifice looking like a proud warrior wearing a
couple of party hats.
When Aringarosa got out of the car, a young Jesuit priest hurried out and greeted him.
"Bishop, welcome. I am Father Mangano. An astronomer here."
Good for you. Aringarosa grumbled his hello and followed his host into the castle's foyer—
a wide-open space whose decor was a graceless blend of Renaissance art and astronomy images.
Following his escort up the wide travertine marble staircase, Aringarosa saw signs for
conference centers, science lecture halls, and tourist information services. It amazed him to think
the Vatican was failing at every turn to provide coherent, stringent guidelines for spiritual
growth and yet somehow still found time to give astrophysics lectures to tourists.
"Tell me," Aringarosa said to the young priest, "when did the tail start wagging the dog?"
The priest gave him an odd look. "Sir?"
Aringarosa waved it off, deciding not to launch into that particular offensive again this
evening. The Vatican has gone mad. Like a lazy parent who found it easier to acquiesce to the
whims of a spoiled child than to stand firm and teach values, the Church just kept softening at
every turn, trying to reinvent itself to accommodate a culture gone astray.
The top floor's corridor was wide, lushly appointed, and led in only one direction— toward a
huge set of oak doors with a brass sign.
BIBLIOTECA ASTRONOMICA
Aringarosa had heard of this place— the Vatican's Astronomy Library— rumored to contain
more than twenty -five thousand volumes, including rare works of Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler,
Newton, and Secchi. Allegedly, it was also the place in which the Pope's highest officers held
private meetings... those meetings they preferred not to hold within the walls of Vatican City.
Approaching the door, Bishop Aringarosa would never have imagined the shocking news
he was about to receive inside, or the deadly chain of events it would put into motion. It was not
until an hour later, as he staggered from the meeting, that the devastating implications settled in.
Six months from now! he had thought. God help us!
Now, seated in the Fiat, Bishop Aringarosa realized his fists were clenched just thinking about
that first meeting. He released his grip and forced a slow inhalation, relaxing his muscles.
Everything will be fine, he told himself as the Fiat wound higher into the mountains. Still,
he wished his cell phone would ring. Why hasn't the Teacher called me? Silas should have the
keystone by now.
Trying to ease his nerves, the bishop meditated on the purple amethyst in his ring. Feeling
the textures of the mitre-crozier appliquéand the facets of the diamonds, he reminded himself
that this ring was a symbol of power far less than that which he would soon attain.
CHAPTER 35
The inside of Gare Saint-Lazare looked like every other train station in Europe, a gaping indoor-
outdoor cavern dotted with the usual suspects— homeless men holding cardboard signs,
collections of bleary-eyed college kids sleeping on backpacks and zoning out to their portable
MP3 players, and clusters of blue-clad baggage porters smoking cigarettes.
Sophie raised her eyes to the enormous departure board overhead. The black and white tabs
reshuffled, ruffling downward as the information refreshed. When the update was finished,
Langdon eyed the offerings. The topmost listing read: LYON— RAPIDE— 3:06
"I wish it left sooner," Sophie said, "but Lyon will have to do." Sooner? Langdon checked
his watch 2:59 A.M. The train left in seven minutes and they didn't even have tickets yet.
Sophie guided Langdon toward the ticket window and said, "Buy us two tickets with your
credit card."
"I thought credit card usage could be traced by— "
"Exactly."
Langdon decided to stop trying to keep ahead of Sophie Neveu. Using his Visa card, he
purchased two coach tickets to Lyon and handed them to Sophie.
Sophie guided him out toward the tracks, where a familiar tone chimed overhead and a P.A.
announcer gave the final boarding call for Lyon. Sixteen separate tracks spread out before them.
In the distance to the right, at quay three, the train to Lyon was belching and wheezing in
preparation for departure, but Sophie already had her arm through Langdon's and was guiding
him in the exact opposite direction. They hurried through a side lobby, past an all-night cafe, and
finally out a side door onto a quiet street on the west side of the station.
A lone taxi sat idling by the doorway.
The driver saw Sophie and flicked his lights.
Sophie jumped in the back seat. Langdon got in after her.
As the taxi pulled away from station, Sophie took out their newly purchased train tickets
and tore them up.
Langdon sighed. Seventy dollars well spent.
It was not until their taxi had settled into a monotonous northbound hum on Rue de Clichy
that Langdon felt they'd actually escaped. Out the window to his right, he could see Montmartre
and the beautiful dome of Sacré-Coeur. The image was interrupted by the flash of police lights
sailing past them in the opposite direction.
Langdon and Sophie ducked down as the sirens faded.
Sophie had told the cab driver simply to head out of the city, and from her firmly set jaw,
Langdon sensed she was trying to figure out their next move.
Langdon examined the cruciform key again, holding it to the window, bringing it close to
his eyes in an effort to find any markings on it that might indicate where the key had been made.
In the intermittent glow of passing streetlights, he saw no markings except the Priory seal.
"It doesn't make sense," he finally said.
"Which part?"
"That your grandfather would go to so much trouble to give you a key that you wouldn't
know what to do with."
"I agree."
"Are you sure he didn't write anything else on the back of the painting?"
"I searched the whole area. This is all there was. This key, wedged behind the painting. I
saw the Priory seal, stuck the key in my pocket, then we left."
Langdon frowned, peering now at the blunt end of the triangular shaft. Nothing. Squinting,
he brought the key close to his eyes and examined the rim of the head. Nothing there either. "I
think this key was cleaned recently."
"Why?"
"It smells like rubbing alcohol."
She turned. "I'm sorry?"
"It smells like somebody polished it with a cleaner." Langdon held the key to his nose and
sniffed. "It's stronger on the other side." He flipped it over. "Yes, it's alcohol-based, like it's been
buffed with a cleaner or— " Langdon stopped.
"What?"
He angled the key to the light and looked at the smooth surface on the broad arm of the
cross. It seemed to shimmer in places... like it was wet. "How well did you look at the back of
this key before you put it in your pocket?"
"What? Not well. I was in a hurry."
Langdon turned to her. "Do you still have the black light?"
Sophie reached in her pocket and produced the UV penlight. Langdon took it and switched
it on, shining the beam on the back of the key.
The back luminesced instantly. There was writing there. In penmanship that was hurried but
legible.
"Well," Langdon said, smiling. "I guess we know what the alcohol smell was."
Sophie stared in amazement at the purple writing on the back of the key.
24 Rue Haxo
An address! My grandfather wrote down an address!
"Where is this?" Langdon asked.
Sophie had no idea. Facing front again, she leaned forward and excitedly asked the driver,
"Connaissez-vous la Rue Haxo?"
The driver thought a moment and then nodded. He told Sophie it was out near the tennis
stadium on the western outskirts of Paris. She asked him to take them there immediately.
"Fastest route is through Bois de Boulogne," the driver told her in French. "Is that okay?"
Sophie frowned. She could think of far less scandalous routes, but tonight she was not
going to be picky. "Oui." We can shock the visiting American.
Sophie looked back at the key and wondered what they would possibly find at 24 Rue
Haxo. A church? Some kind of Priory headquarters?
Her mind filled again with images of the secret ritual she had witnessed in the basement
grotto ten years ago, and she heaved a long sigh. "Robert, I have a lot of things to tell you." She
paused, locking eyes with him as the taxi raced westward. "But first I want you to tell me
everything you know about this Priory of Sion."
CHAPTER 36
Outside the Salle des Etats, Bezu Fache was fuming as Louvre warden Grouard explained how
Sophie and Langdon had disarmed him. Why didn't you just shoot the blessed painting!
"Captain?" Lieutenant Collet loped toward them from the direction of the command post.
"Captain, I just heard. They located Agent Neveu's car."
"Did she make the embassy?"
"No. Train station. Bought two tickets. Train just left."
Fache waved off warden Grouard and led Collet to a nearby alcove, addressing him in
hushed tones. "What was the destination?"
"Lyon."
"Probably a decoy." Fache exhaled, formulating a plan. "Okay, alert the next station, have
the train stopped and searched, just in case. Leave her car where it is and put plainclothes on
watch in case they try to come back to it. Send men to search the streets around the station in
case they fled on foot. Are buses running from the station?"
"Not at this hour, sir. Only the taxi queue."
"Good. Question the drivers. See if they saw anything. Then contact the taxi company
dispatcher with descriptions. I'm calling Interpol."
Collet looked surprised. "You're putting this on the wire?"
Fache regretted the potential embarrassment, but he saw no other choice.
Close the net fast, and close it tight.
The first hour was critical. Fugitives were predictable the first hour after escape. They
always needed the same thing. Travel. Lodging. Cash. The Holy Trinity. Interpol had the power
to make all three disappear in the blink of an eye. By broadcast-faxing photos of Langdon and
Sophie to Paris travel authorities, hotels, and banks, Interpol would leave no options— no way to
leave the city, no place to hide, and no way to withdraw cash without being recognized. Usually,
fugitives panicked on the street and did something stupid. Stole a car. Robbed a store. Used a
bank card in desperation. Whatever mistake they committed, they quickly made their
whereabouts known to local authorities.
"Only Langdon, right?" Collet said. "You're not flagging Sophie Neveu. She's our own
agent."
"Of course I'm flagging her!" Fache snapped. "What good is flagging Langdon if she can do
