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.
Saunière'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 Saunière was knowledgeable about this?"
"Nobody more so."
"I see."
Langdon sensed Fache did not see at all. Jacques Saunière was considered the premiere
goddess iconographer on earth. Not only did Saunière have a personal passion for relics relating
to fertility, goddess cults, Wicca, and the sacred feminine, but during his twenty-year tenure as
curator, Saunière 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 Saunière 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. Saunière," Fache said as the lift began to move, "you never spoke at all?
Never corresponded? Never sent each other anything in the mail?"
Another odd question. Langdon shook his head. "No. Never." Fache cocked his head, as if
making a mental note of that fact. Saying nothing, he stared dead ahead at the chrome doors.
As they ascended, Langdon tried to focus on anything other than the four walls around him.
In the reflection of the shiny elevator door, he saw the captain's tie clip— a silver crucifix with
thirteen embedded pieces of black onyx. Langdon found it vaguely surprising. The symbol was
known as a crux gemmata— a cross bearing thirteen gems— a Christian ideogram for Christ and
His twelve apostles. Somehow Langdon had not expected the captain of the French police to
broadcast his religion so openly. Then again, this was France; Christianity was not a religion
here so much as a birthright.
"It's a crux gemmata" Fache said suddenly.
Startled, Langdon glanced up to find Fache's eyes on him in the reflection.
The elevator jolted to a stop, and the doors opened.
Langdon stepped quickly out into the hallway, eager for the wide-open space afforded by
the famous high ceilings of the Louvre galleries. The world into which he stepped, however, was
nothing like he expected.
Surprised, Langdon stopped short.
Fache glanced over. "I gather, Mr. Langdon, you have never seen the Louvre after hours?"
I guess not, Langdon thought, trying to get his bearings.
Usually impeccably illuminated, the Louvre galleries were startlingly dark tonight. Instead
of the customary flat-white light flowing down from above, a muted red glow seemed to
emanate upward from the baseboards— intermittent patches of red light spilling out onto the tile
floors.
As Langdon gazed down the murky corridor, he realized he should have anticipated this
scene. Virtually all major galleries employed red service lighting at night— strategically placed,
low-level, noninvasive lights that enabled staff members to navigate hallways and yet kept the
paintings in relative darkness to slow the fading effects of overexposure to light. Tonight, the
museum possessed an almost oppressive quality. Long shadows encroached everywhere, and the
usually soaring vaulted ceilings appeared as a low, black void.
"This way," Fache said, turning sharply right and setting out through a series of
interconnected galleries.
Langdon followed, his vision slowly adjusting to the dark. All around, large-format oils
began to materialize like photos developing before him in an enormous darkroom... their eyes
following as he moved through the rooms. He could taste the familiar tang of museum air— an
arid, deionized essence that carried a faint hint of carbon— the product of industrial, coal-filter
dehumidifiers that ran around the clock to counteract the corrosive carbon dioxide exhaled by
visitors.
Mounted high on the walls, the visible security cameras sent a clear message to visitors: We
see you. Do not touch anything.
"Any of them real?" Langdon asked, motioning to the cameras.
Fache shook his head. "Of course not."
Langdon was not surprised. Video surveillance in museums this size was cost-prohibitive
and ineffective. With acres of galleries to watch over, the Louvre would require several hundred
technicians simply to monitor the feeds. Most large museums now used "containment security."
Forget keeping thieves out. Keep them in. Containment was activated after hours, and if an
intruder removed a piece of artwork, compartmentalized exits would seal around that gallery,
and the thief would find himself behind bars even before the police arrived.
The sound of voices echoed down the marble corridor up ahead. The noise seemed to be
coming from a large recessed alcove that lay ahead on the right. A bright light spilled out into
the hallway.
"Office of the curator," the captain said.
As he and Fache drew nearer the alcove, Langdon peered down a short hallway, into
Saunière's luxurious study— warm wood, Old Master paintings, and an enormous antique desk
on which stood a two-foot-tall model of a knight in full armor. A handful of police agents
bustled about the room, talking on phones and taking notes. One of them was seated at
Saunière's desk, typing into a laptop. Apparently, the curator's private office had become DCPJ's
makeshift command post for the evening.
"Messieurs," Fache called out, and the men turned. "Ne nous dérangez pas sous aucun
pr étexte. Entendu?"
Everyone inside the office nodded their understanding.
Langdon had hung enough NE PAS DERANGER signs on hotel room doors to catch the
gist of the captain's orders. Fache and Langdon were not to be disturbed under any
circumstances.
Leaving the small congregation of agents behind, Fache led Langdon farther down the
darkened hallway. Thirty yards ahead loomed the gateway to the Louvre's most popular
section— la Grande Galerie— a seemingly endless corridor that housed the Louvre's most
valuable Italian masterpieces. Langdon had already discerned that this was where Saunière's
body lay; the Grand Gallery's famous parquet floor had been unmistakable in the Polaroid.
As they approached, Langdon saw the entrance was blocked by an enormous steel grate that
looked like something used by medieval castles to keep out marauding armies.
"Containment security," Fache said, as they neared the grate.
Even in the darkness, the barricade looked like it could have restrained a tank. Arriving
outside, Langdon peered through the bars into the dimly lit caverns of the Grand Gallery.
"After you, Mr. Langdon," Fache said.
Langdon turned. After me, where?
Fache motioned toward the floor at the base of the grate.
Langdon looked down. In the darkness, he hadn't noticed. The barricade was raised about
two feet, providing an awkward clearance underneath.
"This area is still off limits to Louvre security," Fache said. "My team from Police
Technique et Scientifique has just finished their investigation." He motioned to the opening.
"Please slide under."
Langdon stared at the narrow crawl space at his feet and then up at the massive iron grate.
He's kidding, right? The barricade looked like a guillotine waiting to crush intruders.
Fache grumbled something in French and checked his watch. Then he dropped to his knees
and slithered his bulky frame underneath the grate. On the other side, he stood up and looked
back through the bars at Langdon.
Langdon sighed. Placing his palms flat on the polished parquet, he lay on his stomach and
pulled himself forward. As he slid underneath, the nape of his Harris tweed snagged on the
bottom of the grate, and he cracked the back of his head on the iron.
Very suave, Robert, he thought, fumbling and then finally pulling himself through. As he
stood up, Langdon was beginning to suspect it was going to be a very long night.
CHAPTER 5
Murray Hill Place— the new Opus Dei World Headquarters and conference center— is located at
243 Lexington Avenue in New York City. With a price tag of just over $47 million, the 133,000-
square-foot tower is clad in red brick and Indiana limestone. Designed by May & Pinska, the
building contains over one hundred bedrooms, six dining rooms, libraries, living rooms, meeting
rooms, and offices. The second, eighth, and sixteenth floors contain chapels, ornamented with
mill-work and marble. The seventeenth floor is entirely residential. Men enter the building
through the main doors on Lexington Avenue. Women enter through a side street and are
"acoustically and visually separated" from the men at all times within the building.
Earlier this evening, within the sanctuary of his penthouse apartment, Bishop Manuel
Aringarosa had packed a small travel bag and dressed in a traditional black cassock. Normally,
he would have wrapped a purple cincture around his waist, but tonight he would be traveling
among the public, and he preferred not to draw attention to his high office. Only those with a
keen eye would notice his 14-karat gold bishop's ring with purple amethyst, large diamonds, and
hand-tooled mitre-crozier appliqué. Throwing the travel bag over his shoulder, he said a silent
prayer and left his apartment, descending to the lobby where his driver was waiting to take him
to the airport.
Now, sitting aboard a commercial airliner bound for Rome, Aringarosa gazed out the
window at the dark Atlantic. The sun had already set, but Aringarosa knew his own star was on
the rise. Tonight the battle will be won, he thought, amazed that only months ago he had felt
powerless against the hands that threatened to destroy his empire.
As president-general of Opus Dei, Bishop Aringarosa had spent the last decade of his life
spreading the message of "God's Work"— literally, Opus Dei. The congregation, founded in
1928 by the Spanish priest Josemaría Escrivá, promoted a return to conservative Catholic values
and encouraged its members to make sweeping sacrifices in their own lives in order to do the
Work of God.
Opus Dei's traditionalist philosophy initially had taken root in Spain before Franco's
regime, but with the 1934 publication of Josemaría Escrivá's spiritual book The Way— 999
points of meditation for doing God's Work in one's own life— Escrivá's message exploded across
the world. Now, with over four million copies of The Way in circulation in forty-two languages,
Opus Dei was a global force. Its residence halls, teaching centers, and even universities could be
found in almost every major metropolis on earth. Opus Dei was the fastest-growing and most
financially secure Catholic organization in the world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in
an age of religious cynicism, cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei's escalating wealth and power
was a magnet for suspicion.
"Many call Opus Dei a brainwashing cult," reporters often challenged. "Others call you an
ultraconservative Christian secret society. Which are you?"
"Opus Dei is neither," the bishop would patiently reply. "We are a Catholic Church. We are
